Page 30 of Risk (Gods #3)

He clears his throat. “I was in the system because my father had murdered my mother and he had gone to prison and there was no family who wanted to take me in.”

I’m not shocked. I’m not a person who can easily be surprised.

I make sure to keep my expression neutral.

He slowly lifts his eyes to my face. I’m not sure what he’s looking for as his eyes do a quick scan of my face—maybe dismay and pity. But he should know better. He knows I don’t judge people. And that has nothing to do with my job. That’s the way I’ve always been.

Well, that’s actually a lie. I have judged someone.

My father. I’m understanding and accepting of the man he was throughout my childhood and the father he wasn’t, but he’s trying to be that now.

But for a long time, I wasn’t understanding.

I was a hurt kid who had lost her mom and wanted her once-loving father to care for her.

But instead, he folded in on himself and turned to alcohol.

“I’m sorry that happened to you and your mom. Neither of you deserved it.”

He’s still staring at me. The only thing that tells me he heard me is a slight tilt of his head.

“Did you hear what I said?” His words come out as coarse as his voice sounds. Like he’s annoyed with me.

“Yes, I heard you. Did you hear me?”

His jaw tics. “My father murdered my mother. He was an abusive, disgusting excuse for a human being, who used to beat on her any chance he could. He didn’t even have the excuse of being an alcoholic.”

That last part was intentional. My father wasn’t a physically abusive or cruel drunk, except to himself. He was just fucking absent, even when he was physically there. But Kaden’s trying to piss me off. And I’m human, so of course, it annoys me, but I won’t rise to the bait.

“He was just a sick motherfucker who got his kicks from beating on a woman. And one day, he beat her just too fucking much, and then she was dead, and he was in prison.”

“Is he still in prison? In Canada, I’m guessing?” Since that’s where Kaden is from.

“Yeah. But he got life with the possibility of parole.” A bitter laugh leaves him.

I don’t know what the Canadian laws are or how long someone must serve before being considered for parole. I make a mental note to look it up.

“How old were you when it happened?”

“Eight.”

My eyes briefly close at the painful ache I feel in my chest. Old enough to know what was happening.

“He murdered her in front of me.”

Jesus, fuck.

“And I did nothing to help her.”

“You were eight.”

“I was big for my age.”

“Kaden, you were just a child.”

“That’s where I get my size from—him.” He continues like I didn’t even speak, “He was a big motherfucker. Six-four, like I am. My mom was tiny. Five-two and a hundred pounds, soaking wet. She was so small. I knew he’d kill her one day.

I remember times when she used to sit so still, like she was trying to disappear into the chair she was sitting in.

“You know, he beat her once because the phone rang during dinner. A phone call that was for him—probably one of the whores he used to cheat on her with—and because she got up to answer it during dinner, she got a broken arm in return.”

I’m used to schooling my features, but it’s impossible to do so now. Not when I’m hearing this come from him. He says it so matter-of-factly, but with so much hurt and anger in his voice that it’s making me ache.

“Kaden—”

But he’s not done.

“That’s who you’re living with. Who you’re having children with.

The son of an abuser and murderer.” He removes his cap, tossing it onto the counter between us, and stares into my eyes.

His are swimming with so many emotions that it’s hard to pin a single one down. “Do you know why I became a boxer?”

I have an idea what he’s going to say, but I shake my head and softly say, “No.”

“Because I was an angry kid. I was in fights all the time. Even before everything happened.”

“It’s understandable.”

“But not excusable.”

He stares at me like he’s challenging me to disagree with him. In any other instance, I would, but right now, there’s nothing I can say that will make him think differently.

When I don’t say anything, just hold his eyes, hoping I’m showing care and love in mine, he continues, “As I got older, the fights got worse. I was picking fights with more than one kid at a time. One-on-ones had become boring, too easy, because I was bigger than most kids, even the kids older than me. Then, after one particularly bad fight, I was arrested—I’d beaten up a cop’s kid.

Not my smartest moment.” He does that laugh, the self-deprecating one I don’t like.

“I was heading for juvie, but I guess the judge saw something in me—that, or she felt sorry for me. Her dad used to be a professional boxer in his younger days, and after his career ended, he opened a gym to train other fighters. She gave me community service there. For two fucking hundred hours, I was there to clean and basically be her dad’s bitch.

Her parting words to me were that I needed an outlet for my anger, and a punching bag was a better place to put my fists than in someone else’s face. Her dad turned out to be Henry Duval.”

I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is. He was one of the best boxers our country had seen, and then he retired and became a trainer. He used to be Kaden’s trainer, but he died of a heart attack—two years before the fight Kaden had with my brother. The one that almost ended his life.

Everyone has always said if Henry had been there, it wouldn’t have happened. He would have called time on the fight. Which was what his manager at the time and the corrupt fucking officials should have done.

“He took all that anger inside of me and turned me into a fighter—in the right sense.”

“I didn’t know him, but Zeus has always said he was a good man. One of the best in the business.”

“He was.”

It’s clear how much he loved Henry in the way his voice softens when talking about him. I just hate how many people Kaden has lost in his life.

He runs his hand over his mouth. “But even though he taught me to channel and control my anger, it’s still inside of me, Missy. I still have my father’s genetics. And with the brain injury—”

“I’m going to stop you right there. I know what you’re going to say, but that is not you.”

“You don’t know me. Not really.”

It’s my turn to get to my feet. “Fuck you for saying that. And fuck you for insinuating that my brother—your best friend—would allow me to move in here if he, in any way, thought you’d be a danger to me or our babies.” My hand instantly presses against my stomach.

“Zeus wouldn’t think that because he sees the best in people.”

I scoff, knowing for a fact that is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. I love my brother, but seeing the best in people and giving the benefit of the doubt are not his strengths.

“Fine. He sees the best in me.”

“He sees the truth in you. He sees the real you. And honestly, I’m surprised you’re trying to pull this kind of crap with me. You’re reiterating textbook statements to me.”

His face darkens. “I’m not one of your fucking textbook cases.” His words are quiet, but the anger lacing them is not.

“I know.” I sigh, frustrated, completely knocked off my game here. “I’m just saying, your thoughts and responses are normal for someone who’s experienced and been through what you have.”

I let the air settle between us for a long moment before I speak again. “I know you have headaches from the brain injury, but have there been any signs of anger outbursts? Aside from the normal anger a person feels.”

“I’ve never felt anger like a normal person does.”

God, he’s hard work when he’s like this.

“And I no longer fight anymore, so I have no outlet for it.”

He’s trying to scare me here, and I’m not sure exactly why.

“Why did you ask me to move in with you?” More than ask. First, he demanded, then talked me around to see his point of view.

His brow furrows. “You know why.”

“So then, why are you currently trying to talk me into leaving?”

The frown gets deeper. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” I sit back down. “You’re basically telling me that you have anger that you can’t control.”

“Because that’s something you need to know.”

“So, I should move out then, right? Because I’m assuming it’s not safe for me to live here with your uncontrollable anger. Although I’ve hardly moved in.” Only got one box of my things here, and he’s pulling this crap.

His lips part, but no words come out.

“Exactly. If you really, truly believed anything you just said, then you wouldn’t have asked me to move in here in the first place.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know you.”

His soulful eyes meet mine. “I should have told you about my past before you moved in though. I guess I was just afraid, and then having you here, in my space, and telling you it all, I just…panicked that maybe I am going to be like him.”

“If you were a man like your father, you wouldn’t have told me any of it at all. You’d have left me to find out through some other means, like the internet, and if I had never found out, you’d have just carried on regardless. You are not the man your father was.”

“Maybe, maybe not? Do you…” He pauses, taking a breath. “Do you see me differently now?”

I shake my head. “If you think I would see you differently because of what happened when you were a child, or even what you think you might be because of genetics, or even what you’ve done, then you don’t know me at all.”

He glances down at the countertop and drums his fingers on it. There’s a beat of silence. “Are we okay?”

“We’re okay.”

He risks a glance up at me, his eyes scanning my face. I guess he’s looking for the confirmation on there and not from my actual words. He must accept what he sees because his gaze lightens and he nods once.

“I’ll go down to my truck and get the boxes with your bedroom stuff and start unpacking.”

“I’ll unpack those,” I’m quick to say. They’ve got underwear and some vibrators that I definitely do not want him seeing.

“Okay, I’ll carry them in. You want me to order some dinner?” he asks as he walks away from me.

“I could eat something.” I can always eat something nowadays.

“What do you want?”

I don’t even have to think. “Thai.”

He turns, a smile curves his gorgeous mouth. “I love Thai.”

I know. “Then, Thai it is. Do you have a menu?”

“Top drawer in the kitchen. You have a look and then let me know, and I’ll call it in. I already know what I’m gonna have.”