Page 25 of King of Ruin

He scoops up more eggs, but this time chews slowly. When he swallows he pulls both water bottles from his pocket. He rolls one to me, which stops the moment it meets one of the metal loops holding me in place. “My payment for serving my father was that my mother and sister continued breathing.”

“And what type of service did you provide?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and when I think he won’t at all, he sighs. “When I was six? Keeping my mouth shut while he knocked me around a bit and extending the time I could hold my breath when locked in tight spaces. When I was nine? Learning to evade two fists while taking two others. At twelve, it was being waterboarded. Fourteen, learning not to show emotions when women fucked me until I had nothing left.”

The warmth drains from my face as his story soaks in. As I previously suspected, he wasn’t trained to lead. His father wanted to strip him of his humanity. Of his empathy and hope. Kane’s fate was to become scum just like his father. Nothing more.

“Yeah, my dear old dad would force a little pill down my throat, then have me chained to a chair while he’s newest shipment had to fuck his son to prove they were worth selling and not killing. If I didn’t come, I’d have to sit and watch their throats get sliced up the middle.”

Hot bile burns up my esophagus. My stomach churns around nothing and for a moment, I think I’ll be vomiting stomach acid over my untouched plate.

Kane’s been nothing but a tool since his birth. Something to be used in the most disturbing ways with no control whatsoever. In reality, he never stood a chance of escaping Phineas.

Of escaping me.

“Then came twenty-five.” Kane stands, and snaps his empty paper plate in half. “I know it’s hard, but try to get some rest. No one will bother you.”

With my mind currently battling for some hint of sanity, I don’t offer a reply and he doesn’t wait for one. He turns, opens the door, and latches it closed behind him, leaving me with the heavy air settling in the space.

I hate him, I tell myself, shaking the creeping doubt from taking a stronger hold. His upbringing or the reason behind it doesn’t lessen what I feel. What Ineedto feel.

Thirty times I repeat it, but each time, I mean it a little less. We were born in the same world on opposite sides, and in shoes… I don’t allow myself to finish the sentence because it will create another vulnerable spot I can’t afford.

And that’s not something he deserves.

Not when his weakness for one person destroyed something my family took decades to build. When he allowed thatonelife to replace hundreds.

Trepidation squeezes my lungs at the reminder of my family’s whereabouts. They aren’t weak by any means, and I know they’re alive, but in what state? The blood I saw before they knocked me out didn’t just belong to the butler. Kilo’s state is one of many that wears on my soul.

I exhale a shaky breath and pluck a blueberry from the plate. It’s wet, I assume from being recently washed, and doesn’t smell of anything telling.

Before I talk myself out of it, I snap it in my mouth and chew. The flavor instantly bursts across my tongue, the tangy sweetness igniting my taste buds making my entire mouth tingle. I surmise the watermelon didn’t have much of a taste because I was barely functioning. But now, it’s taking an absurd amount of strength not to devour the entire plate in one breath.

Begrudgingly, I finish my breakfast slowly. It’s nothing like Russ’s dishes but it does the job. When I’m done, I suck the first water bottle down completely, just in case someone else pays me a visit and takes it away. Then I flip on my stomach, flinching slightly as the cold floor connects with the small sliver of skin exposed below my corset.

I stretch my legs as far as I can, arching my foot until my toe taps against it–the bottle Kane left behind.

* * *

True to Kane’s word, no one else comes to see me. I’m alone for the remainder of what I assume is the day to stew in the mess he’s left. The vile imagery, the constant wondering, the back and forth. I don’twantto understand him. I don’twantto feel sorry for him. But somewhere deep inside, I’m beginning to.

I meditate, sip water, and relieve myself in intervals to bide my time. I need to be well-rested and keep an empty bladder in case they move me and I don’t get the chance to for a while. When fatigue begins to creep into my limbs, I fold my legs and lean over on a fist.

By the time I wake to the rattle of the door, my mind feels clearer, almost as if I’ve gotten a full eight hours.

Kane enters and does the same thing he did yesterday, gliding down the door and sliding me a plate of breakfast. I mimic our encounter by not touching it, and instead, watch as he eats from his own plate.

“How are you feeling?” His deep voice is full of genuine concern, but I force my mind to ignore it.

“You don’t deserve to know.”

He opens his water bottle and takes a swig. “Perhaps I don’t.”

We sit in silence as he finishes his food. My anger toward him is now tainted with something I refuse to confront, and I know that if we continue to talk, things will only become hazier than they already are.

Since my parents’ death, everything has become black or white. Neutral parties could no longer stay idle but had to pick a side. Any of my employees caught in bed with anyone known to work with the Murphy’s became a liability. A loose end. A snake in the grass no matter if they were innocent or not.

Which means a lot of people have died. And never once have I batted an eye.

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