Page 108 of Brutal Knight

To revel in the surprised look in my father's eyes as I showed him what kind of man I really was: not the kind of man he thought I was,not like him, but a person with feelings and emotions.

I wasn't a heartless bastard. Icaredabout Rook and his nana.

He had no idea that I was paying for Rook's tuition.

For Tatiana's living expenses.

He had no fucking clue that I took care of the people that I loved, and he never would. Because he had no fucking idea what it was like to actuallycareabout people.

Since our money was mostly my mom's, he had something to prove, and he forced me into his fucking games to do it. His greedy eyes only focused upwards, to thewant, want, wanting, andnever having enough.

And yet, a quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise –– the complete contents of Rook's fridge.

My father would never realize that nana's love was worth more than our whole bank account.

And Ihatedhim. Hated what I'd done to my friend. Hated myself, that I was too weak to stop him.

My emotions surged through my chest, up my throat, and into my mouth. My face. My mind.

I wanted to vomit.

To cry.

To scream and rage at the terrible thing I'd done tonight. Not fucking celebrate.

"Gusanita!" Little worm. My father's nickname for my mother. "What are you doing?"

My hatred hit me with full force. I wanted to shove a gun in his mouth and watch him swallow a bullet. To wrap my fingers around his throat and see his lips turn blue. To take a video of the light as it left his eyes. He deserved that and more.

There was no responding answer so he yelled louder. "When you bringing that fucking food, woman?" Despite his earlier dismissal, he loved her cooking. "We're fucking starving."

Heaving, chest filled with rage, remembering cleaning vomit from nana's mouth with water from the tap as I put a glass to my lips. Gulping, gulping it down.

Swallowing down my fury with fresh, filtered water. Shoved it all down into my belly, letting it seethe and spread with the blood filling my veins.

I had no control over my father––he understood me more than I liked, knew how to get what he wanted from me. The picture on my phone from earlier was proof of that.

"Woman!" His voice grew deeper, anger edging into it.

My mom was still staring at the wall, grease popping from the pans on the stove.

"Mom."

She jerked into motion, calling out. "I'm coming."

She filled the plates, scooping salsa and topping it with fresh cheese, sliced onions, and cilantro. "You did it, then." She was talking to me.

"Yes."

Her lips curled upwards as she opened the cupboard, reaching into the back to grab a small bottle. "I knew you would."

Stabbing, twisting.

I met her gaze, a darkness washing over me. "He told me to."

"You could've said no."

"You know why I couldn't."

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