Page 46 of Sticks & Serpents

The bitterness bubbled up inside me again; it felt almost suffocating. How could he be so blind? How could he reduce Holly to some superficial metric? She deserved more than being part of our twisted games—a pawn in our charade.

“I won’t let you do this,” I declared firmly, knowing that standing up against him would come with consequences but unwilling to back down now.

I glared at my father.

He simply smirked, raising his glass to his lips as if savoring some fine vintage. “And you don’t know how to let go,” he replied, his tone mocking, dripping with condescension.

That hit harder than I wanted to admit. It felt like a physical blow, each syllable striking at the core of my defenses. I stood there for a moment, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, fighting the urge to scream or throw something. He was right; I didn’t want to let her go. Not now, not ever.

Without another word, I stormed out of the dining hall, fists clenched by my sides as I marched through the opulent corridors of the Sinclaire estate. The walls closed in around me; every polished surface seemed to reflect the twisted reality of my life—the one where my father pulled the strings while I danced on command.

But it didn’t matter how fast I walked; I couldn’t escape the weight of his words or the gnawing ache in my chest. The taste of her lips burned in my memory like an ember that refused to die out.

As I reached the grand entrance, ready to burst into the cool night air and leave this suffocating place behind, a voice called after me—my mother’s voice, shrill and demanding.

“Damien!” she yelled from behind me.

I hesitated for a split second before pushing through the heavy door and stepping outside into the dimly lit yard. The cool breeze washed over me like a balm against the fire raging inside.

But just as I thought I had escaped her reach, a hand grasped my shoulder firmly.

My arms crossed tightly over my chest, staring at the pile of dishes that seemed to multiply every time I turned my back.

“Come help me clean the kitchen,” she said, her voice steady but laced with that unmistakable warmth that made my insides twist.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I moved closer, compelled by some unseen force. The tension hung between us like an electric current, a dance of familiarity and resentment. I hated this—hated her and everything about her. But I’d been conditioned to obey, to slip into this role of compliant son even when it felt like a noose tightening around my throat.

Even after she?—

The silence swallowed us as we worked side by side, my hands mechanically scrubbing plates while my mind drifted elsewhere. My gaze darted around the room, anywhere but at her. She hummed softly under her breath—a tune I didn’t recognize but found irritating.

“Damien,” she called gently after a moment. I could feel her eyes on me, and it took every ounce of willpower not to turn and meet her gaze.

Just focus on what you’re doing, I thought, voice in my head flat as if it had been carved from stone.

But then, without warning, her hand brushed against my cheek—light, feather-soft. The contact lingered longer than necessary. My stomach twisted violently as every instinct screamed at me to pull away. Instead, I forced myself to remain still.

She was so close; I could smell the faint hint of lavender from her shampoo. It stirred something deep within me—something raw and vulnerable that clashed with the anger roiling beneath my surface. I kept my eyes locked on anything but her, refusing to acknowledge the putrid effect she had on me.

“Damien…” she whispered softly.

I gritted my teeth against the rush of feelings threatening to spill over. Her touch burned into my skin like a brand.

But I wouldn’t give in—not now—not ever.

She smiled, slow and knowing, that infuriating look plastered across her face.

“Such a good boy,” she cooed, her voice dripping with condescension.

Before I could even process what was happening, she leaned in and kissed my cheek. The warmth of her lips lingered far too long, far too close, igniting a war within me I desperately tried to quell.

I stiffened, bile rising in my throat.This wasn’t right.Every instinct screamed at me to recoil, to break free from this moment that felt like an unwanted reminder of my childhood—a time when I was supposed to be perfect in her eyes. I stepped back, jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone.

Her laughter rang out, sharp and unyielding. It echoed through the kitchen like a taunt. She relished in my discomfort as if she enjoyed watching me squirm under the weight of her expectations.

“You know how much your father hates it when you sulk,” she said, casually wiping her hands on a dishtowel as if we were discussing the weather rather than my suffocating existence in this house.

The familiarity of it all twisted something deep inside me—a mix of resentment and frustration that clawed at my insides like a hungry beast.Why couldn’t she just leave me alone?

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