Page 191 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part Two
“It’s past ten. You need your sleep.”
Skai gives me a closed-lipped smile.
An awkward silence settles between us.
“All right, well. I’ll catch you later,” I say, turning away.
“What was he like?” she asks, and I freeze, a jolt of something—panic? Guilt?—slides down my back.
“Who?” I ask, looking at her over my shoulder. Her red hair hangs limply to her shoulders, as if weighed down by dirt and oil.
“My father. I want to know what he was like when he was with you,” she says, confirming my dread.
I face her, putting my water on the island as I contemplate her question. Placing my palms flat on the cool granite, I give her a long look, trying to figure out her angle, if there is one.
Instead, she reflects back a whole lot of nothingness.
“Lakeland was…” Shit. What the fuck do I say about this girl’s dead father? The man whose death I orchestrated?
I settle on telling her a version of the truth.
“Lakeland was evil. He was a devil with a smile. People thought he was charming, and he liked to fly too close to the sun.”
My fingers flex against the stone.
“I think he figured he’d never get burned,” I finish.
Skai gives me a blank stare, and something in my brain tells me not to look away from her—almost as if we were playing predator and prey. I’m just unsure which character I am in this situation.
“He never gets burned,” she says softly, the words seeming to fall out of her mouth. “Why would demons be afraid of fire?”
That sad statement lands hard.
“Yeah,” I say, leaving it at that.
Skai continues to stare at me but then turns to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water for herself.
“I just wanted some fresh air, by the way, and the meds make me thirsty,” she volunteers, and I nod in response. Instead of walking off, she stands there with me, uncapping her drink and downing the entire bottle in large gulps.
When done, she crinkles the plastic in her palm, flattening it with her bare hands. For the first time, she looks energized, awake.
And angry.
“He hurt me. He hurt me a lot, because he’s an evil, terrible, demented man,” she says, then she smirks. “Therapy’s been helping me see that.”
She stares at her hand, examining the empty, crushed container.
“Thank you, by the way,” she says, still not looking up at me, but embarrassment colors her tone. “I’m sorry I—when I’m…scared…sometimes I?—”
I wave her words away.
“No need to thank me. I know we’ve had completely fucked examples of what family is, but that word means something to me.” I don’t tell her that it took a lot of coaxing by Axel to get me to step in. She doesn’t need to know that.
She hums in response.
“Well, good night,” I say, aiming for the exit again. I’m almost past the threshold when she stops me again.
“Storm, wait.”
