Page 121 of Broken Trails
Noises intrude on my sleep, and I blink into soft morning light filtering through the curtains. I stretch out my arms with a yawn and blindly reach out beside me. My hand pats over cool sheets where warm skin should be.
She’s not there.
Blinking through sleep, I sit up and scrub a hand down my face. Sprinkles is curled at the end of the bed, fluffy as hell, tail twitching like she’s eavesdropping.
I click my tongue. “Come ‘ere.”
She chirps over, and I scoop her up—heavier than last week, little menace—scratching behind her ears, but my attention snaps to the sound of a voice coming from the next room.
Zoe.
I freeze, one hand still resting on the cat’s back, her fur warm beneath my palm. Her voice is low, but tense. “No. I told you not to talk to him again,” she snaps. “How could you?”
Her tone stops me cold. It’s not like last night, all sass and fire and heat. This is clipped. Strained. Pissed off in a way I haven’t heard from her before. I hold still, cradling Sprinkles close, trying not to breathe too loudly.
“You don’t get to say that. What if something had happened? After everything I’ve told you—no, I don’t care. That’s not an excuse.”
My brows draw together. Then silence. For a moment too long. “As always. You believehimover me.”
There’s another pause, and when she speaks again, there’s finality in it. Cold steel. “Stop! I don’t want to hear it. I’m done. I don’t want to see you. You can tell Dad I’ll call him, but I need space.”
Sprinkles lets out a soft meow. I hush her gently, fingers curling tighter in her fur. My jaw’s clenched now, something uncomfortable working its way into my chest. I wait until the silence stretches too long, then I set the cat down and make my way to her. She’s standing near the kitchen, back half-turned, wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. It hangs low, hugging her hips, her nipples pressing against the thin cotton. Her hair’s a mess, eyes red.
She startles when I walk in, and clears her throat. “Uh. Good morning.”
“Morning.” I close the distance between us, tilt her chin up, and kiss her gently.
She pulls back almost immediately, eyes flicking toward the bench like she can’t quite meet my gaze. “So… how much of that did you hear?”
I squint and shrug. “Enough.”
“Great.”
I lean against the edge of the bench beside her, arms loosely crossed. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
“No.”
I cock a brow. “Zoe.”
She exhales through her nose, arms wrapping tight around her middle. “What do you want me to say, Michael? That she spoke with him, even after I warned her not to? After she agreed? That she thought it would be an excellent idea to give him my fuckingaddress, after everything he did to me?”
My jaw ticks. “I didn’t know things were… strained between you and your family.”
“Between my mother and I,” she corrects, before letting out a sharp breath and pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. “Yeah, well. I don’t talk about it much.”
I don’t speak. Just wait. Eventually, she lifts her eyes. “My mum… she was always critical. Everything I did—how I dressed, who I dated, my job. It was never enough. I was never enough. When I married Liam, she thought I’d finally done something right. And when it all fell apart? She made it abouther. Her shame. Her embarrassment. Not what he did. Not what I went through.” She rubs her arms. “I’m an only child. So all the pressure landed on me. The expectations. The guilt. The constant feeling like I owed her something just for being alive.”
I swallow hard, my hands curling into fists against the bench behind me.
If only she knew.
If only she fucking knew what it’s like growing up afraid to open the door. What it’s like to flinch every time your father walks into a room. What it’s like to be made to feel like aburden. Not because of pressure or expectations, but because your existence pissed someone off enough to leave bruises. But I don’t say any of that. Not yet.
Instead, I exhale slowly and say, “You don’t have to push her away forever. You can still set boundaries without cutting her off completely.”
She rounds on me fast. “It’s not that simple, Michael. You wouldn’t understand.”
Oh, but I do. “Trust me, I—”
