Page 59 of Burn for Her

He didn’t know what else to say at this point. He was embarrassed, infuriated, and getting so much worse. The highs and lows were steep. At least he was back in his own home now, and away from everyone’s prying eyes. “I should have never—”

“Can you shut the fuck up and put one foot in front of the other and get in the shower?” Lucian manhandled him into the bathroom.

Dorian almost laughed at how pathetic this was. It had been lifetimes since he was this weak and unfocused. For Lucian to shove him around was a first. It was usually the other way around.

Lucian turned on the shower and sprayed him in the face with cold water.

“Fuck!” Dorian jolted. “That’s freezing!”

“Well at least you’re not numb yet. That’s a good sign.”

The water slowly warmed and the tension in his shoulders started melting. He had no clue how long he sat on the floor of his shower, still dressed and in boots, but the world kind of fell away for a little bit. It was foggy but cozy. Peaceful. The light scent of cherries tickled his nose making him sink deeper into calmness. He both liked and hated that Lena was also in the bathroom. Maybe he needed to use this moment to fess up a little.

“It’s nice to have hot, running water,” he thought out loud. “No buckets to fill up anymore.”

He cracked his eyes open and saw water funnel down the drain. It made him feel hollow inside. The past crept up behind him. “It never washed away… not even in the river.” He fanned his hands out. “I should have never left that place. None of this would be happening if I hadn’t left.”

“What do you mean?” Lena asked quietly.

He buried his head in his hands, swept away in memories…

“Dorian, fetch me the cleaver.” His father held out his meaty palm, skin cracked from the cold. Dried blood coated him up to his elbows. “Now, boy!”

It was always the same—this hell cycled over and over again. Dorian was supposed to be used to it by now, right? His father promised.

Stars burst in his vision when his father backhanded him for not budging. Dorian flew back, his spindly limbs no match for the massive arms of his father. While Dorian remained scrawny and malnourished, his father gorged on blood.

His blood.

The victims he took and drained were wasted. His father only played with them and left a small amount for Dorian to feed on. But every week, just as Dorian would start to feel less groggy, his father would force him down and drain him. A king with a feast, while his servant starved.

“Did you forget your functions, boy?”

“N-no father.”

“Stop stuttering or I’ll break your jaw. That’ll certainly keep you silent for a time.”

Dorian’s small fangs cut into his lip when he bit down. The piercing pain was sharp and too brief, it didn’t overshadow the sting on his cheek from his father’s slap like he hoped. If only he was bigger, stronger, smarter, he could stand up to his father and stop this madness from continuing.

But he couldn’t.

He refused to drink willingly from the victims his father took. And, for whatever gluttonous reason, his father kept him drained each day. Even if his father had to vomit his meal to make room in his belly to drink from Dorian, he did it.

Why?

To keep him wasted and puny. Weak and brittle. Why? If he wanted Dorian to be like him, why wouldn’t he allow Dorian the chance to strengthen?

Because his father knew if Dorian had the chance, he’d—

“Cleaver!” his father shouted. “NOW!”

Dorian slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the wall of dulled, rusted, filthy weapons. Snatching the cleaver from its hook, his gaze shifted to a small paring knife and he swiftly snagged it as well. Keeping the cleaver within his father’s sight, Dorian tucked the tiny paring knife into the waistline of his stained, torn breeches and made his way back over to his father’s workstation.

“Drink her while I cut.”

Dorian vomited in his mouth at the thought. He refused. It was always this same song and dance. His father would command him, Dorian would refuse, then his father left him no choice.

“Do it or I’ll make it worse for her.” The cleaver hovered over the woman’s naked breasts. “It’s up to you how she dies, boy. Swiftly or mercilessly. Now drink.”