Page 74 of Crush
“How am I supposed to trust that?” I curl and uncurl my fingers, my nails biting into my palms. “This place is nothing but lies.”
“I know what you must be thinking”—Malcolm talks as if I haven’t put him on the spot—“but I’m doing my part to bring Damion down. Don’t fall for appearances, Ember.”
Malcolm says it with such bleakness that I’m willing to follow his change of topic. Asking about my birth mother is like trying to step on a stone until it bleeds. I have him at another vulnerable point, and I want to raise my voice and argue solely for the goal of waking him up. “This isn’t how it should be, Malcolm. One person can’t possibly be this powerful—not to someone like you, with equal privilege. You have the mansion, the money, the elite schooling. You were a Noble, too. Tell me you fought for her.” My abrupt switch to include Julie causes him to blink, then blink again, as if he’s finally regaining clarity. “Please, tell me you didn’t willingly give up your wife to satisfy some sicko’s vendetta.”
And just like that, I rouse the beast.
Malcolm’s palms slam down on the table, rattling the place settings. He spears up from his chair. “How many times do I have to repeat that Damion took everything from me? He stole my grades, acquired my bank accounts, and made my family’s business his puppet. He took my wife, he took my child, he gathered everything he could that was left of me, placed it in the palm of his hand, and squeezed. Squeezed the life out of me.”
Malcolm speaks with such violence, spittle coats his lips. Steel replaces the blue of his eyes. His shoulders, normally so rigid, so stoic, shake with barely contained rage.
Yet all I can grasp from his ravaged speech is… “What do you mean Damion took your child from you?”
Malcolm’s mouth clamps shut. His jawbone cuts through his skin.
“Malcolm,” I ask quietly, “does he have something to do with my adoption?”
“Kidnapping.”
He spits the correction out with such vitriol that I don’t argue. Not when I’m unsure who’s at the table with me. Malcolm the Broken or Malcolm the Lethal?
“Who is my birth mother?”
Malcolm pushes away from the table. “This conversation is over.”
“Because you say so?” I rise, turning as he storms to the dining room’s double doors. “Your warnings only go so far. I can’t navigate the Societies blind and with a bad feeling, Malcolm.” He doesn’t even swivel his profile in my direction. “You need to tell me why I’m here!”
At last, I get him to turn.
And I face a fallen angel. The one before he turned into a reclusive beast.
“Because you are my daughter,” he seethes. “You are mine. You belong here as a Weatherby. That’s the end of it. Now finish your goddamn dinner.”
The paintings on the walls rattle with his slam of the door.
Shaking, breathing heavily, I curl my hands into fists at my sides.
Mine, he said.
So similar to what Thorne explained in his dark, prophetic terms.
And just like Julie, I’ve become their property to fight over.
Except I will fight.
I will never give in.
31
Thorne
My reflection cracks open his jaw, bones popping, as I test the damage Zeke managed to inflict before I pummeled him into a sobbing pulp on my ancestors’ floor.
The chaos and jitters of the locker room echo across the tiled walls, the scent of chlorine sharp in my nose, but I give it no regard as I roll my shoulders back, tip my head up, and close my eyes, cramming in a few seconds of meditation before the meet. It also has the added benefit of quelling the monster rattling my rib cage, demanding release so he can finish the job on Zeke.
That fucking fucker.
The sucker kick pisses me off the most—Zeke aiming to knee me in the groin as some sort of flailing victim before collapsing on the ground and covering his precious face.