of blood on our library floor. He knew who I meant by the sticky silence on the other end of the line, but he never got a chance to reply.
Ronan grabbed the phone and ended the call.
Numb, I sat there, ice spreading through my veins. Because I knew the truth. I knew my papa killed my mother. I knew it was her blood that stained my stuffed animal and childhood memories.
And Ronan knew too.
induratize
(v.) to harden one’s heart against love
“How did you know?” I asked Ronan, who walked away from me, the lines of his back as tense as granite. He knew I was asking about my mother and that my papa murdered her practically in front of my eyes.
“I don’t know anything,” was all he said before going into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind him.
I stared at his absence and realized he didn’t want me to know the truth. He was trying to protect my view of my father. He knew how much my papa meant to me, and while I had no doubt Ronan was going through with his revenge, he still didn’t want to mar the vision I had of my father.
My papa killed my mother.
He callously shot her in the same house I was in.
My chest held an ache so sharp, the pain searched for holes to spread through. It was hard to fathom how the father I knew and loved could do that—though, in the back of my mind, I must have always known. The knowledge warped everything I thought I understood. Thinking about it sent a harsh throb through my head. I couldn’t deal with this right now, so I exhaled deeply and forced it to the back of my mind.
What came to the forefront was what Ronan was trying to do for me. He couldn’t act like he cared now I loved his every shade of black. He couldn’t throw out so much gray while I already struggled to contain the expanding heart in my chest.
He couldn’t do this to me.
He could use, restrain, and torture me—but he couldn’t act like he cared. Not now. Not when those cartoon hearts threatened to rain down on me in the shape of bricks.
Chest burning, I got to my feet and stormed to the bathroom, throwing open the door. Head bowed, Ronan stood in the shower, the water running red rivulets down his naked body.
“I know you’re trying to protect my feelings,” I snapped. “And I think it’s disgusting.”
Slowly, he cast me a dark look. I was dealing with D’yavol now. Good. He held onto his gray tightly—as well as his response when he wasn’t interested enough to reply. His expression made me feel unwelcome, so I continued.
“You’re truly the worst kidnapper I’ve ever met.”
His eyes flashed before he looked away to continue washing off the priest’s blood on his chest. “Coming from the girl who gives all captives a bad name. Spreading your sunshine all over my house, apologizing every step of the way. Let’s not forget the part where you came to your kidnapper’s room and begged him to fuck you. At least you’re not a cliché.”
Heat washed up my back. “It’s called Stockholm syndrome. What’s your excuse? Mobster Decency Disorder?”
Teeth clenched, his narrowed gaze returned to me. “Is Stockholm syndrome responsible for the lapse of memory you’re fucking engaged?”
“Technically, I’m not engaged. And it’s not as if it came up organically.”
His eyes were dark pools. “Technically meaning yet.”
I was the one who was supposed to be angry, and now he was? For what? I doubted his noble conscience would fault sleeping with a nearly engaged woman. The thought of him having protested out of pure honor if he knew was almost comical, but I didn’t have any humor left inside me.
I’d given this man my virginity and multiple other firsts. Didn’t he know he would haunt me forever? Apparently, it wasn’t enough for him. He had to control me from afar, guaranteeing I’d never forget or replace him while he moved on with others like Nadia. The idea roiled in my stomach, making me nauseous.
Ronan would forget me eventually. And that felt like the biggest rejection of all, searing the very core of my heart. Stinging pride was what forced the next words out.
“At least Carter doesn’t murder people for a living.”
Ronan made an unamused noise, practically baring his teeth at me. “Fuck you, Mila.”
I bristled. “Fuck you! And fuck your decency too. I’m so over it.”