All I could see at the mention of an adopted son was a set of dark eyes as cold as ice, boring into me with vengeance written into the amber color, my name traipsing through his thoughts and tied to memories even I was too ashamed to remember.
Callan didn’t need to speak for me to hear him. His message had been clear in the stern lines of his face, in the grip of his fingers that still burned a throbbing silhouette against my cheeks.
Who else would Franklin have adopted then the boy he’d looked after when I was young? I refused to ask the question he sat waiting expectantly to hear. Franklin wanted to drop it in my lap like a loaded bomb.
It was too bad I wouldn’t let him.
“Callan,” I said, knowing damn well Franklin would nod his head as if the answer should have surprised me. “I thought he was dead.”
He grinned, the expression as slimy as whatever game he’d played to get me here.
“You would have liked that, wouldn’t you? He was your favorite toy for so many years, one you treated so poorly. As I’m sure you figured out this morning, Callan survived. Barely.”
Pausing, Franklin glanced down at his hands as if examining his fingernails. His voice was a bare whisper when he asked, “Tell me, Lisbeth, just what did your mother say to you about that night?”
When I didn’t fill the tense silence between us, he lifted his grey eyes to mine, amused curiosity behind them. I held his stare, refusing to be broken down so that I would spill my guts about what I knew. In many ways, information could be as lethal as a sword, and I wasn’t willing to reveal my weapons at this point.
Walking to the bed, Franklin unbuttoned his suit jacket and brushed the cheap blanket off before sitting down. With a jut of his chin, he indicated the first aid kit near my feet.
“I wasn’t joking about tending to your injuries. Gretchen will be back soon. She will drag you around just as you are, Lisbeth. Don’t test the woman’s patience.”
I would have spit in his direction if my mouth weren’t so dry from screaming. I wouldn’t give in and make myself presentable for anybody. If they wanted to drag me around in my nightgown with bloody feet, then let them.
Or, I had a better idea.
“I want to leave. Now. You and your son can keep the bullshit family. I want out.”
Sympathy softened his eyes, there and then gone again.
“I’m afraid that won’t happen. You have a debt to pay.”
“To who? I owe this family nothing.”
“That remains to be seen. But that’s not what I’m talking about at the moment. You owe a debt to the same man who dragged you here. Or have you so easily forgotten about your childhood? Did he really mean so little?”
Cold fear slithered down my spine. Its icy fingers chased by a vein of hot anger that seared my skin with one name.
One regret.
One shame.
He wasn’t wrong that I’d treated Callan badly, but he was wrong to think I’d forgotten about those years. I couldn’t close my eyes sometimes without seeing the crouched body of a boy who took my abuse without flinching or complaint. And while I winced to remember how I’d insulted and abused him, at the same time I was screaming for him to grow a spine and fight back for once.
Be careful what you wish for...
“Callan, again?”
Franklin nodded. “He told me you’d know the reason.”
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: that Callan was still alive, that he’d taken over as head of the family, or that he actually spoke.
Was his voice as dark as his eyes? Would the feel of it against my ear be as violent as the grip on my arm when he’d dragged me to this place?
Fuck them all. They could keep me trapped in this room. They could make all the demands they wanted, but they couldn’t force me to clean up after them and serve their dinners. I wouldn’t bow down for them so they could laugh.
It wouldn’t fucking happen.
And if I knew Callan well enough, I knew the bastard would refuse to talk. Maybe not to others, but to me. Perhaps that was my way out of this.
“Why don’t you run back to Callan and let him know if he has a problem with me, he can walk his ass in here and talk to me about it? Otherwise, I won’t