Page 149 of Breaking Rosalind
“And your mother either knew at the time or didn’t protect you when she discovered the truth, which was why you killed her, too.”
Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, but she continues twisting the chains, the muscles in her forearms bulging with exertion.
“Rosalind, who is Miranda’s father?”
She jerks her head to the side, as though the thought of the man who raped her as a child is too much to bear.
My breath shallows. Growing up, I didn’t have a sister. My cousin, Jennifer, doesn’t count because she and Leroi left before I was two. I can’t imagine Dad abusing his own daughter, but I know that sort of shit happens in other families.
“Was it a teacher?” When she doesn’t respond, I add, “Your parent’s friend? Was it your father?”
Her answer is a muffled sob that’s like a knife through the heart.
Pieces click together, both from everything I learned from speaking to Rosalind and Miranda, as well as what I know about the Moirai. They recruit their people young, which means she must have given birth before training to become an assassin.
“Miranda told me you came to the house when she was four to kill your parents and take her away. Did you join the Moirai to become strong enough to take back your child?”
She finally nods, her body convulsing with sobs.
I try to think of a girl as young as Miranda being forced to endure abuse, only to get pregnant by her own father. My mind can’t even form the image. It’s too horrific to even contemplate.
Rosalind finally opens her eyes and glares up at me with a hatred that burns brighter than the entire time she spent in captivity. That’s when I understand the source of her strength. Nothing I did to her could ever compare to what she endured as a child.
“I swear to you, I didn’t touch Miranda,” I say.
The snap of metal resounds in the room as she finally breaks through the first of her chains. Instead of clawing at my eyes, she uses her free hand to work at the shackle around her left wrist.
“She was telling the truth about the prank. I asked Miranda to wear a prop for the first set of photos. All the crying and screaming she did for the camera was an act. That conversation you heard earlier was me teaching her to make hot chocolate. Those noises were because she was eating snacks.”
Rosalind jerks her head to meet my eyes.
“It’s true,” I rasp. “You can ask her yourself. She’s across the hallway.”
When she stops struggling, I think it’s because I’ve finally reached her with the truth, but she lurches at me with both arms outstretched and wraps her hands around my throat.
“Calm down, pet,” I say through choked breaths. “You don’t want to look disheveled when I take you to your daughter.”
“You’re going to let me see her?” she says in disbelief.
“As soon as we agree to a truce,” I reply.
FIFTY-EIGHT
ROSALIND
Exhaling my emotions in an outward breath, I try to restore a sense of calm. I am wrung out, drained from hearing my backstory laid bare like the answer to some puzzle. Strangely, I believe Cesare hasn’t laid a finger on Miranda, but no groomer makes a move after a few encounters.
Fighting him is futile. Days spent away from the gym and a lack of good nutrition has sapped my strength. Cesare’s face doesn’t even change color with my hands around his throat. Instead, he stares down at me without his usual sadistic glee, the intensity of his gaze ripping me to shreds.
He’s serious. In his twisted mind, he believes he hasn’t corrupted my little girl, but this maniac doesn’t have a bone in his body that isn’t sexual. He’s probably also some kind of addict.
I glance around, taking in a bathroom on the left, along with the door to what’s probably a walk-in closet. We’re no longer in the balcony bedroom I trashed but somewhere within the mansion’s first floor.
Blown-up photos hang on the wall depicting extreme close-ups of a woman in various stages of agony. I skip past them to find a window beyond the footboard that overlooks a tall willow tree, and the exit on the right.
“Take me to my daughter,” I say, through clenched teeth.
He peels my fingers off his throat and brings them to his lips, his demeanor changing from shitty psychopath to chivalrous savior. Each kiss he presses into my knuckles is a slap in the face.