Page 97 of Touch of Hate
It’s the glee in his voice.
“Don’t act like you don’t know your precious father has done things like that,” he taunts while I reel in horror and try not to react at the way we fly through the dark. “Or that you don’t know your brother is capable of it. I only committed the kind of act that’s in your blood. Maybe that’s why you were so desperate to sneak around behind their backs with the wrong man when you knew they’d be pissed.”
That’s the problem. I always suspected the sort of things my father orders people to do when the situation calls for it. I’m not stupid. It’s one of those things that goes without saying. There has been a lot of that in my family.
Open secrets. Knowing glances. Tessa is the only one who doesn’t get it.
But to see the blood and the crazed look on Ren’s face that turned him into a stranger?
He’s the one who made that man scream like an animal, and now I have the mental image to pair with the sound.
Was he smiling when he did it, the way he is now?
I’m supposed to share a bed with this man.
I shouldn’t have asked. The less I know, the better.
I suppose if my mother could learn to look the other way, I can too. It’s inevitable—I was always meant to marry a man from our world, and in my heart, it was always going to be Ren. There would be a time when I’d have to get used to ignoring what he does when we’re not together.
When I think about it that way, letting the idea sink into my bones, I find a little relief.
At first.
Because there’s one important difference. I’m sure of it.
Has Dad ever treated Mom like he hated her after he killed somebody? How much do I wish I could ask her, even though I know the answer? He’s never treated her as anything but a precious gift. If it meant hearing her voice and being in her gentle, loving presence again, though, I’d ask a hundred pointless questions.
I’ve never needed her more than I do now. Not just her, either. All of them. My family. I need them, and I have no idea how to reach them.
No more than I know how to reach the man beside me.
“Do whatever you have to do,” I whisper, trembling, sick to my stomach, and wishing like hell I had stayed put the way he told me to. “Just promise you won’t take it out on me afterward.”
I can barely hear his snort. “I never make promises I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep.”
My god. What happened to him?
Who has he become?
* * *
“Where do you think you’re going?”
The question makes me stop short halfway across the living room on my way to the bedroom. If this were any other time, and if I wasn't so heartsick, I might get sarcastic. Where does it look like I'm going?
I know better.
Instead, I wave an arm toward the kitchen. “I put everything away. Now I'm going to bed. It's too late to eat.” And I couldn't swallow a bite with this lump in my throat, anyway.
“Who said it was time for bed?”
Fear skitters down my spine as he takes one step toward me, then another. He didn't help with the groceries when we got back, instead pacing around outside the kitchen window, muttering into his phone. Talking to River, no doubt.
The conversation did nothing to change his attitude. If anything, he’s worse than before.
I back away from him until I hit the wall near the bedroom door. “Sorry. Are you hungry? I can fix you something to eat.”
“I am hungry.” He says it with a smile, grim and knowing. “But not for canned soup.”