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Lucian
Five years ago …
“There’s a meeting at the Institute this week. I’ll ask you that you go in my place. It’ll be good for you to get acquainted with some of the members of the Collective.” My father leans back in his chair, his feet kicked up on the ottoman, as if the request is of no consequence to him.
Across from him, I sit forward and frown. “It’s not a good week. Roark’s been waking up with nightmares—“
“He has a mother. You have a job. And one of your duties in said job is to attend meetings on my behalf.”
“This isn’t a real meeting,” I bite back, staring at him beneath lowered brows. “It’s a waste of time. Precious time that I could be spending with my own son.”
“A waste of time. A waste of time?” The tone in his voice is a warning, the rack of a gun pointed at my head. “You being afforded time to spend with your son is entirely made possible by the Collective who pulled your grandfather out of a shit life. If not for this group, you’d be at fucking sea for months out of the year, begging for shark scraps so you could feed your precious little family!”
“A debt that’s been paid decades over in blood.”
“A debt that will never be paid, you ungrateful shit!” Liquor spills over his glass onto his shirt with the jerky movements of his anger.
“I hate to disappoint you, Father, but I don’t harbor your love for making my son miserable. I’m not a fucking sadist who gets off on watching the torture of another man.”
At the sound of something shattering in a nearby room, followed by what must be A
Small bits of porcelain lay scattered at Roark’s tiny feet, as he stands picking at his lip, watching A
Kneeling down beside A
“I’m sorry, Master Lucian. We were playing hide and seek, and …” Petite, and perhaps only just twenty years old, A
“It’s all right.”
“What’s going on here?” My father knocks into my shoulder as he passes, and when he bends forward to pick up a much larger chunk of the stein, a look of shock registers on his face. “This was the last Thewalt ever made. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He lurches toward A
At Roark’s first cry, I jump to my feet on a rush of pure adrenaline.
My father draws back his hand to strike him, but I catch his wrist, my teeth grinding in rage. A blinding fury explodes inside of me, and I shove hard against his chest, knocking him backward, over the coffee table, and he tumbles onto the floor.
Roark cries when I lift him into my arms, my whole body trembling with potent violence, and I breathe hard through my nose to catch my breath. “I ever see you raise a hand to my son again, mark my words, I will take pleasure in your suffering.”
With one hand holding his arm, he sits forward and chuckles drily. “I see the trait’s alive and well within you, after all.”