Page 271 of Scarlet Wars
Saying it almost made it real. Saying it nearly undid me.
He stepped closer, gaze dark and steady. “Emma. Iamyour father.”
“And I have been bending over backward for the last twenty-five years to make sure you got everything anyone could ever want.”
FIFTY-NINE
EMMA
No, no, no, no.
Not happening.
“How?” I whispered, one word carrying more shock than anything I’d ever felt in my life.
“The usual way, Emma,” he said smoothly. “I’m sure by now you’re familiar with the process.”
I shook my head hard. “I don’t believe you. My dad?—”
“Your dad is the man who raised you, and as far as I can tell, he did an amazing job.”
He let the pause stretch, like he wanted to watch the horror settle into my bones.
“But genetically, you are my daughter. My blood runs through your veins.”
“No,” I whispered, refusing to accept it. Refusing to let this be real.
He offered a sad, almost gentle smile. “You are a Healer, Emma.”
He translated a small knife and nicked his palm, letting a bead of red swell and gather. “Check my blood against yours for genetic markers. You’ll see I’m not lying.”
I stared at the drop of blood in his hand, my mind blanking. “I don’t even know how to do that.”
“Sure you do.” His voice lowered, almost coaxing. “At least your translation does. Just focus on the knowledge it holds, not the limits of what you think you know.”
Wanting the truth more than my next breath, my golden haze slipped free of my body before I even realized I’d let it go. It moved on instinct—mine or its own—and the second it touched the blood in his palm, Iknew.
Something was ringing in my ears, like the aftermath of an explosion.
I needed to sit.
Now.
Which was problematic, considering the room was conveniently furniture-free. No chairs, no couches. Only me, my unraveling sanity, and the scary-ass dude who had fathered me.
And because my trauma response was apparently furniture-based, the first thing I translated in there was a godsdamn lounge chair.
Dark red light shimmered, and suddenly there it was: solid, leather, looking suspiciously expensive. I dropped into it like a stone, fingers curling over the armrests.
My “father” watched me sink into it, then—because apparently dramatic flair is genetic—he translated the exact same chair and sat down directly across from me, his gaze unyielding.
“I realize this might come as a shock?—”
Oh, look at that. I inherited my father’s razor-sharp grasp of the obvious.
“I want to answer all questions you might have.”
Questions. For the man responsible for mind-raping me into this life, who, as it turned out, was also my father?
