Page 173 of Brutal

---

Her under me. Her breath breaking. Her body?—

Jesus.

I turn away.

I killed her father. I slept with her. I didn’t know.

But she knew. She kept it at bay, but she knew. She knew he was her father, and she knew—or suspected—that I killed him.

A hollow laugh almost comes up. I crush it before it does. Because this isn’t funny.

This is the part where the bricks come down. Not around me but on me.

I open my eyes and look back at her.

She’s standing exactly where she was.

Not shaking.

Not crying.

Not falling apart.

That’s worse.

Because she already did that somewhere else.

Before this.

Before me.

And she still came here. Still stood in front of me.

Still—

“You came to me,” I say, more to myself than to her. “You came to me looking for the truth. And I gave you something else.”

The words are flat and accurate. Brutal in a way that doesn’t need emphasis.

I drag a hand down my face.

There’s no wiping this off.

“I didn’t know,” I say.

It sounds weak. It is weak. Because it doesn’t change anything. I have no defense.

I drop my gaze to my hands. The ones that hit him, killed him.

The ones that touched her, held her.

I flex my fingers once.

Blind strength.

That’s what my father used to call it.

Power without pause. Action without question.

---