Page 71 of Splintered Desire

I slam down on the button so that he hears my voice. “Fuck her! If you want to keep your sister and mother safe from your piece-of-shit father, you will do as I say!”

Still, he doesn’t move, and my fist goes through the screen before I can think about it, as my rage boils over.

The pain centers me enough that when I blink, I see Isaac staring back at me, unimpressed, as I try to get my breathing under control.

It’s been a long time since I’ve lost myself. The last time Father broke my thumb to “teach me to control myself.” I feel the phantom pain throb through my hand and grit my teeth against it.

Even from the grave, he mocks me.

Taking a deep breath in through my nose, I hold it for five seconds before blowing it out and shaking my hand out, ensuring it won’t hinder me.

The sting is nothing but a nice reminder that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

“No, fuck no!” Ozy scrambles backward, shaking his head vigorously, his eyes glued to mine.

I choke on each breath, gasping, curling onto my side as I fight to get enough oxygen to my lungs. Every breath burns my throat and lungs as I get the precious air I’d been without. My gasps turn to coughs that shake me from head to toe, and my eyes water.

“Fuck, Z.” I hear the self-loathing and desperation in his voice and wonder how I missed the signs.

Looking back, I hear it now; hell, I even see it. I’d just been blinded by the fact that he was gone.

Or at least he was supposed to be.

But judging by the man on his knees, hovering beside me as if unsure what to do, I’m going to assume he never went far.

Fuck, I’d been such an idiot.

All the nights I’d cried over him, wishing I could have seen him just one last time or gotten the chance to say goodbye.

I’d thought he was taken from me, but that was wishful thinking. He’d never gone anywhere; he’d been right under my nose the whole time, earning his way up the DuPont chain to be their best little lackey.

Cold determination settles in my stomach. I feel lighter; the freedom that comes with letting go of the vision of Ozy I’ve had all these years, even as dread runs through me.

Never meet your hero.

“Zela, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” His words are rushed, panic making his voice an octave higher than I’m used to.

Finally, my coughing begins to subside, and I push myself up on shaking arms, giving him my back, unwilling to look at him.

Good thing I don’t have Reed’s knife on me still; I might just jam it through his hand as I feel it come up to wrap around my arm, pulling me toward him.

Or maybe it’s too bad; he could obviously benefit from a lesson on when not to touch someone.

I shrug off his hold, pushing to stand. My legs shake, and everything fucking hurts, but I manage, somehow.

“Little warrior, let me help you…”

I can’t hold it even though I try for the sake of my battered throat. A laugh is ripped from me at the use of his old nickname, though it’s without any trace of humor.

Help me.

Isn’t that rich?

I spin around and look down at him, this man who I would have given anything for, in a new light.

“I don’t need your help,” I hiss, my voice rough and raw, and I see his eyes soften.

He doesn’t even attempt to stand; instead, he chooses to remain on his knees, but even still, he’s tall, still coming up to my chest. I try to control myself, but I can’t seem to stop the way my eyes roam over him, looking for every similarity and every new piece of this stranger.