Page 237 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
Another nick of the blade.
I thought about all the things my mother had said to me, so many times she’d called me a liar when I’d tried to tell her the truth. Another nick of the blade.
I thought about Lucian. I thought about the care in his eyes along with the hate and the rage when he killed another man for me.
And then I thought of him killing Colonel Hardwick and Baron Rawlings, too. I thought of him killing the men who’d hurt me when I was too small to know better.
I thought of him killing Reverend Lynch.
I thought about him killing Uncle Lionel for giving me away to the sinners.
I found myself wishing I could tell him the truth. Wishing I could tell Lucian Morelli the truth before I was gone.
Another nick of the damn blade.
The calmness found me, deep and dark. I loved the pain in my legs as they tingled from the cuts. I loved the way my blood trickled and dripped down my thighs.
Lucian Morelli wasn’t going to save me. He wasn’t going to hurt any of the men who’d hurt me, because even if I could tell him, I wouldn’t. I’d never tell a soul as long as I lived.
I smiled to myself at that.
As long as I lived. That wouldn’t be long.
The Power brothers were coming for me.
I wiped the blood from my legs, pressed a wad of tissues to the cuts and relaxed back against the wall, sinking into the soothing calm, riding the ebb and flow of it as my body tried to make sense of my actions, until finally, the sobs and the trembling had stopped. I caught my breath, patched up my wounds and hid my stash away, then forced myself into some kind of walkable state, even without a few lines of cocaine to see me through it.
Mom wanted to speak with me. No shit. I knew she’d have plenty to say. Who knew what herofferwould be, but I was damn sure it wouldn’t be a good one.
I made sure my cheeks weren’t wet before I made my way back downstairs.
My heart stuttered as I realized my mother was already a floor down by the main staircase. Waiting. As always, her face was one of utter disgust when she saw me there, her lip nothing but a snarl of disdain.
I tried to think of words, but I didn’t have to worry about that.
Her welcome to me was a slap across the face, hard enough that I cried out in a gasp.
“If you ever so much as step foot downtown, Elaine Beatrice Constantine, I swear to God, it’ll be theverylast thing you do. This time I’m serious.”
My heart was racing, but nothing more came, just a jab of a finger in my face as she reiterated her stance. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, because it was true. I was sorry that I couldn’t be who she wanted. It might seem weak, to people who’ve never been abused. But I was never able to grow up. That’s something the therapist had told me for the bargain price of $500 an hour. When you’re abused, you stop growing up. You stay that age forever.
My mother’s voice has turned pleading. “You don’t belong in that seedy hovel of a place. You’ve never belonged in it. You belong here, with us, with your family.”
I didn’t belong there with the rest of them. I never had. Not since meeting Reverend Lynch.
“Family?” I asked. “I thought you were disowning me.”
She sighed. “No gratitude. So it’s just as well that I have a solution for us.”
“Uncle Lionel told me. Anoffer.”
“Yes,” she spat. “Anoffer.”
“Tell me, then,” I said, trying my best to sound strong. “What is this offer?”
I knew it was going to be a bad one before she started speaking. I could see it in her stare.
“Christopher Rawlings,” she announced. “He wants you as his bride. Baron Rawlings suggests you are to be the latest addition to the Rawlings name and the British aristocracy.”
