“So you do feel remorse? Just not enough to apologize to the man who lost his mother and father within months of each other?”
My dad looked away, his fingers biting into his armchair. “Apologize? What the hell kind of apology could I give him now? Not one that would matter. I let a woman die because I was afraid and I was weak.” He looked back at me. “You have to come to terms with the man I am, Alexa. I’ve had to. I’m not a perfect man. Far from it. I never will be. I’m a weak man and for a long time I was spoiled.”
Tears dripped off my chin. “Tell me one thing. Did you love my mom? Me?”
His mouth quivered. “I did. I do. I just … I was never cut out to be a husband and a father. I’m not built that way.”
It was the sad, horrible truth, but there it was. There was no magic solution to finding a father who would take care of me whenever I needed him, whose unconditional love would soothe the rejection of others, whose love for me would always exceed his love for himself.
My father would never be that kind of dad.
Yet there was a small measure of satisfaction in witnessing the change in him since the last we’d spoken seven years ago. There was self-awareness in him that hadn’t existed before, and it gave me something at least to know that he was fully aware of his shortcomings. It wasn’t enough to ease the ache, and it still didn’t give me a father, or bring Caine’s family back to him.
I wondered then if that little hole inside me would ever go away, or if I’d just have to get used to it, and hopefully one day meet someone who would distract me from what was missing by giving me a love that eclipsed it.
“Can I get you tea? Coffee?” my father asked uncertainly.
Feeling more pain in my stomach, I nodded. “Tea, please. And a glass of water. I need to take some Percocet.”
Somehow he refrained from giving me a scolding look, realizing that any fatherly admonishment would not be welcome from him.
The door at the back of the room closed behind him as he disappeared into the kitchen. Suddenly exhausted, probably from an adrenaline dive, I rummaged through my bag for my phone. I frowned as I flicked the screen open and discovered I had ten missed calls from Caine.
Hadn’t he gotten my note?
I sighed, even more exhausted at the thought of dealing with his stubbornness. The man was quite happy to watch me walk out of his life for good, just as long as I’d healed up physically first!
Idiot.
I threw my phone back in the bag and slumped on the sofa.
A loud clatter followed by a heavy thud made me jerk upright. “Dad? Are you okay?”
Nothing.
I heard my pulse start to race.
“Dad?” I said more loudly and cautiously stood up so as not to tug on my injury. “Dad, are you okay?” I made my way toward the door and pushed it open only to freeze at the sight of my father sprawled across the kitchen floor.
I moved, to rush to him, only to be yanked back into the solid heat of a hard body. Strong arms tightened around my chest. The silver of metal flashed across my vision.
Terror and adrenaline shot through me and without even thinking I heaved back with all my strength, slamming our attacker into the cabinets behind me. A male grunt of pain sounded and his grip loosened enough for me to tear away from him.
My feet slipped on the tile floor as I yanked open the door to the living room. I propelled myself forward into the room, just catching myself on the side table. Framed photographs crashed into my mother’s favorite vase, the glass shattering behind me as I raced for the front door. I was drawn up sharply four feet from it.
Pain brought stinging tears to my eyes as he grabbed at my hair, hauling me backward. I tugged, crying out in agony at the pressure on my scalp as I attempted to break his grasp.
But it was too late and he clamped an arm around my waist.
Every ounce of fear I’d felt over the last few weeks coalesced inside me, turning from something cold into molten fury. I screamed in outrage, pulling my arm out and then slamming my elbow up high behind me. I connected and heard a satisfying howl of pain as I launched myself toward the door.
It wasn’t enough.
Hands clawed at my jacket, dragging me backward. I kicked and screamed, jabbing my elbows back, but he took the blows, and with a strength that overpowered me he wrestled me to the floor.
Shock moved through me as a hooded face came into view. Hard dark eyes glittered down at me. Eyes I didn’t recognize in a face that was shrouded by a black ski mask. All I could see were the eyes and thin pale lips.
The nothingness of his face, the emptiness in his gaze, was terrifying.
I fought harder.
I felt the warm trickle of blood, followed by the burning sting of a cut on my arm.
He’d sliced me as I grappled with him.
“Stupid bitch,” his deep voice hissed. He let go of one of my arms to drive his fist down into my face.
Fire spread out across my cheek, stinging my nose and eyes and dazing me momentarily. I blinked the overabundance of water out of my eyes, trying to focus away from the pain to the man.
I saw the flash of silver again, this time lowering slowly to my throat.
“Missed last time. Stupid going for the gut. Too many variables.”
I couldn’t buck, or shrug him off, for fear the knife would slice right through my skin. “Who are you?” I tried to stall him so I could think.
Think, Lex, think, think, THINK!
“Wouldn’t a gun have been easier?” I wheezed out, surprised by my thoughts and questions. More than anything, more than who he was or why he was doing this, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that if he’d used a gun from the beginning he would probably have killed me already.
Lexie, stop! I shouted at myself, feeling insane. I needed to get out of this, not ponder my assailant’s reasons for weapon of choice!
The guy’s cold eyes suddenly flashed with emotion. “Guns are for pussies.”
He pressed down with the blade.
A loud crash behind him made his head whip around toward the front door. As his face tilted upward, a huge fist appeared, slamming down and jerking his head back with so much force blood from his nose sprayed across my face.
His weight was yanked off me, and the knife clattered to the floor from his weakened grasp.
In awe, I struggled to get up, my hand reaching for my throat to feel the small cut that he’d made … but my gaze was on the tornado that had just entered my childhood home.
Caine.
Rage unlike anything I’d witnessed before emanated from every pore in Caine’s body as he grabbed my attacker by the front of his hoodie and lifted him clean off his feet. He crashed him against the wall so hard pictures shook off from their hooks.
The attacker swung out at Caine, clipping him across the jaw. I reached for the knife and attempted to get to my feet.
I glanced over at Caine, ignoring the ache in my stomach, ready to help if he needed me. The hilt of the knife handle practically melted around my grip with the heat of my emotions.
Caine threw another punch, this time to the attacker’s gut, and he winded him. As the attacker’s head bent over, Caine brought his knee up and forced the guy’s nose to connect with it.
I heard a crack and the agonized muffle it caused.
From there I watched in suspended horror as Caine beat the man. He punched him until he couldn’t stand, and once he was on the floor he ripped the mask off, revealing the bloodied face of a stranger. Caine punched him again. And again.