Breath stutters in my throat at that, and I look back to him. “Lucian?” He’d only ever mentioned that she’d taught him things, never that he was molested.
He offers only a quick glance toward me, not bothering to dispute her choice of words. “She was twenty-five. Half the age of my father when he fucked her. And at least I consented. At least she didn’t threaten me, if I refused.” His expression hardens again as he stares back at Laura. “You killed her, didn’t you?”
“How humiliating do you think it was, to know both my husband and son were fucking that filthy little harlot? Of course I killed her. And if I hadn’t stopped your father, he’d be fucking her, too!” She points a trembling finger at me. “He wanted a grandson to offer up so badly, he was willing to make one himself.”
“What do you mean, stopped him?” he says past clenched teeth. Bunched shoulders and the tension in his jaw are clues that he’s one second from snapping.
Laura’s dark chuckle is unfitting for the moment, leaving me to wonder if she’ll snap, as well. “The heart attack? Your father’s heart was as healthy as an ox, before I spiked his drink. Tell me life didn’t get better when he died. Tell me you didn’t feel free the moment Roark was no longer your responsibility.”
Subtle, to avoid snagging her attention, I scoot myself toward the other end of the bed.
“You made me believe I was crazy.” Lucian steps around the bed, his movements slow and careful, approaching as if she’s an animal that might try to escape him. “You let them pump me full of drugs and left me there.”
“A mother does what she has to. Tell me you weren’t better off without her in your life.” As I set my sights for escape, the cold, steel tip of a sharp blade presses against my throat. “Or this one, for that matter.”
I breathe hard through my nose to calm the racing of my pulse.
The murderous expression on his face is one I’ve never seen before. Not even when Boyd was shooting at us. “Put the blade down. Now.”
“I see it in your eyes, Lucian. The same look when you were fawning all over that French whore. Obsession. You’re obsessed, and we know what happens when you become obsessed with something.”
“I swear to God, I will kill you myself, if you so much as nick her skin.”
“Dr. Voigt said obsessions aren’t good for you. He told me it’s important to eliminate the sources of your obsessions. She is the source.”
“Mother, I’m warning you.” Lucian rounds the end of the bed, and with the burn of the blade’s edge peeling through a thin layer of skin at my throat, I don’t so much as swallow.
This woman is crazy, and one wrong move might leave me bleeding out.
“Did you ever stop to wonder if she’s even real?” She pets the top of my head, blade steady for a quick slice. “You know, there’s only one way to find out.”
Breath held, I smack her arm away, and the knife falls with a clang to the floor. I roll to the side, as she bends down to snatch it up, and at the sharp yank of my hair, a jagged light dances behind my eyelids.
Lucian lurches toward her, and she releases me. “I’ll see to it that you spend the rest of your life in a cage,” he growls.
Dodging her flailing, knife-toting hand, he backs her onto the bed, and I scramble for the other side to avoid the scuffle.
“I’d sooner die than be locked away like an animal!” Laura screams from behind.
A sputtering cough follows.
I hear the sound of a body falling to the floor.
When I turn back, Lucian appears almost paralyzed, where he stands with his palms up, shock blanching his face.
With blood on his skin.
Chapter 64
Lucian
A blinding light reflects off the hallways on my way toward the room at the end. The low droning sound of classical music plays over the speaker as, adjusting my cuffs, I come to a stop before the door. I open it to find my mother strapped to a bed, her hands and legs bound by restraints. She turns her head to the side, her expression softening at the sight of me.
“Lucian! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here, dear. I’m ready to go home now.”
I don’t say a word as I stare down at her. The wound at her throat, where she dragged the blade, has healed to a grisly scar. Dark rims around her eyes tell of little sleep, and the straggle of her unkempt hair makes her look like she belongs in a straitjacket.
At the approach of someone from behind, I turn to see Friedrich enter the room, wearing his white coat, hands tucked in the pockets. He stands beside me and sets a hand to my shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her.”
My mother’s eyes harden to fear, her brows pinched tight. “No. No, please. I want to go home.”
With a light squeeze, Friedrich exits the room, leaving me alone with my mother once again.
“You tried to kill yourself.” The flat tone of my voice is as devoid of emotion as my heart when I stare back at her. “Why is that?”
Gaze shifting from mine, she seems to think about it for a moment. “The way you looked at me. I’ve never seen such a thing in my life. Not even from your father, as cruel as he could be.” When her eyes meet mine again, they flicker with fear. “Like death would’ve been better than what you intended to do to me right then.”
“And is it, mother?”
Mouth open, she trails her gaze over the mostly empty white room, and her lip trembles. “Is this death? Purgatory?”
“You tell me.”
Tears well in her eyes, and she breaks into a sob. “I’m sorry. For what I did to you. You have to forgive me. You have to. I’m your mother.”
The tears, the weakness in her voice, the frailty of her appearance, like she might snap any moment, they have no effect on me. Not when all I can see is my son’s sleeping face, lips blue with the death she gifted him. The truth is, had she not slit her own throat, I could’ve very well done it myself. “I’ll never forgive you for what you stole from me.”
“I’m better now, though. I’m not angry anymore. Lucian, please take me home.”
“This is your home now.” There isn’t an ounce of empathy left in me for this woman. That she could so easily snuff an innocent life without a hint of remorse proves it doesn’t take unsightly facial scars to make a monster. “Don’t worry. Dr. Voigt said he’ll take good care of you.”
Eyes wide, she pants, tugging at her binds. “What did you tell them? What did you tell them about me, Lucian?”
“What do you think I told them, mother? That you’re a child killer.”
I sit across the desk from Friedrich, watching him jot notes into my medical chart.
Adjusting his spectacles, he looks up, holding the pen poised. “For years, we’ve watched you very closely. You neither show interest, nor choose to participate in any sessions. You’ve shown no history of abuse, as far as we know, and the maid you hired to fulfill your sexual needs reported no deviances, or unusual requests.”
“Perhaps the gene for sadism only extends over a certain number of generations.”