by Melissa Jane
Using his knee, he pried my legs open and unzipped his pants. My mind was already compartmentalizing what was transpiring. I was forcing myself to become numb while Mason took what he felt owed. It was like the world had slowed while it translated defeat. But I still had one question.
“Why do you hate me so much?” It was a weak question. But after so long, I needed to know. It wasn’t just because he wanted me for his own. This level of hate ran much deeper.
He paused to consider me through narrowed eyes, his erection pressing against my belly, ready and waiting.
“You always came between us, Gemma. Lucas wouldn’t leave Delaware because you were still there. I tried on so many occasions to get him away from that bastard, but he stayed every time. And every time we’d both receive another beating for our efforts. He stayed all for a bit of pussy that you never gave until now. You fulfilled his wish, now it’s my turn.” With a swift motion, Mason pushed his length all the way in, thrusting hard as if the movement contained all the hate, spite and anger he’d carried with him for ten years.
I cried in pain, and he groaned in both delight and victory, but it was all short lived.
The world around us exploded with a sudden gunshot, the sleeping birds erupting in a frenzy as they wailed into the dark night seeking sanctuary once again. There was a sharp jolt, and a thick coat of blood sprayed over my face and into my mouth. Mason groaned in pain, baring his teeth, nostrils flaring with fury as he collapsed further onto me.
“Get off her, Mason,” came a voice that caused my heart to soar.
Lucas.
Mason laughed maniacally, refusing instruction.
“I said get the fuck—”
“Or what?” Mason roared. He rolled to the side and stood, his own Glock pointed at Lucas in a stand-off. “Or what, brother?”
I scrambled across the ground, only to be yanked back hard against Mason’s chest, my long hair tangled in his fist. The barrel of the gun pressed against my temple crushing the bone.
There we were, the three of us. Me naked, wounded from head to toe, covered in dirt and blood that belonged to everyone present. Mason lost to a world of passionate revenge, bleeding from under his collarbone. And Lucas who stood with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and bleeding furiously from his temple. We were trapped in headlights, illuminated dust particles floated past, unconcerned with the violence unfolding in the middle of the deserted woods.
A hand wrapped around my throat pushing me harder against the gun’s barrel. I winced but remained as still as possible, fearful the slightest movement would cause Mason to squeeze the trigger.
“This is your fate, brother,” Mason warned. “This is how it’s all gonna end tonight because you chose her all those years ago. Because you should have left with me when I said, not when we had no choice. Because of her! Everything we had that we fought to keep is fucking over, Lucas,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. “And yet you hold the gun at me… for her?”
Lucas was having none of it. “This is all on you, Mason. You perpetuated this. You’re obsessed. You did this. All of it.”
Mason laughed, incredulous and almost hurt by the accusation. “You know that’s not true.”
“Gemma only held a small part of the story. You created all this hurt, and it has to end.”
“You wanna see what fucking hurt is?” Mason seethed. He pushed me away setting me up as a target, pointing his Glock at my head. I looked between the two, Lucas’s eyes widened in horror, his next move already determined, his hand forced.
“This is how it ends! You eliminate the common denominator.” Mason’s arm straightened to take the shot, his face reflecting his animosity toward me as he went to pull the trigger.
I screamed, cowering down, uselessly covering my face when two shots fired. I waited for impact, but it never came. Confused, I opened my eyes in time to see Mason jolted by bullets hitting him from both sides, a string of blood pouring from his mouth. His eyes were wide, but his soul had already left. The Glock slipped from his hand before he fell onto the dirt road, landing in a heap.
I had survived, but my body succumbed to defeat. The world moved in slow motion. A figure rushed to me in a blur while I watched an immobilized Lucas drop his own gun and stare at the body of his dead brother. I was falling, and someone was calling out my name. They grew closer, their assertive voice doing its best to pull me from the haze.
But I could do nothing.
Like a rag doll, I collapsed, saved by a pair of arms hooking under mine. My head rested against his chest as he carefully lowered me to the ground. A jacket was wrapped around my nakedness, and I finally recognized the voice calling my name.
Detective Kinross.
But it was too late.
Chapter 30
THEN
LUCAS
“Why don’t you just fuck off like you always do, Mason?” my mother slurred her words. Her pink lipstick was starting to smear, a tell-tale sign. “You’re just like your father, you know that?” She pointed her index finger in spite. “So, pack your shit and go.” Callously, she threw her coffee mug in the sink, but it hadn’t been used for coffee. It hardly ever was these days, but she didn’t know that we knew her ill-disguised secret.
Mom was drunk.
Again.
She became like this every time Anthony Borelli, her boyfriend, broke up with her and threatened never to return. The break-up never lasted long, unfortunately. We could handle a drunk mother. We could deal with the malicious outbursts even though sometimes they cut to the bone. We could cope with the vomit and the passing out, despite having to miss school to ensure she didn’t stop breathing or choke on her own mess.
She was hurt.
Broken-hearted.
What we couldn’t handle was the physical abuse. The three of us suffered at the hands of her new lover who had quickly become a poor supplement for my dad. For months, bruises marred our bodies. There’d been split lips, a continual run of black eyes, a fractured collarbone and cracked ribs, two concussions, endless punches to the face and head, and my mother had even been stomped on until unconscious. There had been countless blackouts, too many to add up. Times when we’d be forced to take turns guarding the bathroom door while the other played nurse. But still, after all the blood, injuries and tears, she welcomed him back into our family home as if everything he did to us was out of love.
She was blinded.
Stupid.
Dad left without a word and Mom clung to the nearest asshole as if somehow, he could mend her shattered world.
But he never did.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she bellowed through tears, swaying slightly on her feet. “I said pack your shit and go.” Her words further angered my brother who had returned home after a fortnight of being MIA. He did that. When Mason reached his limit, when he was close to doing something murderous, he’d retreat. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to leave me. But there was little choice in the matter. By nature, Mason was violent. He was a schoolyard scrapper with a high pain threshold, who thrived on the adrenalin rush. I’d seen it on many occasions, especially at home when he always fought back to save us. But there was always a limit as to how far he could be pushed.
I’d seen it in his eyes most times.
The desire to kill Borelli.
Yet, there was always one thing holding him back. He was old enough to be tried as an adult. And for that, I was glad. Borelli had already damaged us enough, I couldn’t lose a brother to a life sentence. Therefore, it all came down to our mother’s decision.
“When is this gonna end, Mom?” Mason yelled, hands spread wide as he leaned across the kitchen island bench. “Seeing your children beaten almost to death every time you let that piece of shit back into the house is okay with you? Having him knock you out cold every argument is a healthy relationship? Do you know what he does to us every time you lie spread-eagled on the ground?”
Mom shook her head in denial, cheeks reddening.
“He knocks you out, and then he comes after us. That’s what he does. He comes after us because we fight for you.” There was no disguising the accusation in his tone. “We defend you because we love you. When the fuck do you fight for us? Have you been up to Lucas’s room lately, Mom? Have you seen how many holes are in the fucking drywall? Do you know what that’s from?”
My mother turned away, too ignorant to hear the truth. Mason was having none of it.
“Turn around,” he demanded. She jumped with fright but otherwise remained still. Using his forearm, he swiped at the array of plates and cutlery stacked on the counter sending each item soaring through the air before smashing to the ground.
“Turn. The. Fuck. Around!”
Slowly, my mother did as she was told, albeit sheepish.
“Those holes are from Anthony-fucking-Borelli smashing Lucas’s head repeatedly against the drywall. Your fucking son. And you just keep letting him into our home.”
The front screen door creaked open and slammed shut. We stilled, dread consuming us all. My mother’s blue eyes grew wide with that sickening mix of terror and hope. Mason’s fists clenched by his side as he turned to watch the door.
“Go upstairs, Lucas,” he hissed, not looking at me. “Now!”
The heavily-booted footsteps across the wooden floor moved slow and deliberate. They grew closer and slowly I sank back out of view from our intruder to the hallway stairs, but still where I could just make out my brother and mother anxiously waiting.
Outside, the rain had grown heavy, and deep, rumbling thunder rolled close by occasionally shaking the house. Lightning flashed like strobe lights through the windows, a constant reminder of the darkness surrounding us.
“You think you’re a man now do you, boy?” Anthony asked, cool and calm in his dark patronizing voice.
This was how it always started.
My heart pounded painfully, and my mouth grew dry.
I remained silent. My mother waited by the counter, unsure of what to do and too intoxicated to make full sense of it. Mason, on the other hand, stood stony-faced against his opponent.
“You’re free to leave, boy,” Anthony recommended. “There’s nothing keepin’ you here.”
Mason scoffed at his arrogance. “That’s what you’ve wanted this whole time, isn’t it? To fill the shoes of someone else and take what isn’t yours. Well… you should take your own advice and fuck off,” he replied through gritted teeth. “No one wants you here.”
My mother stepped forward touching Mason’s shoulder, reality having sobered her up some. “You need to go upstairs—”
“Shut up, Mom.” He shrugged her off, and she flinched away as if burned. “Enough already. This is your mess and if you’re not gonna clean it up, I will.” Mason turned his attention back to the intruder. “Get the hint, you’re not welcomed here, Borelli. She doesn’t love you. You’re not Dad, and you never will be.”
A duffle bag dropped to the ground in defiance.
“Now look what you’ve done to your mother,” he goaded. “Janice… where’s my welcome?”
“Stay where you are, Mom.”
There was a silent stand-off as Mom looked between the two men who stood in her kitchen, evidently unsure of what to do. Making the same poor decision she had many times before, she tentatively rounded the counter and approached Borelli. They were both in view now, him draping a thick possessive arm around her shoulders.
“Son, there’s—”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son.”
“Son,” Borelli continued, ignoring Mason. “Understand your deadbeat father left, which makes me the man of the house now,” he taunted. Mason’s jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. “We don’t need you here. In fact, we have some news, don’t we, Janice?” His hold on her grew tighter and my mother, through her drunken haze, was starting to panic. She became fidgety, and Borelli responded by pulling her closer restraining any movement.
“We don’t need to tell them now—” she started, nervously trying to placate him.
“Nonsense. Where’s your brother? Lucas!” Borelli bellowed, his voice shaking the house just as much as the thunder.
Swallowing hard, I gripped the railing ready to run if needed.
“Leave Lucas out of it,” Mason warned, his voice taking on a tone I hadn’t heard before. It was terrifying.
“Shut it. This is something I want you both to hear. Lucas! Come out now,” he shouted again.
“Darling, he’s asleep. We’ll tell him in the—”
Wrapping a big bear paw around my mother’s neck, Borelli held her at arm’s length. She clawed at his grip while teetering precariously on her toes. It was a sorry sight. A sorry sight because this was how she now preferred to be treated. Borelli, without so much as a second thought, backhanded her across the cheek and released his hold. Her head snapped sharply to the left, and she stumbled, catching the corner of the island counter in enough time before she fell.
“Don’t you dare contradict me,” he boomed. “If I say he should be here, he should get his ass down those stairs.” This was how he worked. Calm and calculated at the beginning, and when he didn’t get his way, his temper would escalate until we all lay on the ground bloodied and bruised.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Mason yelled, stepping protectively in front of Mom.
“Not your house anymore, boy. Your mother and I are getting married.”
A dreaded silence fell over the household as the words sunk in.
My brother saw red and even looked somewhat shell-shocked from the admission. “The fuck you are! You don’t belong here.”
“It’s Lucas who doesn’t belong.” This came as no surprise. I had always been Borelli’s target but hearing him confirm it by singling me out had my heart pounding. “He’s weak. The world isn’t kind to the weak, especially not here.”
Mason had become incensed, a raging fury glistening from his eyes, and a smiling Borelli claimed a small victory.
“You will never touch him again,” Mason warned through a snarl.
He considered Mason for a moment. “You’re just like me.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
“Oh, but you are. I see the way the Sinclair girl looks at you.”
Gemma!
My heart began to gallop. Why was he talking about Gemma?
“She looks at you with fear in those pretty eyes of hers. She flinches whenever you’re near. I’ve seen it. I watched the power you have over her. It’s intoxicating… isn’t it, Mason? To have someone simply hand over all control because they’re too weak to handle us.” Borelli lunged quickly toward my mother, and she yelped, flinching away and shielding her face. Borelli laughed, satisfied Mom had unwittingly proven his point.
And then he quietened, the tension thick in the air. Borelli spoke with an eerie calmness that didn’t match his words. “Let me show you how a real man treats his whore.”
Once again, he lurched forward, this time gripping my mother’s hair. She squealed and lost her footing as he yanked her hard against his chest. Mason roared to life and took a swing using all his pent-up hurt and anger to propel himself forward. Size-wise, Borelli was huge, and when a fist connected with his meaty jaw, he barely flinched. Mason, on the other hand, received a violent shove to the chest sending him sprawling on the kitchen floor. Instinctively, I ran to my mother’s aide attempting to pull her free from Borelli’s hold.
“There you are, you fucking little cunt,” the asshole cheered and I realized my mistake. “I knew this would draw you out of your hiding place.” My mother screamed in pain as he tossed her around the room like a rag doll while fielding us both off. Unperturbed, Mason went in for another attack landing two heavy blows to Borelli’s jaw and temple. Wincing only momentarily in pain, the man balled his fist and smashed my mother’s eye in retaliation. He knew attacking her would hurt us more than if he went after us. The force of the blow catapulted Mom backward onto the TV, her head smash
ing against the wall with a sickening thud. Mom’s limp body sank to the ground, her neck at an awkward angle.
We could do nothing to help.
Borelli had already turned to us.
This was the part he liked. This was the part that made him feel like a man.
Beside me, Mason’s chest heaved, his eyes narrowed in on his target.
“Come at me, boy,” Borelli gestured as if this was a typical sparring match between father and son. It was far from.
“Just take your shit and go.”
“Not gonna happen.” He glanced between us, his challenge clear. “The night is only just beginning.” Borelli, confident and strong, marched toward me and my body froze.
“Run, Lucas,” Mason yelled, desperation written all over his face. Awkwardly, I stepped back, my feet heavy and unwilling to move. I connected with something, my mother’s legs, and I tripped landing hard beside her unresponsive body. As I scrambled to my feet, I could hear my brother bellowing, but I couldn’t hear his words. A large hand, rough with calluses, wrapped around my throat. It belonged to Borelli who triumphantly smiled as he lifted me off the ground, my legs flailing. I was a lightweight compared to him and lifting me seemed to take no effort.
Unable to breathe, I lashed out in desperation, my nails digging into the flesh of his cheek. Thick, dark red blood ran down his face, yet he didn’t flinch. My head was beginning to swell, the world around me spinning. He squeezed tighter the more I thrashed, his eyes wide with a possessed glee.
He wasn’t planning on letting go.
Somewhere in the distance, there was a faint sound of glass shattering. Moments later Mason appeared lunging at Borelli from the side. He was holding a broken wine glass by its base when he plunged its jagged-edged stem into Borelli’s throat. Blood leaked down his neck, the jugular vein missed. Despite the wound having the ability to immobilize most men, Borelli proved his defiance once more. He slapped a hand over his neck like he had merely been stung by a wasp.