work with me." He said, with a fake smile on his face. "Or you will die. The choice is yours, Mr. Regan."
Well, when you put it like that…
My eyes flickered across the room, landing on Maya's terrified face, and I thanked whoever was up in the heavens that her father and his men were too busily occupied with me to turn and see the expression on her face, because even they could have read it like a book. She was terrified – and I was finally prepared to believe that not only was the emotion genuine, but that her fear wasn't for herself – it was for me …
When someone puts a choice to you like that, well, then it's not really a choice at all. Saliva pooled on the floor where my cheek lay flush against the cold concrete. "What," I gasped. "What do you want from me?"
"I'm glad that you're willing to be so reasonable," Mikhail chuckled to himself, apparently pleased by his own joke. I could only close my eyes, my body still recovering from the trauma it had suffered.
"Mr. Regan, you're going to throw a fight."
11
M aya
I had less than half a second to pull myself together after I heard the door crash open.
I hated it, this constant feeling of being uneasy in my own home. Home was the wrong word, anyway, because this wasn’t a home , not in the traditional sense of the word. This was just a house, a house where horrible things happened, and a place I wanted to escape with every fiber of my being.
My father stormed through, his bull face thunderous with anger. "What the fuck was that?" He screamed, as he strode up to me and gripped me by the shoulders.
A maid scurried past in the brief half-second before my father's raging, imposing face blotted out my view of the hallway. She shot me an apologetic, pitying look, but did nothing to intervene.
I didn't blame her. Nobody crossed my father and lived to regret it. Certainly not a cleaning lady on minimum wage. He’d order her killed as easily as other men ordered a coffee.
I winced with pain, but I knew better than to complain. My father abhorred weakness in anyone, especially family, and I was always family when he had cause to punish me. Showing weakness would just make things worse for me.
"I'm sorry, father, I didn't mean –."
He pushed me against the wall, cutting me off, and I fell silent. I knew there was no point in speaking, no point at all. Anything I said would only inflame his temper, and I knew the consequences. When my father fell into one of his black rages, nobody was safe. Not me, not his men, not even my late mother.
And not my son .
That was the crux of it. It wasn't just me I had to look out for, there was something far more important – someone that mattered much more to me than just my own desperate little life.
My son.
Conor's son.
Eamon.
"I don't fucking care what you meant." He screamed, his spit soaking my face. I didn't dare reach up and dry it. I didn't even move, because long years of experience had taught me that doing anything other than standing stock still and bearing the brunt of my father's rage just made me a target for further retribution.
I didn't like doing it, hated it in fact. Being forced to stay passive, to pretend to be someone I’m not went against everything I believed in, but I knew that whatever I did, if it came to a battle with my father – I could never win.
And, of course, there was Eamon. He was nearly four years old now, and after more than three years of complete indifference toward him, when he treated my child like nothing more than an embarrassing secret, my father seemed to be waking up to his presence. And that was what terrified me – what kept me up at night.
He wants an heir…
Each time I thought that my father had stooped to a new low, that he couldn't be more inhumane, more cold-hearted, and more deliberately hurtful, he found a way. And this time, he’d surpassed himself. He’d chosen my son.
When I closed my eyes flashbacks from my childhood flickered behind my eyelids. I
Well, when you put it like that…
My eyes flickered across the room, landing on Maya's terrified face, and I thanked whoever was up in the heavens that her father and his men were too busily occupied with me to turn and see the expression on her face, because even they could have read it like a book. She was terrified – and I was finally prepared to believe that not only was the emotion genuine, but that her fear wasn't for herself – it was for me …
When someone puts a choice to you like that, well, then it's not really a choice at all. Saliva pooled on the floor where my cheek lay flush against the cold concrete. "What," I gasped. "What do you want from me?"
"I'm glad that you're willing to be so reasonable," Mikhail chuckled to himself, apparently pleased by his own joke. I could only close my eyes, my body still recovering from the trauma it had suffered.
"Mr. Regan, you're going to throw a fight."
11
M aya
I had less than half a second to pull myself together after I heard the door crash open.
I hated it, this constant feeling of being uneasy in my own home. Home was the wrong word, anyway, because this wasn’t a home , not in the traditional sense of the word. This was just a house, a house where horrible things happened, and a place I wanted to escape with every fiber of my being.
My father stormed through, his bull face thunderous with anger. "What the fuck was that?" He screamed, as he strode up to me and gripped me by the shoulders.
A maid scurried past in the brief half-second before my father's raging, imposing face blotted out my view of the hallway. She shot me an apologetic, pitying look, but did nothing to intervene.
I didn't blame her. Nobody crossed my father and lived to regret it. Certainly not a cleaning lady on minimum wage. He’d order her killed as easily as other men ordered a coffee.
I winced with pain, but I knew better than to complain. My father abhorred weakness in anyone, especially family, and I was always family when he had cause to punish me. Showing weakness would just make things worse for me.
"I'm sorry, father, I didn't mean –."
He pushed me against the wall, cutting me off, and I fell silent. I knew there was no point in speaking, no point at all. Anything I said would only inflame his temper, and I knew the consequences. When my father fell into one of his black rages, nobody was safe. Not me, not his men, not even my late mother.
And not my son .
That was the crux of it. It wasn't just me I had to look out for, there was something far more important – someone that mattered much more to me than just my own desperate little life.
My son.
Conor's son.
Eamon.
"I don't fucking care what you meant." He screamed, his spit soaking my face. I didn't dare reach up and dry it. I didn't even move, because long years of experience had taught me that doing anything other than standing stock still and bearing the brunt of my father's rage just made me a target for further retribution.
I didn't like doing it, hated it in fact. Being forced to stay passive, to pretend to be someone I’m not went against everything I believed in, but I knew that whatever I did, if it came to a battle with my father – I could never win.
And, of course, there was Eamon. He was nearly four years old now, and after more than three years of complete indifference toward him, when he treated my child like nothing more than an embarrassing secret, my father seemed to be waking up to his presence. And that was what terrified me – what kept me up at night.
He wants an heir…
Each time I thought that my father had stooped to a new low, that he couldn't be more inhumane, more cold-hearted, and more deliberately hurtful, he found a way. And this time, he’d surpassed himself. He’d chosen my son.
When I closed my eyes flashbacks from my childhood flickered behind my eyelids. I
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