Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I own my Little One.
My Little One is all mine.
25
Victor
* * *
After our bath, I settle Luxury in the bed while donning slacks and another button-up.
“We never did quite finish our picnic,” I tell her, backing toward the door.
Luxury arches, arms raised in a yawn. “Protein to restore my energy would be good.”
I nod and close the door. My shoulders square, spine rigid. I start for the North Wing of Somerhaven Hall. I never understood why my parents had their own master suites, almost miles apart in this palace, but this finally has its purpose.
Mum won’t faint after stumbling upon the tosser’s corpse.
With each step down a hall studded in my patriarch history, I realize that Silas has been watching Luxury and me. I’d prepared the picnic basket once I returned from visiting with his very own mum. Although, I had established the routine of showing Luxury around Somerhaven for the past few weeks.
To make matters worse, he knew I wouldn’t ask any staff members to fetch a new wine opener. Father had always said not utilizing the service members available to me was a weakness. After arguing with Burt about his retirement and deducing that dodgy wanka, Silas, had stolen the utensils, I opened the door to see it was raining sheets. I rushed to get a set of keys to retrieve her at once.
Every step I take, my anger percolates in my bloodstream.
The door to my father’s chamber is unlocked. I step inside, fully prepared. Silas is standing in the middle of the room with a cocky smile on his face. A towel enswathes the back of his neck. “Ahhh, I presumed you would visit soon. After all, you’ve made my home your own.”
My hook fractures my father’s nose. He staggers backward, grasping at a stream of crimson. His hands can’t quite mask the sly grin on his face. “Oh, you barmy wanker!”
“Dodgy cunt,” I toss back.
With arms wide, Silas exclaims, “Forgive me for wanting to assess those lips. You know I call our Lux candy lips now. Sissy!”
“I'm a fucking sissy?” I shout. “You’re the pussy who’ll never be king, who fucking has to harass women.”
Silas squares up, shoulders dancing. “Ah, below the belt, really? You are truly my son. I’ve been home as long as you have. To my surprise, I arrived the night that cunt—excuse me—your mother threw her whorish, little gathering. You’ve done well keeping our little Lux away from the North Wing.”
My left cross arches over the crown of Silas’s skull. The nimble arsehole dips low. “I’ve been waiting for you to introduce us. Yet, here you are. I’m giving you a chin-wagging, and you still can’t best me. Who’s the pussy now?” he shouts. A harsh exhale from his nose allows the blood to run free.
“You’re fucking dead!”
“Yes! Father-son bonding. Take charge, Vicky.” He uses Grandmother Sarah’s drunken nickname for me. “I bet every time you killed in the past, you wished it was me.”
“Exactly!” I rush into him. All control lost. All belligerence. Pure emotion.
If I were in the right frame of mind, my father’s goading would be evident. Alas, let’s see if I can overpower and murder my father, who holds the upper hand as far as mind games go. My punches target his liver, fists like a spray of bullets. Silas wedges his forearm between us, pushing through with the opposite leg. A power punch connects with my chin. I charge, shoulder driving into his chest.
Silas stumbles back into the wall, grimacing at the pain. There’s a shriek. Then glass crashes from a sconce against the wall.
“Victor!” a maid yelps, dropping the duster from her hand.
As she reels backward, Silas catches me off guard. His knee jabs upward. I twist at the last moment, shoving the side of his face into the wall.
The sneaky bastard goes for the same move. This time, his knee knocks the air from my lungs. Oh, thank God, not the fucking bollocks.
I ram my father into the dresser.
“Shite!” His back arches in pain, lungs quick to expire. Silas attempts to take a breath. My hands clutch his throat, squeezing his muscular neck. Silas’s face shakes as the arsehole forces his hands over my forearms, attempting to save himself. His bronzed cheeks puff out; spittle comes forth from his mouth. Slowly, I take him to the floor. My hands grip tighter.
Within my mind, death summons, enticing me to shove my father to the brink. Die. DIE. I want him to fucking die.
* * *
When I was thirteen, I realized the more my cousins had children, the more my father hated me. Silas was the sixth child of the Queen. A slew of older siblings fell in the line of succession before him. I, being the eldest son, must have been a snuff to my father. I didn’t even know it was envy until then because I was so used to preparing my stance, my face for a hit. Yet, I started to notice Father’s anger would be even greater, blows much harder, after visits with Grandmother.