I paint on the canvas in angry, sharp strokes. Color fills the surface, shades of black and purple and red bleeding into one another like a fresh, blooming bruise. I remember Dove then. June's little friend, whom I haven't heard a peep from, whom June hasn't mentioned once since I've been staying here. I imagine her, confined to her room, living with the shame of what she let me do to her. It makes my cock impossibly fucking hard, and inspiration pours from my fingers, painting the canvas in thick splashes of color.
It must be hours later when I finally step back to admire my work. It's a portrait. I didn't even realize I was drawing her until I took a step back. Dove looks beautiful. Hair is falling over her face, but the scar is still there, visible, exposed. She looks vulnerable. Pretty.
For once, I'm pleased with my work, and I clean my paintbrushes and palette in satisfied silence before joining June again downstairs.
She startles when she sees me—probably the haircut again. I don't know what possessed me to get my hair cut like Kade's. I don't want to look like him, but it does make it extra fucking easy to sneak up on June, scare her. And that makes my cock fucking throb.
I sit next to June on the white leather sofa, and she settles into the crook of my arm. I inhale her strawberry scent, wondering whether she knows the effect she has on the opposite sex. It's not just my twin and me. Every man June meets wants her, and I can fucking tell, because every time they look at her, the urge to hurt them awakens deep within me, demanding I hurt the offender. But I've been so good. Apart from the pretty memento I carved into her friend's cheek, I've done nothing to rouse June's suspicion to what I really am—a fucking monster, just like Dad used to say.
As my little sis settles against me and starts drifting off, I stare at the TV screen. But my mind is anywhere but on the show playing out for us. I'm thinking about my brother. I'm relishing in the fact that I finally won over him.
Sibling rivalry is a mean fucking thing. It rots the brain. And I let it. But it doesn't matter now because I got what I fucking wanted. June's on my fucking arm these days, not Kade's.
And soon enough, she will trust me even more... and I'll be able to hurt her so much harder.
2.5 years ago
"I'm glad to see you're finally improving." My father smiles, patting me on the back. I stare at him, not saying a word. It's been a long time since I've stopped fighting this. A long fucking time since I stopped believing he'd end this someday. It's been years, and there's no end in sight. Dad is determined to punish me for something I haven't done yet.
I'll forever regret the day he walked into June's bedroom and caught me with her panties. I should've been more careful, but I learned my fucking lesson. I'll never let anyone else see the darkness that's running through my veins. My father taught me a valuable thing, and I'm going to remember it for the rest of my life.
"Still," Dad goes on. "I think we could beat some more sense into you. Don't you?"
I glare at him as he picks up his old, trusty belt. He's been hitting me with that thing for fucking years. The leather's wearing off, cracking in some places. I'll forever associate the sight of the belt with my father. Hurting me. Showing me who's fucking boss. But not today. Today's going to be fucking different.
Even though Dad's bigger than me, I'm taller and stronger. I make up for the lack of weight in slyness and knowing I'm going to win this time. He won't even see me coming. Dad is so fucking convinced I'll never fight back. But I'll be damned if I'll let my old man beat me at twenty-two fucking years old. And as I sit on that chair in the attic, where the beatings have been taking place lately, I bide my time. I wait until his watchful eyes aren’t turned to me.
I've undone the rope behind my back in secret and gotten my hands free. The moment he looks away, I stand. This time, I'm the one who grabs the belt, and my father shrinks away from me in fear before snarling in my face, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Standing up to you," I hiss. "You're never going to hit me again."
"Give me that belt, kid," he mutters, trying to snatch the thing from my hands. But he's getting fucking old, losing his touch, and I'll be damned if I let him win this time around. "Did you fucking hear me, Parker? Give. Me. That. Belt."