Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

“What about your needs?”

Her mother looked at her blankly, and Byrony sighed. Was there nothing she could do?

Several evenings later Madison DeWitt didn’t appear for dinner. Byrony was delighted, but Alice was distraught. She kept raising her head at each sound, and wringing her hands.

Maybe he got drunk and his horse threw him in a ditch. Byrony tried to dredge up some guilt for the image, but failed.

He had gotten drunk, but he was far from dead. Byrony heard him the next morning in the front of the house. She heard her mother’s soft, pleading voice. Quickly she buttoned up the fastenings on her gown and rushed downstairs. She stood a moment, frozen.

“You miserable bitch.” Madison DeWitt was yelling at his cowering wife.

“There’s some breakfast for you, Madison. Come inside and rest for a while and eat. You’ll feel better.”

“How the hell is your miserable cooking going to make me feel better? Dammit, woman, I lost all my money in a crooked game.”

Byrony closed her eyes a moment. He wasn’t suffering from a hangover, he was still drunk.

“Please, Madison, come into the house and lie down for a while.” Byrony saw him raise his hand and heav

e it with all his strength across her mother’s shoulder. She staggered from the force of the blow.

“Lie down? With you? Jesus, it’s all that little slut’s fault. If she weren’t here, you wouldn’t back-mouth me.”

“I’m not, Madison, truly. Please—”

He struck her again, this time with his fist.

“Leave her alone, you godawful bastard.”

Too late, Byrony realized she was facing him down without a weapon to protect herself and the baby. She whirled about and ran back into the house.

“That’s right, slut,” he yelled after her. “Run. I’ll catch you and show you.”

But Byrony was back before he could come after her. She was holding her riding crop.

“Get away from her,” she said in a voice of deadly calm. “If you touch her again, I’ll kill you.”

His eyes narrowed in drunken fury. “You won’t do a damned thing.” Very slowly he pulled back his arm to strike her mother again.

Byrony saw red. She rushed toward him, the riding crop raised.

“You touch me, girl, and I’ll see that you don’t birth more than a clot of blood.”

The riding crop came down against his neck and chest.

“You filthy scum.” She struck again with all her strength across his belly. He fell back screaming. She struck again, laying open his cheek. He was yelling, rolling in the dirt, clutching his face.

“Byrony, please don’t hurt him.”

She turned blankly at her mother’s words. She was holding her arm, tears flowing down her face, and still she wanted to protect him.

And I want to kill him.

The stark, clear thought brought her up short. If she struck him again, she’d be as bad as he was. If she struck him again, her mother would hate her, blame her forever. It was all too ridiculous, and too sad. She flung the riding crop away from her.

“I hope you die, but I won’t kill you,” she said.

“I’m going to beat the hell out of you,” Madison DeWitt staggered to his feet.