Glancing into the rearview mirror, I see Luke’s eyes staring back at me. The creases at the corners formed from years of smiles, the scruff on my cheeks that reminds me so much of him.
Of what I owe to him. To his name.
To the legacy of the Greene family.
And I always swore to him that I’d be the perfect son, no matter what.
Thirty
Richter
I grunt and shift as the earth continues to move beneath me, but this is different.
It’s not the smooth sensation of tires over gravel, or even the slow travelling over the crunching snow to make it back to Bryden’s home. It’s almost as if I’m weightless right now… but still moving somehow.
I guess I was a hell of a lot more tired than I thought because I passed out almost as soon as I got into the passenger’s side of my truck for the ride back. The last thing I remember was Bryden telling me to rest easy, that we’d be home soon, then the feeling of the truck slowly pulling out into traffic.
And almost as quickly as the new sensation begins, it’s gone. There are a few low murmurs coupled with the stillness and feeling of comfort as my body rests on something, but I pay it no mind.
I turn over on my side, curl up into a ball, and surrender myself to the serenity of sleep again.
“Fuck,” I grumble as the pounding ache in my head jolts me awake. I reach up and rub my eyes with the back of my hand, letting out a tired yawn.
Being awake all night is obviously not something I was built for, but manual labor has never been a big part of my life.
Dad would do most of the heavy lifting until he got sick, then I figured out a way to do things without becoming physically exhausted. Granted, I’ve broken a sweat here and there, mostly to impress Skylar and show her what kind of man she has, though I’ve always stopped before feeling like I overexerted myself.
Someone should tell Bryden that not everyone is built to fucking chop trees down, I think irritably as I smack my lips together.
I let out a sigh as I open my eyes, then smile when I see the back of the couch. My couch, not Bryden’s. It’s nice to be in a home where I have control and there aren’t any weird rules about fucking everything that moves.
I sit up and rub my eyes again, then scratch the back of my head before I get to my feet. Of course, the entire thing could have just been a goddamn nightmare. I’d been having a lot of those since Dad died, though I never told Skylar.
I don’t ever want her to see me as weak, but I’ve been thinking about Dad a lot lately, trying to figure out where my faults in being a man lie. I know I have them, so many that it’s to the point where the woman that’s meant to be my wife doesn’t even enjoy my company in our bedroom.
I shake my head.
‘She’ll learn to love you, boy. If she doesn’t, you just do what I told you.’
Dad’s words always flood back to me when I need them most, but even more so when I don’t realize that I do.
“Skylar!” I call out in a groggy tone.
I know she’s here because that’s one of the very few things I never had to worry about. I threatened her once with the oubliette and she never tried to go outside again without my permission. I hated doing that to her, but it made me afraid that she’d leave me and find someone else—and the only person she belongs with is me.
And Cleo, I think glumly as I get to my feet. I sway a little as I look down at my hands and see just how bruised they are.
What the fuck?
I bite my lower lip nervously for a moment, trying to remember when I’ve had a nightmare so goddamn vivid that it came with names and wrecked hands.
So… if it did happen, then how the hell did I get home?
I glance around the living room and raise an eyebrow when I see a set of cribs. Maybe I’m still in Bryden’s home after all, but did he have a couch like Dad’s?
I can’t remember.
“Okay, it’s okay,” I tell myself quietly as I close my eyes tightly for a moment, then open them again.
No.
This is definitely my home. I know it because Dad’s favorite recliner is sitting in the corner where he liked it to be. Even after he died, I never could find it in myself to move it. Dreams of a little boy lost, hoping for his Daddy to come home one day and make everything right again, have plagued me for as long as I can remember.
And they still do.
I know Dad’s dead because I was there when he took his last breath, but some days, I wish he were still here. He would know what to do with Skylar, how to get Cleo back, and how to handle Bryden.
Though I don’t believe Dad would’ve even flinched at seeing Cleo all grown up with a swollen belly. Unless it was his seed, he’d give even less of a fuck about her.
He would see her as a traitor, as someone who spread her legs for the first man that came along and that would have been a betrayal.
“Skylar!” I call out again, this time in a stronger voice.
Thoughts of Cleo’s swollen belly explains the cribs. Maybe Skylar’s finally ready to start a family. These look old enough to have belonged to us, so maybe while I was asleep she brought them out to let me know that it’s time for us to continue Dad’s bloodline.
But where the hell is she?
I’m irritable by the time I walk out of the living room and into the foyer. I pull open the front door
