Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart, #3)(104)

Dread curled around his being, and he drew in a breath as he inched up the two steps and nudged the door.

Creaking, it slowly swung open to the rambling kitchen. Rays of sunlight streaked in through the bank of windows at the back, almost blinding. Everything was completely still.

Too still.

Sweat lined his brow and dripped down his back, and he quieted his footsteps as he crossed the kitchen, his lungs locked tight when he barely opened the swinging door and peered out into the main room.

Oh God.

He almost buckled at the knees.

Disgust and hate and horror stabbed him in the gut.

Izzy’s mama was on her knees facing away from him. Her wrists tied behind her back. His father leered over her, a knife at her throat, spouting all the bullshit he’d spouted to Mack for all those years.

“You fuckin’ whore, puttin’ your nose in my business where it doesn’t belong. You really think I wasn’t gonna pay you back for puttin’ me in prison? For taking my wife away? Now my son?” He leaned in and growled the words up close to her face.

She trembled, and a low, terrified moan escaped her mouth.

“Debt’s come due, bitch.”

Rage clotted Mack’s blood, and he peered through the crack, desperate as he scanned the room for Izzy, petrified of what he might find at the same time.

Fear clouded his eyes when he didn’t see her, and the shame and horror that he had done this to them rose up so fiercely that he could no longer breathe.

Could no longer see anything but what he had to do.

His mission.

His reason.

His father leaned over Mrs. Lane from behind, blowing more vile threats in her ear.

He had his back turned to Mack.

Mack didn’t hesitate.

He barreled through the door and flew at his piece-of-shit father.

At the destroyer of beauty.

Hate and disgust and violence streaked through his veins, every cell coming to terms with his purpose.

His father whirled around with the movement, the glint of the blade he held in his vile hand sparking in Mack’s view.

He didn’t care.

He bashed his shoulder into his father’s stomach. A shocked grunt scraped from his father’s mouth.

They crashed to the hard floor, the knife clattering on the wood as his father lost hold.

Mack dove into the disorder, his fists flying as he began to shout, “Run, Mrs. Lane. Get Izzy. Get out of the house!”

Whole time he prayed that she could hear it, too. That she was capable of running. Hate ratcheted higher at the thought that she might not be able to. That this perverted, depraved man might have touched her.

Hurt her.

His fists flew faster and harder as he fought to get the upper hand on his father who was fighting back just as hard.

With just as much hate.

Fury rioted between them.

Years of disgust and abhorrence.

Mack could feel it all spilling out.

Insanity taking over, an ugliness coming at him so fiercely that he couldn’t see.

He wanted his father to die.

Wanted to end him himself.

Feet and fists flew, their bodies surging and grappling, grunts coming from their mouths as they struck each other.

Blow after blow.

Kick after kick.

Mack could hear Izzy’s mama trying to get to her feet, the sheer terror that radiated from her soft, pure spirit as she struggled to get away from the demons that had been unleashed.

His father nailed him on the chin. Mack would have seen black if it wasn’t for the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

The intrinsic need to end this.

“I’ll kill you,” Mack growled, throwing his father back and scrambling around to pin him to the ground.

He pressed his forearm to his father’s throat. “I warned you I’d kill you.”

His father spat in his face. “You little prick. You gonna fight for these rats rather than your own blood? You forget who you are?”

An elbow rammed into Mack’s ribs, and he choked over the splitting pain. His father took the opportunity to break loose, tossing Mack onto his back and jumping to his feet, sweeping up the knife from the floor.

Mack flew to standing, ignoring the pain splintering through him.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t taken a beating before.

This time—this time he was doing it for a reason that mattered.

The only thing that mattered.

Roaring, he rushed his father again.

His father lashed out faster than Mack could process, the gleam of that knife flashing before pain ripped across Mack’s side.

A strangled sound gurgled up his throat, and he staggered. He tried to ignore the searing blaze, and he battled to get to him.

But he was weak. Too weak.

He dropped to his knees, gripping his side.

Blood covered his hands.

He didn’t even care that his father was wielding that knife in his face, that he was seconds from passing out, he tried to crawl for him.

His reason.

His reason.

He would sacrifice it all.

“Stop!” That voice trembled from the other side of the room, and Mack’s father wheeled around at the sound of it. Izzy stood just on the outside of her father’s study.

Arms shaking like mad as she aimed a shotgun in his father’s direction. “You move, I’ll shoot,” she warned, though it came out sounding small.