Fall Back Skyward (Fall Back #1)(60)

Ever since that night, I’ve never let my guard down. I’ve never stopped concealing some sort of weapon under my pillow. Cheetahs don’t change their spots. My dad is who he is, rotten to the core. And right now, my hand is itching to slip under the pillow and take hold of the penknife.

But I wait.

The bed shifts with his weight. I can’t breathe. My lungs are burning and spots appear in front of my vision.

Then I feel it. The slight movement of the sheet shifting away on my back, the hard fingers pressing my back. Lower.

Oh God, no.

He continues his journey, murmuring about making it up to “Caroline” and promising to be a good father. I shove my hand under my pillow and grip the penknife. I jump out of bed. My fingers fumble with the blade before flipping around to face him. The scariest man I’ve ever met. The monster who hides in plain sight.

His eyes blink open through their liquor-induced haze, and he blinks rapidly as his vision adjusts. He must realize who I am and recognition floods his face. His eyes widen, then narrow as they move from my face to the knife in my hand.

I’m not a victim. I’m more than my past. I promised myself I’d never be a victim again. Not by my hand or anyone else’s.

“Get out of my room. Right. Now.” I don’t even recognize my own voice. I expected it to quiver, given the terror ripping through me.

He climbs to his feet as fast as he can in his inebriated state. The shock leaves his face and his mouth folds downward in a sneer.

He looks around the room before returning his loathing gaze to me. “Well, if it isn’t the little abomination that calls itself my daughter.” He eyes my arms then looks at me. He wipes his hands on his shirt as if having touched me disgusts him.

A shudder rocks my body and my hand shakes at his words. Tears burn my eyes and I blink them back furiously. He is not worth my tears.

I thrust my chin forward in defiance. “You made me the way I am. I don’t care if you think I’m Satan’s child. Get. Out. Of. My. Room. Or I’ll call the police!”

He looks at me and grins, the look on his face filled with malicious intent. “Call the police? Go ahead, daughter. Call them.”

Shit. He’s the police. But they can’t all be like him. I refuse to believe that they’re all like him.

My hand is shaking so badly I can barely grip the knife properly.

He backs out of the room, his eyes on me the entire time. “So, you and that freak kid next door are still seeing each other.” He narrows his eyes. “You continue to defy me, Eleanor.” He turns and stumbles out the door.

This is bad.

As soon as he leaves, I rush to my door and slam it shut, locking it. I lean on it. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I try to catch my breath to stop the thudding of my heart long enough to listen to his heavy footsteps. I sigh, relieved he’s heading downstairs and not into his room, or worse, my sisters’ rooms. The front door opens and slams shut. I slide down to the floor, draw my knees up and drop my head to my knees.

Jesus. Christ. What the hell?

If he hadn’t left, I’d have hurt him. I was so close to shoving the penknife in his hand and marking a part of his body like I did all those years ago.

The adrenaline is waring off and with it, questions and doubts slam into me. What if he’d decided to use his strength against me? Would I have been able to defend myself? At this point, I know I disgust him with my scars and he blames me for ruining his life. Every time I think I’ve succeed in kicking those doubts out of my head, something happens to bring them back.

My phone beeps on the bed but my feet can’t move from where I am. It beeps a few more times before I crawl across the floor and up on the bed. I swipe the screen and see three messages from Cole flashing on the screen.

I replace the penknife back under the pillow and set the phone down. There’s no way I’m going to answer his texts. I can’t formulate any words right now, and knowing Cole, his heart overrules his mind when he feels like the people he loves are threatened.

I climb to my feet and dash to the bathroom. I feel dirty. I want to scrub the feel of his hand off my body.

After turning the shower to hot, I grab a wash cloth and stagger into the space filled with steam.

By the time I leave the bathroom, wearing my pajamas and a towel around my head, I feel raw and numb. I need to feel something. Anything. I need to stop feeling as if I’m dead. I know what happens when my body craves the rush. I have tried so hard not to relapse, but I’m starting to feel the walls that stand between sanity and insanity, cracking. I need Cole. He makes me feel another kind of rush.

Cole is sitting on my bed, his elbows propped on his knees, when I walk into my room. My steps falter at first. Relief sweeps through me when I see that he is okay. I cross the room and drop to my knees in front of him, wrapping my arms around him. He hugs me back, but the way he is holding me feels different. It’s tighter than usual, as if he doesn’t want to let me go. He pulls back and kisses my forehead, then nuzzles his face in the crook of my neck.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, when he pulls back to stare at me.

I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m tired.” I start rubbing my hair dry with the towel.

“Are you mad at me?”

I frown and shake my head. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Then what’s wrong? Why won’t you look at me?” he says.