When I first found out about his tendencies, I took him hunting and enrolled him in highly competitive sports. I taught him how to channel that destructive energy and tame it, but he often spiraled out of control.
He eventually grew bored of repressing his true nature and rebelled. He punched his classmates, picked fights with thugs, and sent a few people to the ER.
I refused to bury his actions or let him use any sort of privileges. The first time the principal called me, I told him to suspend him. The second time, my father covered his tracks.
And that continued for all the times that followed.
My father is the reason Killian never learned his lesson. He kept getting him out of trouble so that the Carson name wasn’t sullied, even when I told him that he was only making him more untouchable.
“What’s wrong with being untouchable?” my father asked without batting an eye. “At least he’ll be powerful.”
My old man only ever cared about that—power. Didn’t matter how it was attained as long as the family name remained in a prestigious position.
Needless to say, I didn’t agree with him, and the fact that Killian stopped calling me and started going to his grandfather started a rift between us.
However, it’s the first time I’ve heard the words, or more accurately, the bomb he dropped just now.
I face him fully. “What did you just say?”
His shoulders have tensed, and the expression on his face is the most savage I’ve seen. He’s losing control.
I feel it.
He must feel it, too.
But he still speaks in that eternally casual tone. “I heard you that night when I was nine and had beat up that tool who was calling Mia names. Mom was depressed, drinking wine late at night in the kitchen, and you came to find her. I was right outside when you told her you should’ve only had Gareth and that I’m defective. And you know what? I heard Mom being angry, I heard her telling you to never say that again if you loved her, but your words are the only thing I remember. Thanks for the beautiful childhood memories, Dad. You hate who I am with everything in you, but you should be thankful. If those words had been directed at your golden boy there, he would’ve developed a trauma. Shouldn’t we all be grateful that I’m not a neurotypical fucking weakling?”
“Oh, Kill.” Reina steps toward him, but he holds up a hand.
“Spare me, Mom. I don’t want to hear you defending him.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” She grabs a hold of his arm. “I’m sorry you had to hear that and think I was afraid of you because of the mice incident. A mother can’t be scared of her own child. The only reason I was horrified back then was because I realized you were like someone from our past. Someone Asher and I loved with all our hearts but ended up stabbing us in the back. It’s why he said those words, too. We knew there was a chance of having a child who inherited that someone’s genes, and it happened with you. Asher said we should only have Gareth, but I’m the one who wanted another child, I’m the one who wanted you with all my heart, Kill. I know what he said was wrong, but he didn’t even mean it. Those were words of anger. Asher loves you as much as he loves Gareth, Kill. But you’re the one who distanced yourself from him.”
And now, I know why.
It wasn’t because my father covered his tracks instead of me or because I thought maybe he disliked me.
Turns out he genuinely dislikes me.
A shot of pain explodes behind my rib cage and spreads all over my chest. I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, so I take some time to regulate my breathing.
Gareth’s gaze flits between me and his brother as if he’s unable to believe what he’s hearing.
“So it’s my fault now?” Killian barks out cruel laughter, then it dies out as abruptly as it started. “Wow, Mom, I feel gaslighted right now and that definitely doesn’t look good on you.”
“Do you not remember how you stopped spending time with your father? You even stopped hugging him in greeting and often left the table first.” She softens her voice.
“That’s because he prefers his golden boy.”
“Not true,” Gareth says. “Whenever we invited you to come along, you refused.”
“Forgive me if I don’t like spending time with a father who never wanted me.”
“Killian,” I call, and he slowly faces me, jaw set.
He thinks we’re going to war again, that this will be another fight and I’ll assert my parental position by suppressing him again.
I place a hand on his shoulder and he tenses, ready for the jab or whatever he thinks I’ll do.
“I’m sorry.”
His eyes widen a little, which is about the only reaction he shows, but before he can think about it further, I continue.
“I didn’t realize my words, as impulsive as they were, would have this effect on you and I apologize for not looking further into the reason you methodically cut off your relationship with me. But if it’s any consolation, it’s not about your person, son. Your behavior reminded me of painful memories and the young bitter me, and I reacted badly to that. It’s not your fault, it’s completely mine. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better father figure to you.”
Reina cries silently and Gareth holds her shoulder, hugging her to his side.
Killian narrows his eyes, but the stiffness has vanished. “You apologized twice.”
“So?”
“You’ve never apologized before. Not to anyone.”
“I did to your mother once, and I’m doing it again to my son. My family members are the only ones I’ll apologize to when an apology is due. And, Kill?”
“Yeah?”
“You and Gareth aren’t different in my eyes, not even a little. I’m only harsher with you because your character is harsher.”
He shrugs. “Gareth can be a pain in the ass, too. You just don’t see it.”
“Hey!” my eldest son protests.
Reina smiles with tears in her eyes and rubs his chest. “I want a family hug.”
And then she pulls us all in a hug, because she can be sentimental like that. All three of us would rather not do this, but if there’s anything we agree on, it’s our care for this woman.
She can make me and our boys burn a whole town for her by just saying the words.
Then she hugs Kill individually, basically strangling him, considering his expression, then whispers something in his ear.
For the first time ever, his features soften and he looks like that six-year-old boy who used to sit on a swing and stare into space like an old man.
“What are you looking at, Kill?” I asked him once.
He sighed with the exasperation of a person who’s seen it all. “How boring everything is. How do I make it less boring, Dad?”
I should’ve known by then that we had a special kid on our hands. Someone who didn’t need the world, or even us.
There’s no doubt in my mind that if he was on his own, he’d live just fine, maybe even be freer than he is right now. He wouldn’t have to worry about hiding his true self or repressing his urges for my and his mother’s sake.
He’d be a true monster and would probably get away with it for a while before he eventually got locked up.