I was content with that.
But living in the silver haze of amnesia, with no past or present, came with its own burdens and trials. It meant I couldn’t find my true self, but it also granted unusual freedom. Freedom because I couldn’t find my true self. I had the latitude to be stronger, braver—all because I had no notion of who I’d been or what I was risking by choosing certain paths.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that indulgent laxity … that power.
It’d granted me silent strength to chase Arthur even when he seemed unchasable. And it’d helped me find the truth that I’d been missing all these years.
But now, pinned to a table with men gawking at my half-naked form, I wished I could disappear into the void where my mind had vacationed for so long.
I wished I could delete whatever was about to happen.
I struggled against the fingers around my wrists, unable to look up at the men holding me down. My cheek squashed against the table; my toes ached as I dug into the tiled floor, trying to stop myself from sliding and becoming completely helpless.
Rubix stood behind me. The heat of his thighs against my T-shirt and the roughness of his fingers sent my heart spiraling.
Please, don’t let this happen.
Rubix was many things, but a rapist? Would he stoop that low?
The unequivocal answer reverberated through my head.
Yes.
Especially if such a thing would hurt the one person he hated above all. Arthur would never be able to forgive himself if I was violated so terribly.
It will kill him.
My heart shattered into kaleidoscopic pieces at the thought of destroying Arthur in such a way. Me? I could brave it. I could heal. But him? He’d never be able to look at me again without suffering such awful guilt.
“Why do you hate your son so much?” I whispered, fearing his answer.
Rubix chuckled. “You never guessed?”
Never guessed? “No.” How would I ever guess something so wrong?
“He was supposed to be like me. Instead, he was like her.”
“What?” My forehead furrowed. “Like her … your wife?”
“Yes,” he snarled. “So fucking soft. She was always so meek—riddled with indecision and then later with disease. Arthur was supposed to make me proud—but all he did was make me a laughing stock.”
“All because he preferred to use his brain over his fists? Because he chose to go to school instead of smoking crack with the rest of the lowlife prospects?”
Rubix tucked my hair behind my ears. “No, pretty Buttercup, because he chose your family over his own.”
My stomach ruptured. “He didn’t choose us over you. You gave him no choice. Arthur wanted to be good rather than follow morals he didn’t believe in. That doesn’t make him soft. That makes him strong.”
Stronger than you’ll ever be.
He bared his teeth. “He was mine. His blood was mine. His destiny was mine. But then you and your fucking kinder-than-thou family stole him from me.”
“We didn’t steal him. We loved him. Just like you should’ve—”
Rubix fisted my hair. “How could I ever love someone who could settle for second best? How could I tolerate my own flesh and blood thinking he was fucking better than me because he wanted diplomacy over violence?” His face turned puce with rage. “Our world is governed with fists not democracy. Arthur refused to follow my orders. He was a fucking * and no son of mine.”
Had Rubix ever loved his son? Was that all it took for so-called love to turn into bitter resentment?
Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps Rubix hurt because he felt Arthur abandoned his family. Perhaps they could reconcile and whatever awful misunderstanding could end. Even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t possible. Too much time had passed. Too much hate had gathered.
“Don’t do this, Scott,” I implored, keeping my voice low, controlled.
You’re wishing for a miracle.
Standing tall, he grabbed my hips. The stiffness of his erection dug into my ass. “Do what?”
The bikers snickered as Rubix rubbed disgustingly against me.
“Hurt me to hurt him.”
He laughed, running his fingertips up my rib cage. “Now where would the fun be if I didn’t?”
I squeezed my eyes as Cobra muttered, “You heard the prez, you’re ours now. Ours to do whatever the fuck we want with.”
My breasts ached from being pressed so hard against the table. The awful metallic taste from being drugged never left my tongue. I wanted nothing more than to slip away from this part of my life and pretend it never existed.
I hated myself for being weak. I hated that my strength to escape dwindled by the second. But helplessness didn’t stop me from searching inside my compartmentalized brain, begging for the gift of amnesia to sweep me away and save me.
If I couldn’t run physically, perhaps I could run mentally.
Like I did all those years ago.
Hadn’t I endured enough at the hands of this man?