“Daddy,” I said cautiously.

“You’ve been ignoring my calls, texts, emails.”

“I needed a break. Football has been intense, and school is only getting crazier the closer I get to graduation. And I know you still want me to marry Shelly and didn’t want to argue about it anymore.” His eyes ignited some at that.

“Damn right I want this marriage.” He took a step closer, but at six foot three, I towered above him. “Look, I need you to marry her. I need to keep the business between the two families.”

My father was acting strange. I could sense the desperation in his voice, see it in his stance, the way he was constantly running his hand through his hair. My suspicions were through the roof. Something other than the marriage was clearly bothering him, but hell if I could guess what. My daddy would never tell me if I asked. No way would he ever show weakness in front of me, but I had to try.

“Tell me why are you pushing this so much,” I demanded, seeing the anger in his tight features at my line of questioning. That was one of many things that were forbidden—questioning my father’s instructions. Curling his lip with annoyance, he prodded a finger to my chest.

“Do what you’re told. Carry out the duty we kept you for!” And there it was. The not-so-subtle reminder that I wasn’t ever wanted.

I held my ground. “You know what, old man, screw your arranged marriage. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. Give it up already.”

His rage took hold and the man I’d grown up with showed his ugly head, fake politeness forgotten as he gripped my shirt in his fists. “You insolent shit! Why must you defy me at every turn!” His eyes were skittish and that only confirmed my suspicions. Something bigger had to be behind this. He hadn’t been this physical in years.

I didn’t fight him, but bit back, “Because I don’t want this life for myself. I don’t want to be you!”

Leaning up to my ear, he said in a low voice, “You were never good enough for this family!” and on instinct, he drew back a hand but stopped, clearly trying to restrain himself from his old form of punishment. I could fight back now that I was bigger, stronger, and the old bastard knew it. I was seventeen the last time I’d let him hit me, but he never touched me in public. There was no way he would risk his perfect reputation. But here he was, lashing out in broad daylight, his composed persona unraveling.

“Do it!” I growled, tipping my chin in offering.

“Don’t tempt me, boy!” He threatened, and I only smiled in response. I’d learned that if we got a good hit out of the way, it would buy me a few weeks of quiet. I needed a few weeks of quiet.

Desperately needed it.

I pushed at his chest and shouted, “Do it! Hit me! I know that’s what you want!” His lips tightened as he decided what to do, so I smiled again, really goading him, and that was the moment he snapped. He pulled back his fist and in seconds it collided with my face.

He immediately dropped his hand and, walking backward, assured, “I won’t stop until you are walking down that f**king aisle. It is imperative that you marry Shelly Blair! Imperative!” And with that he jumped back in his Bentley and drove off.

8

The blood from my lip dripped down my chin, but I let it. My cheek throbbed and my jaw ached, but it reminded me why I couldn’t marry Shelly, couldn’t live this life forever, eventually turning to liquor to cope like my momma and being trapped in the suffocating world of society dinners and duties.

I headed straight for the nearest tree and hit the bark until my hands grew numb, my muscles ached, and blood spilled from my knuckles. The heaviness of my breaths exhausted my body and I slumped to the floor, staring unseeingly at the grass before me.

Fuck! I couldn’t keep living in this constant hell, this darkness.

How the hell had everything all gone to shit so quickly? I could feel the weight of it all pressing down on me—my folks, football, school—and I could barely breathe or think. I wanted to curl into a ball right here on the ground, not really caring who would find the great Bullet Prince reduced to a bleeding, hurting mess.

I heard the sound of a dry twig snapping next to me, and when I lifted my head, Molly stood before me, hands shaking, tears in her eyes, whispering, “Romeo, God…”

She looked like a friggin’ angel.

Dropping to her knees beside me, her golden-brown eyes softened in sympathy. She set to cleaning up my cuts, but none of it really registered; my mind was lost in a thick fog.

“Does this hurt?” she stopped to ask, but I could only manage to shake my head.