Chapter 18

18

No. No. No .

This was wrong.

All wrong.

I didn't need to look over at Valentine to know.

The disheveled man stumbling out the front door holding a blood-soaked towel around his right hand said enough.

Explained enough.

"Fuck!"

His roar echoed throughout the Rover.

"Fucking hell."

The man pitched to the side but caught his balance before he fell.

Valentine got out of the Rover.

I disobeyed his previous order and got out to follow him.

I knew he'd be pissed but there was no way I was letting him deal with this alone.

I'd known it was going to be bad after he'd ignored the first two calls from his dad but picked up the third, and when he did everything about him changed. The change wasn't good, it was hideous.

We'd been on our way to lunch. It was three days after my hospital visit and I needed real food. That first night he'd stayed over at my house. The next two nights I'd stayed at his. Going to sleep without Valentine but waking up with him next to me. He'd fed me toast, grilled cheeses, pasta, and plain chicken.

I'd wanted real food.

That was the only reason I was here with him running this errand to his father's house.

He'd told me it wouldn't take but a few minutes and for me to wait in the Rover.

Thinking he didn't want his father meeting me had stung.

Now I understood.

Something was very, very wrong.

"Car, Sophie," he clipped.

His father stumbled, missed the first step down, and lurched forward. Valentine got to him before he could take a header. I quickly maneuvered around the men, opened the storm door, and held it open for Valentine.

The first thing that hit me was the putrid smell wafting out of the house.

I waited until Valentine cleared the threshold, found the doohickey that held the pneumatic mechanism open, and slid it into place.

Then I watched in abject horror as Valentine looked around the living room. His face the picture of disgust and agony.

I swallowed down the sob threatening to break free.

"You coulda answer…two…ago," Valentine's father drunkenly slurred. "Called…yous fault."

Oh my God .

"Sit, Pop," Valentine demanded.

The man swayed and dropped his ass into a recliner.

"Let me see."

Valentine didn't give his father a chance to lift his blood-soaked hand before he reached down and grabbed it.

Not wanting to see what kind of injury would cause that kind of bleeding, I glanced around the living room. Old ratty furniture that needed to be thrown away ten years ago filled the living room. An old box TV sat on a stand. The walls were decorated in pictures. A huge family portrait hung on the wall above the couch.

No. No. No .

Valentine. His sister. His mom. His dad.

All of them together.

A family.

It was one of those professional studio pictures. The men in jeans and white button-ups. The girls in jeans and pretty white blouses. Valentine's mother was behind him. He was sitting on a stool, feet up on the rung, her arm around his shoulder, his arm bent at the elbow, his hand holding hers mid-chest. Vienna stood next to him, her father's arm around her, holding her hand in an identical pose as mother and son. Valentine was probably sitting because he was already taller than his mother.

It would've been beautiful, if it hadn't been hanging in a room that smelled like throw-up and rotting food. It would've been a lovely memorial to a beautiful family if I didn't suspect the man who lived in that house stared at that picture while he drank himself sick.

No. No. No .

"Jesus. Don't move."

Valentine stalked out of the room with none of his normal predatory grace. It looked like his legs were wooden, his steps heavy, his strides purposeful—if that purpose was to escape the trappings of the living room.

I moved to the window. After fiddling with the lock I finally got it to open. The windowsill was green and full of years' worth of grime, laying testament to the idea that the last time the window had been opened was probably the last time Mrs. Malone had opened it.

Gross .

"Don't bother, Sophie, we're not staying."

I turned to see him with a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide in one hand and small first aid kit in the other.

"Fuck," he clipped. "I need paper towels. Don't move."

"I'll get them," I said and rushed into the kitchen.

Then I wished I hadn't .

Honest to God, there was nothing to clean the mess. It wasn't the dishes or the broken bottle of liquor that was on the floor, glass shards everywhere, which might explain the cut on Mr. Malone's hand. It wasn't even the trash and years' worth of debris on the counters. It was the filth. The mold. The stench that was so bad I gagged.

"Told you to wait in the fucking Rover," Valentine growled as he stomped by me.

"Valentine—"

"Not now, Sophie."

I clamped my mouth shut.

He nabbed a roll of paper towels from somewhere. I didn't dare tell him they were probably contaminated with a flesh-eating virus along with the rest of the kitchen, which should've been condemned as a health risk.

Valentine paused next to me. His mood was palpable, I could feel it choking me. His frightening, menacing, ominous energy slammed into me like a thousand needles puncturing my skin, plunging venom into my blood.

Venom I knew lived in him.

This was his father.

His reality.

I was an intruder.

He never meant for me to see this.

And suddenly I was pissed. Irrationally, insanely angry. If I hadn't been with him when his father's call of distress had come he never, ever, would've given this to me .

"Take a good fucking look around, Sophie. This is me. This is where I come from. You still wanna tell me I'm worth it, baby? You wanna tell me you don't deserve better than this fucking filth?"

"This isn't you," I chanced.

"This is where I grew up. This is my house."

I was right. He was going to keep this big, huge gaping wound hidden.

"This is your father's house. I spent the last two nights at your house."

He jerked back, his lips curled.

"Go out to the Rover and wait for me."

Oh no.

Hell no .

"No. Go clean up your dad. I'll wait."

"Sophie," he growled. "Now's not the fucking?—"

I broke.

There was no other excuse. In that moment I understood the old adage about seeing red. I saw it—oh boy, did I see red. The room was hued, his face close to mine hazed, and I lost my ever-loving fucking mind.

"Shut. Up. Stop talking, Valentine. This is not your house. This is not you. So shut your fucking mouth and go help your father. I'd offer to clean up while you're doing that but short of calling in a demo team nothing's gonna put a dent in this mess. I'll need to come back after a trip to Costco and you find me gloves to withstand the acid I'll need to use to kill the germs. I'm not going outside. I'm not going to the Rover. I'll leave when you do."

"Soph—"

"We walk out of here together, Valentine. End. Of."

I didn't wait for him to argue. This time I was the one stomping. Unfortunately, I didn't do it as good as he did and I didn't have far to go. I stood next to the window sucking in as much fresh air as I could and waited for Valentine to do whatever he was going to do. A quick glance at Mr. Malone told me I'd been right. His gaze was fixed on the family portrait above the couch. The man had no idea I was in the house. He was either too intoxicated or in such a deep state of depression he was in a trance.

Probably both.

Valentine made quick work cleaning up his father's hand. He took the bloody towel and the rest of his kit back into the kitchen.

I stood there staring at Valentine's father.

I'll make it worth it.

Mr. Malone was the reason Valentine didn't feel worthy. It wasn't a woman. It wasn't anyone at work or his friends.

It was this man staring at a picture of his dead wife and daughter and ignoring the son who was alive.

I'll make it worth it.

Valentine came back into the room and his gaze locked with mine.

Shame .

That was all I could see in his beautiful, stormy eyes.

That was unacceptable.

Deplorable even.

"Are you ready or do we need to do something else before we leave?"

He blinked.

Big, strong, brave Valentine blinked—like he was unsure what to do or what he was supposed to do with me. It was a safe assumption this wasn't the first time he'd seen his father in this state. I'd bet it wasn't only frequent, it was most of the time.

It wasn't nice, but I loathed Mr. Malone.

He did this.

To my Valentine.

His son.

I understood grief. I understood there was no timeframe on when the sorrow of losing someone or the people you love lets you out of the death grip of anguish. What I did know was, a father never, ever should make his son feel unworthy.

And I didn't give the first fuck I was being insensitive and judgmental.

"Honey?" I prompted.

"Close the window."

I did as he said but not before taking in a huge lungful of outside air before I did.

Without saying goodbye to his father or wasting any time, he made his way to me, tagged my hand, and pulled me out of that hellhole of torture .

Valentine took care of the front door. I waited by the Rover and waited until he rounded the hood. But before he opened his door I announced, "If you think for one second you're taking me home and dropping me at my apartment you're mistaken."

"Soph—"

"I'm going to your house, Valentine."

He clenched his jaw so hard I hoped he didn't crack a tooth.

The lock bleeped.

" Fuck ."

An hour ago his frustrated growl would've made me back off. I would've been worried I'd pushed too hard or too fast for him to talk about things that were buried under layers of pain.

Now?

I was scared. I knew if I didn't tear this open right now while I had my shot, he'd sew it back shut and lock me out.

Then I'd lose him forever.

I'll make it worth it.