In the Thorne household, “why” was a declaration of war. My father, Arthur Thorne, a man who built his reputation on “traditional discipline” and “unyielding leadership,” had perceived my exhaustion as insurrection.
“Get up!” Arthur barked, his shadow looming over me like a thundercloud. “Or do you require a second lesson in humility?”
I tried to push myself up. My jaw throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing agony that felt like a heartbeat in the wrong place. I couldn’t fully close my mouth; the alignment was gone.
“I’m… fine,” I managed to croak. Each syllable felt like a serrated blade scraping against my nerves.
“You’ll be fine when you learn to keep your mouth shut,” my father growled, adjusting his cufflinks. “Worthless people don’t get the luxury of a grievance. You are here to serve the bloodline that feeds you.”
Lydia poured her coffee, the steam rising in elegant curls. The smell of the dark roast mingled with the metallic scent of my blood. “Finish the yard before the sun hits its peak,” she commanded, her back still turned. “And for heaven’s sake, clean your face. I won’t have the neighbors thinking we live among savages.”
