"I've realized that..." he started, then took a shaky breath. "Earlier today, when Stanley pulled you aside... seeing you two so close and secretive, I hated it." The words tumbled out in a rush. "I don't like how others make you smile..." He traile...
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°•°Vanessa's POV°•°
The sharp crack of gunshots ripped through the late afternoon air. I froze in the kitchen, my hands clenching the plastic of the garbage bag I was holding. It was coming from the backyard. Henry and his friends. Their laughter, a cruel, jagged sound, followed the gunfire.
I tried to ignore it. Just finish the chores. Just get through the day. I hefted the bag and pushed the screen door open, stepping into the hazy summer light.
The scene in the backyard was a tableau of casual cruelty. Henry, Belch, and Victor were lined up, taking turns shooting bottles off a rotting log. The air smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and cheap beer.
"Vanessa! Get over here!" Henry's voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding.
My blood ran cold. It was never a good thing when he called for me. Slowly, forcing my legs to move, I walked toward them, dropping the trash bag by the cans. I kept my face a neutral mask, a skill honed by years of practice. Show no fear. Fear was fuel for him.
"Go stand there!" he ordered, jerking the barrel of his pistol toward the log.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The log was their target. Bottles shattered around it with every shot. I swallowed hard, a dry, painful click in my throat. I walked to the log and turned to face him, the setting sun glaring in my eyes.
Henry raised the gun, squinting one eye as he took aim. Not at the bottles. At me.
The world narrowed to the dark, circular void at the end of the barrel. I could see the faint smoke still curling from it. I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact, the searing pain, the end. A silent prayer echoed in the hollow of my mind.
Not like this. Please, not like this.
"What the hell's going on here?"
My uncle's voice, a low growl from the back porch, was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. My eyes snapped open. Henry slowly lowered the gun, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he schooled them into casual indifference.
"Just cleaning your gun like you asked," Henry said, turning to face his father.
My uncle, Butch Bowers, stood with his arms crossed, his massive frame blocking the porch light. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned the scene: the gun in Henry's hand, the shattered glass, me standing pale and shaking by the target log.
"You're cleaning my gun, huh?" Uncle Butch asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. He didn't sound angry. He sounded... amused. That was often worse.
"Dad, I-"
"Hey!" The single word cracked through the yard like a whip. Even Victor and Belch flinched. My uncle jerked his head toward the house. "Inside. Now."
