Path To Realization (Fighter's Den, #4)

Chapter 11 - Asher

PRESENT

My knee bounces nervously underneath the table as my eyes track the crowd of people walking by. I peer through the window and try to scope out the two people I'm looking for.

"May I take your order?" The waiters asks me as he sets down a jug and a glass of water.

I barely spare him a glance. "No, thanks. I'm waiting for someone."

"I'll come back." I hear him say and grunt my acknowledgment, keeping my eyes outside.

When I realize I'm pulling on my fingers I quickly stop myself and stuff my hands under my thighs. The last thing I need is to be obvious about how fucking freaked out I am. I didn't want to agree to do this to begin with but after Dad's accident, there weren't many options left for me. My birth parents and their crowd are the type of people you can never underestimate or think you can run away from. In their world, if you don't abide by their rules then there's only one possible outcome for you — get killed or have someone close to you killed. I'll be fucking damned if I let either happen.

My hand slithers down to my calf to double-check the knife I've strapped on. That's another rule when it comes to these fucks — never meet them in person without protection. Besides, I don't know if they're going to bring any henchman with them and I'm not taking any chances. Ever since that day I...killed Marshall, I never leave the house without at least a pocket knife. I refuse to ever get caught off guard again.

Tingles spread from the top of my shoulders down to the base of my spine when two familiar figures get closer to the restaurant. I'd recognize those two anywhere, as much as I hate the fact. I wish I could erase them from my mind or better yet from the face of the earth. They ruined me to my very core. They made me a killer.

My jaw sets tightly and I keep my eyes on Nora and Mike as they walk to the booth I'm seated at. The absolute rage I feel is indescribable. All I know is that my entire body trembles with the physical strength it takes to keep myself from leaping across the table and punching their faces in, especially Mike. He smirks as he gets comfortable and I know he knows exactly what I'm thinking. I stare back at him, unwavering, and keep my gaze in place despite loathing what I see. Because I see myself.

Take away the tired dips under his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, the hollowness of his cheeks, and I'd be the spitting image of my birth father. We have the same height and, before his weight reduced dramatically because of drugs, we had the same build. All of my features come from him and there's no denying he'd be decent looking if he didn't insist on fucking up his appearance with his bad habits. The only physical attribute I get from my birth mother are her eyes. We have the same shade of transparent blue, or the colour of glass as Aria likes to describe them.

I stare into those eyes now and detect a hint of regret, maybe even a hint of longing. I wonder what her life would have amounted to if she never met Mike. I also disregard that thought immediately. She's a grown woman who can make her own damn choices and one of them was to knowingly abandon me. So fuck them both.

I look back at Mike and anger claws into my veins until I'm drunk on it. All I can picture is how Dad looked on the hospital bed after the accident, frail and broken and completely unlike his lively and jokester self. My throat tightens painfully with the urge to scream into his face so he can hear my pain but I keep it down. I won't show him that he got to me. I won't be weak. He'd delight in that, the little fuck.

"If you ever try to hurt my parents again," I start in a low and clam voice. I barely recognize myself and the ruthless bite to my tone. "I will personally make it my mission to hunt you down and rip you apart. Something tells me taking a life will be easier the second time around, especially if that life is yours."