“You sick son of a bitch,” I hissed, taking a step forward, ready to tackle him and strike him down. My father’s expression turned feral and produced a knife out of somewhere, then flicked his knife.
A single cut. I pressed my hand against it, warm liquid staining my fingers. Blood. The color of blood was red. Just as my hate for this man.
“Temper, Y/n,” Father taunted. “Haven’t I taught you that controlling your temper is everything? Teach her a lesson, Dante,” he instructed, his eyes flickering to my side. Another strike on my cheek and I bit down on my tongue so hard, I could taste the metallic flavor of blood.
“You haven’t taught me shit,” I rasped, holding my cheek and blinking my tears away. I’d be damned if I’d cry in front of him. “Unless you want to count ‘what not to be’ as part of your teachings. Rapist. Molester. Child predator.”