Chapter 62

FREYA

The entire ride, he'd just stared out the window, silent. On our way back, I called Reyna and asked her to take Gia to her place. The day had been hard on Aiden, and I figured he could use a safe space to vent if he wanted to, without worrying about…

On reaching home, he walked past Carlos and headed straight for the bedroom. The old man cast a glance at his retreating back. When he looked back at me, worry filled his eyes. I briefly told him what had happened before going into our bedroom. The door was left ajar.

Aiden was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingers intertwined, gazing into the distance. I walked closer.

“What can I do? Do you need anything?” I didn’t know what else to say. I wanted to ask what he was thinking; so many questions filled my mind. I wanted him to talk, to get it off his chest, but I knew he wasn't ready to share his feelings with me yet. He'd shut me out so many times, and pushing him wouldn't help.

So, when he shook his head in response to my question, I accepted it. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Don’t.”

The word was so quiet, I almost missed it. I froze. I sat down beside him.

“My father… he was abusive.” Aiden’s voice was low, rough, as if each word was an effort. I could feel the tension in the air, his confession filling the room. I barely breathed, afraid any movement might stop him from speaking.

“He had anger issues. It got worse when he was drinking. My mother and I… he hit both of us.”

My heart tightened, a sharp pang of anger mixed with sorrow rising within me. I kept my gaze on him, silently urging him to continue.

“When I was five, Cillian was born. He was a beautiful baby, my baby brother. When I first saw him, I knew I would protect him from everything. I promised myself I wouldn’t let him feel any pain.”

The tenderness in his voice surprised me, an echo of something deeply cherished. His words were raw, revealing a fierce love that had sustained him even as a child. I pictured a small boy shouldering the impossible responsibility of protecting his baby brother from a cruel world. It ached my heart unexpectedly.

“I used to lock the door to his room every time Preston Knight came home drunk.” The blueness in his voice was palpable. He took a shaky breath, hesitating, unsure if he wanted to continue. But he did.

“And then my mother found out he was abusing her. She turned to drinking. She was always drunk and stayed locked in her room. Somehow, that kept her out of my father’s reach. Even after the abuse, she actually loved him… until this point. So this revelation… he didn’t hurt her anymore. Just me.”

“Hurt you,” I repeated softly, more to myself than to him. It wasn’t a question, more a fear of questioning what that word encompassed. As if reading my thoughts, Aiden answered.

“Yeah. Slaps, punches, kicks, cigarette burns—take your pick.” His tone was detached. I felt the air leave me; my stomach felt like lead. “Your mom didn’t try to…” I began, unsure what I was asking. I wanted to believe she’d tried to protect him, that she’d been there for him in some small way.

“No. She couldn’t care less. She was just relieved it wasn’t her anymore. And most of the time, she was too drunk to care.”

He let out a chuckle. “I started cleaning up after her when I was eight, right?”

I could barely comprehend it. Eight years old, forced to care for the one person who should have been caring for him. A part of me raged at his mother; another part felt hollow. Each new detail added to the weight in my chest.

“You know, I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but it did. She started doing drugs. Always high, passed out. Frankly, I didn’t care anymore—not for either of them, just my brother.”

He paused, his jaw clenching.

“So, this one time, Preston was on a business trip. I was down with a fever and stayed in bed all day. My mother had some shady friends over—drug buddies, I guess.” He paused, gathering the will to relive the moment. I put my hand on his. He intertwined our fingers before continuing.

“I came downstairs to get some water. One of the guys spotted me. They dragged me to where they were. I saw my mother and another guy passed out. The rest were high too. They wanted me to entertain them—dance or sing or whatever. I refused.”

Unconsciously, he squeezed my hand. I braced myself for what came next. I had a faint idea, but nothing prepared me to hear the words.

“I was only ten years old. I was confused and angry, and I said no. The next thing I knew, they were beating the hell out of me. Three guys. They kicked and punched, and it was horrifying. I remember being so scared. I was bleeding, and it hurt everywhere, until I passed out.”

My mind reeled, unable to process it all. The pain, the fear he must have felt—unimaginable. The trauma inflicted on a child.

When I woke up, my mother was cradling my face, sitting on the floor. She didn’t call 911 because she was scared she’d be arrested for drug abuse.

Every word stunned me. How could someone be so selfish? How was she still thinking of herself when her child was bleeding and injured because of her?

“When Preston came back the next evening, he brought me to the hospital. Six broken ribs, one fractured arm, and some internal bleeding. He spun some half-baked story about robbers. The cops were probably bribed, because no one ever questioned me.”

A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t imagine how hard it was for him to relive these painful, traumatic memories. I yearned to hold him close. But I wanted him to finish, to share everything he needed to.

“He had her committed to rehab. That incident stopped the physical abuse.”

“Cillian doesn’t know anything about this. He believed the robbers’ story, and he was too young to understand the details. After six months of rehab, she changed. She was good to Cillian. A little distant at times, but a decent mother to him.”

Agony and understandable resentment filled his tone. He’d never known a caring mother, and now, for the sake of protecting his brother, he had to pretend things were better than they were.

“He loves our mother, and I didn’t want to take that away from him. I protected his feelings. He thinks my anger is misplaced because she was a victim too. He thinks it’s my responsibility to care for our mother.” He looked at me, his eyes shining with vulnerability I’d never seen before. He was always so composed. This uncertainty was so unlike him.

“But it’s not. I don’t have to care for her.”

In that moment, he was a little boy again, seeking validation, yearning for someone to tell him he didn’t owe her anything, that his feelings weren’t wrong.

Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He leaned into the hug. “No. No, you don’t.” My words were soft, but firm.

He hugged me back, and something in him shattered. He pulled me onto his lap, his face buried in my neck as he sobbed silently. I held him close, running my fingers through his hair, trying to offer all the love and comfort I could. This strong, beautiful man was breaking down in my arms, and all I could do was hold him and hope it helped.