Cycled by Elise Faber

Author:Elise Faber [Faber, Elise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elise Faber

Chapter Eighteen

Kaydon

He stared at the woman, who gave him a glimpse of what Scar would look like in forty years.

Still beautiful—the delicate cheekbones and tipped up nose and freckles gorgeous, even marred with a few wrinkles.

What made her ugly, though, was her expression.

One Scar would never wear. He was certain of that down to the marrow of his bones.

Now this woman—who could be a fucking supermodel—stared down over that delicate, tipped-up nose of hers at him in disdain and shot arrows at him with her eyes.

“You need to leave,” she ordered. “This is between our daughter and ourselves”—she waved a hand at the lump on the couch, and Kaydon might have felt a little bad for the fucker if not for the fact that he’d just heard the asshole trying to sweet-talk his way into getting Scar to sell her house. The house that because of these people she hadn’t been able to finish, she was so crippled by whatever fucked-up thoughts they’d surgically implanted into her mind. And no, he didn’t know that for sure (aside from the fact that it was certainly less surgical implanting and more emotional abuse) since she hadn’t shared everything that had gone down in her life up to that point—only that she had been seen as a disappointment and a disaster and felt like she never measured up. But he’d seen enough, watched her fight through those emotions and the darkness weighing her down enough to understand that these people were the cause of it.

The evidence was right in front of him.

It was in the way they’d spoken to her, the fuckery of tag-teaming like they knew that if they could just berate and push and cajole and break her down enough that she would give in.

She would blame herself and do something she didn’t want to do.

Because they’d made her see herself that way.

Because they were the worst sort of people.

But then—and he was so fucking proud of her for this—he’d been about to step in, to demand they back the fuck up and get the fuck out of her house when Scar had lifted her chin. She’d straightened her shoulders. She’d balled her fingers of one hand in the hem of her shirt and used her others to push up her glasses.

And she’d ordered them out of her house.

Calmly. But definitely an order, all the necessary strength imbued into her tone.

He’d gotten to step in then. To play the hero—at least a little bit. Because she’d been the hero first. Because she’d laid the groundwork, taken that first step, leaped off the cliff.

He just got to be her parachute.

He pulled out his phone, hit a number he had on speed dial.

“What are you doing?” Scar’s mom sputtered—and hell, he hadn’t even gotten her name and he was kicking her out of Scar’s house.

There was some sort of poetic justice in that.

“I’m calling the police,” he told her.

“Hello?” came the voice in his ear.

“What?” Scar’s dad asked, straightening and finally tearing his attention off his phone screen.

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