Sweet Hatred
Chapter 163: my father’s daughter

Chapter 163: my father’s daughter

Kael’s hold around me tightened. I was still fighting, but the fatigue was starting to take over.

"You should’ve died," I spat, voice trembling. "You should’ve died a long time ago. Not her. Not mom. You."

Kael pulled me closer, turning me away from him, tucking my head into his chest as I finally cracked wide open, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

And even then, I didn’t stop trembling.

Kael didn’t say a word as he carried me out of the church.

The voices behind us were muted by the storm beginning outside, thick dark clouds gathering, the kind that seemed to know how heavy everything was. The kind that blurred the windows and made the world slow down just enough for grief to seep in.

He opened the car door, tucked me inside the backseat, and then joined me, closing us off from the rest of it.

The silence sat heavy between us.

Rain lashed against the windows in steady streams, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat that hadn’t quite slowed down yet. My chest ached like I’d been running for hours. Like I’d been holding my breath since I was thirteen years old.

I stared out the windshield, watching the sky cry for me because I couldn’t at the moment. Not right now. The rage still simmered underneath my skin.

"He only left after I almost killed him," I murmured.

Kael didn’t flinch.

"He used to hit her," I continued, voice soft like a confession. "Every night. Every time she got the courage to talk back. And I’d sit there, just... praying he’d stop. Olivia would cry herself to sleep, clinging to my arm like I could protect her. And I tried. God, I tried."

The memories swirled like smoke, bloody tiles, broken glass, my mother’s lip split open. The way she’d whisper, "Don’t be afraid, Aria. Don’t ever be afraid to survive."

"One day he almost killed her," I whispered. "And I just... I snapped. I hit him with whatever my hands could find, until I couldn’t see his face anymore. I wanted him gone. I wanted him dead."

Kael reached for my hand.

His fingers curled around mine, warm and steady. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. The way his thumb brushed my skin, like I was something sacred and not the storm he’d just seen me become... it was enough.

"Guess we’ve both got monsters for fathers," I said with a bitter laugh that didn’t quite land. "Our mothers deserved better."

He lifted my hand to his lips, pressed a kiss into my knuckles like he was trying to pour something into me—strength, comfort, love, maybe all of it.

"We’re not like them," Kael said quietly.

My chest twisted. "I know."

And I did. Well sort of.

Even if Kael was cruel, cold, hard as steel, he wasn’t his father. And maybe that’s why it hurt more. Because Kael could choose to be different. But part of me was still aching to acknowledge the truth that I’d buried years ago. That same night, I’d come to realize that I was just like him.

That same reckless rage that ran in our blood hot, itching to destroy. To burn everything to the fucking ground until there was nothing left but regret or satisfaction.

I was truly my father’s daughter. And I thought I was finally losing that side of me. . . because now I had Kael who wanted to exhaust the fire in me, for his own pleasure. . . but now I think I may have just been lying to myself.

.....

I didn’t cry as the ceremony continued. Not even when the coffin was lowered, when the priest whispered "from dust you came and to dust you shall return." Not even when Olivia broke down beside me again, crumpling like she’d lost all the bones in her body. I held her. I held Kaleb. I held Sarah’s hand.

But I didn’t cry.

I didn’t feel much of anything. Whispers still floated around. That I had hit my father but no one dared to walk up to me and question me for it.

After, I went back to the apartment with Olivia and the rest of them. It felt like the right thing to do. To stay. To be close. To try and... I don’t know. Exist. Kael didn’t fight me on it. He just stared at me like he wanted to force me to stay but couldn’t. Like he knew whatever held me together was too fragile to pull apart.

He kissed my forehead before I left, soft and slow, like he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see me again. Like maybe I wasn’t coming back.

The days bled together after that.

Kael sent food. Packages. Warm things. Sweet things. Things I couldn’t eat most of the time. Olivia tried to help, but she had Kaleb, and Kaleb had his eight-year-old way of healing the house—his loud jokes, his silly questions, his Lego masterpieces that kept showing up in weird places like under my pillow or on the bathroom sink. Although it felt like she wanted to say something concerning our father, Olivia kept quiet and smiled more. Not always, but enough to count. She was still young. Still alive.

I... wasn’t.

I slept a lot. Because in sleep I didn’t have to remember how it felt watching him walk into that church with his rosary and lies. I didn’t have to hear my mother’s screams. I didn’t have to feel the phantom sting of blood on my hands. I didn’t have to be thirteen again. The part of me I thought I’d washed clean.

But sometimes the dreams came anyway. And then I’d wake up, gasping, fists clenched in the sheets like I was still fighting him off.

I thought about Kael more than I wanted to. His voice, his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the most dangerous and precious thing in the world. I missed him. God, I missed him so much it made me want to scream. But I was scared of how much I’d come to need him. Of how easy it was becoming to fall even deeper. Of how much I’d hurt if he didn’t catch me.

Then one afternoon, my phone buzzed.

Can you come out for a bit?