Zane's Redemption
Page 89
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“Aren’t you coming?”
Portia stood at the door, her gaze suddenly dropping to the wallet in his hands.
“Oh thanks …” She paused. “Those are my parents.”
Slowly, like the killer he was, he lifted his head and perused her. Even now that he looked at her closer, he could see no resemblance between her and her father.
“What’s wrong?” Worry laced her voice.
“Is this your biological father?” he pressed out, pointing at the picture and holding onto the last straw, hoping against all odds that she wasn’t his daughter after all.
“Of course, why?”
A wave of pain crashed onto him, turning into rage. And as he’d taught himself in the years of waiting for his revenge, he stilled his body and let all emotion drain from it. All that was left now was eternal coldness. He felt the chill of it physically, and it was all that would protect his heart now, a wall of ice.
Before him stood the chance to hurt Müller in the most cruel way possible, to take his daughter from him, to make her suffer. His claws emerged, and his fangs lengthened as he tried to hold the beast in check.
A flicker of fear crossed Portia’s features, and instinctively she took a step back. “What’s wrong? Is somebody out there?”
He shook his head slowly and deliberately. “No. We’re alone.”
He was alone with Müller’s daughter. His gaze zeroed in on the rapidly beating pulse at her neck. It wouldn’t take much to rip her throat out. She would struggle, but he was stronger. Müller had made him stronger. It was all Müller’s fault.
“Your father is Franz Müller.”
The gasp that escaped Portia’s lips, lips he’d kissed only moments earlier, was barely audible. Her head went from side to side, silently denying his claim.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
Her eyes darted back to the photo in her wallet.
“It’s him.” Zane didn’t recognize his own voice. It was that of a stranger.
“You must be wrong,” she begged, her eyes filling with moisture, the mouth widening in disbelief. “It can’t be him. No, it can’t be Müller. My father’s name is Robert Lewis.”
But her words did nothing to change the facts. He never forgot a face. And Müller’s face was imprinted on his mind. It had haunted him for over six decades. Now Portia’s face would haunt him equally.
“A name means nothing.” They had all changed their names: Brandt and the others. Just as Zane had laid his own name to rest.
“You are Müller’s daughter.”
Evil by birth.
The killer inside him demanded satisfaction. The evil Müller represented had to be annihilated, destroyed, killed. Zane balled his claws into fists, trying to hold back the rage that threatened to overtake him.
“Zane, please. You scare me.”
He flashed his fangs, and this time it had nothing to do with desire and passion. “You should be scared. Nothing good comes from a man like Müller. His seed only produces evil,” he spat.
Panic settled in her eyes, eyes that now brimmed with tears. “But we love each other. You love me.”
Zane let a bitter laugh escape his throat. “Love? You think I could love the daughter of the man who stole my life? Who killed my sister? You took everything from me?” His voice boomed through the night.
“But—”
“Get out! Get out of my cabin!” How long he could keep the killer in him leashed, he didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be long now until he lunged for her and took the life that her father owed him.
“Get out of my life!”
Like a frightened doe, Portia stared at him, her lips quivering, tears streaming down her face.
“RUN, don’t walk!” His clenched fists came up of their own volition, ready to strike. “Run, before I kill you like I’ll kill your father.”
Zane squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, holding back the urge to hurt her and in turn to hurt Müller. When he opened his eyes, Portia ran past him out the door and into the night. He forced himself not to listen to the sobs that tore from her throat, not to inhale her scent that wafted past him. Not to run after her and hold her back. Not to recant his words and tell her he would never hurt her. Because he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t. Inside him, the killer lurked, waiting for his prey, angry at being deprived of his revenge.
With the last bit of his humanity, he’d battled his inner demon for supremacy, and allowed her to escape, but if she ever crossed his path again, she would be as good as dead. Just as dead as he was now.
Portia stood at the door, her gaze suddenly dropping to the wallet in his hands.
“Oh thanks …” She paused. “Those are my parents.”
Slowly, like the killer he was, he lifted his head and perused her. Even now that he looked at her closer, he could see no resemblance between her and her father.
“What’s wrong?” Worry laced her voice.
“Is this your biological father?” he pressed out, pointing at the picture and holding onto the last straw, hoping against all odds that she wasn’t his daughter after all.
“Of course, why?”
A wave of pain crashed onto him, turning into rage. And as he’d taught himself in the years of waiting for his revenge, he stilled his body and let all emotion drain from it. All that was left now was eternal coldness. He felt the chill of it physically, and it was all that would protect his heart now, a wall of ice.
Before him stood the chance to hurt Müller in the most cruel way possible, to take his daughter from him, to make her suffer. His claws emerged, and his fangs lengthened as he tried to hold the beast in check.
A flicker of fear crossed Portia’s features, and instinctively she took a step back. “What’s wrong? Is somebody out there?”
He shook his head slowly and deliberately. “No. We’re alone.”
He was alone with Müller’s daughter. His gaze zeroed in on the rapidly beating pulse at her neck. It wouldn’t take much to rip her throat out. She would struggle, but he was stronger. Müller had made him stronger. It was all Müller’s fault.
“Your father is Franz Müller.”
The gasp that escaped Portia’s lips, lips he’d kissed only moments earlier, was barely audible. Her head went from side to side, silently denying his claim.
“No,” she whispered. “No.”
Her eyes darted back to the photo in her wallet.
“It’s him.” Zane didn’t recognize his own voice. It was that of a stranger.
“You must be wrong,” she begged, her eyes filling with moisture, the mouth widening in disbelief. “It can’t be him. No, it can’t be Müller. My father’s name is Robert Lewis.”
But her words did nothing to change the facts. He never forgot a face. And Müller’s face was imprinted on his mind. It had haunted him for over six decades. Now Portia’s face would haunt him equally.
“A name means nothing.” They had all changed their names: Brandt and the others. Just as Zane had laid his own name to rest.
“You are Müller’s daughter.”
Evil by birth.
The killer inside him demanded satisfaction. The evil Müller represented had to be annihilated, destroyed, killed. Zane balled his claws into fists, trying to hold back the rage that threatened to overtake him.
“Zane, please. You scare me.”
He flashed his fangs, and this time it had nothing to do with desire and passion. “You should be scared. Nothing good comes from a man like Müller. His seed only produces evil,” he spat.
Panic settled in her eyes, eyes that now brimmed with tears. “But we love each other. You love me.”
Zane let a bitter laugh escape his throat. “Love? You think I could love the daughter of the man who stole my life? Who killed my sister? You took everything from me?” His voice boomed through the night.
“But—”
“Get out! Get out of my cabin!” How long he could keep the killer in him leashed, he didn’t know, but it wouldn’t be long now until he lunged for her and took the life that her father owed him.
“Get out of my life!”
Like a frightened doe, Portia stared at him, her lips quivering, tears streaming down her face.
“RUN, don’t walk!” His clenched fists came up of their own volition, ready to strike. “Run, before I kill you like I’ll kill your father.”
Zane squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, holding back the urge to hurt her and in turn to hurt Müller. When he opened his eyes, Portia ran past him out the door and into the night. He forced himself not to listen to the sobs that tore from her throat, not to inhale her scent that wafted past him. Not to run after her and hold her back. Not to recant his words and tell her he would never hurt her. Because he couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t. Inside him, the killer lurked, waiting for his prey, angry at being deprived of his revenge.
With the last bit of his humanity, he’d battled his inner demon for supremacy, and allowed her to escape, but if she ever crossed his path again, she would be as good as dead. Just as dead as he was now.
