“Guide.”
“Direct, then. If that word offends you less.”
I stared at him.
My father had always been strict. Cold, yes. Demanding, certainly. He had never been warm in the ordinary ways fathers were supposed to be warm, but I had built my own translation of his love. His questions meant concern. His criticism meant investment. His pressure meant belief that I could be more.
Tonight, that translation died.
He had not been trying to make me more.
He had been trying to make me his.
Marcus spoke then, voice taut. “The plan was not for the injury to become real.”
I turned toward him slowly.
He raised both hands as if that could soften anything. “It wasn’t. Cade was supposed to stage it. The doctors were supposed to exaggerate. I was supposed to walk away eventually with enough damage on
