Instinctively, I tried to kneel and beg for mercy, but he grabbed me firmly, holding me in place.
“Are you really this afraid of me?” Carter’s voice was laced with disbelief. “Lindsey, how did you become so weak?”
His words cut deep. “Are you pretending? The pampered daughter of the Thomson family, who can’t bear the slightest discomfort, now enduring the stench of garbage bins and even wetting herself?”
“Do you think putting on this pitiful act will make me forgive you?”
“My father’s death, the ten years Amy and I lost, it’s all because of you! How dare you!”
His eyes reddened with rage, and his grip tightened, causing me pain.
Holding back my tears, I clasped my hands together, silently begging him to let me go.
This was something I’d learned while living on the streets.
Whenever I was beaten, if I begged like this, they’d lose interest and leave me alone.
But I forgot—this was Carter in front of me, the person who hated me most in this world.
“What happened to your hand?”
He suddenly grabbed my wrist.
My once slender and delicate right hand was now disfigured, covered in scars left by frostbite. The gash on my palm was still bleeding.
Panicking, I tried to pull my hand back, but his grip was too strong.
Every attempt was futile.
His anger grew, and it felt like he was going to crush my bones.
“Why didn’t you say you were hurt?” he demanded.
I didn’t dare to answer, lowering my head like a guilty prisoner.
Carter had always hated seeing my injuries. In the past, whenever I tried to get his attention by whining about scold me for being melodramatic.
Eventually, I started to believe I was being overdramatic.
I learned to bandage myself and go to the hospital alone. I never troubled him again.
He pulled me into the living room, grabbed the first aid kit, and began to bandage my hand.
my
