With a frustrated motion, he pushed Milo’s head into the center of the pillow. The pillow was covered in expensive satin imported from Italy, embroidered with silver thread. It should have been luxurious. Instead, it produced a reaction so violent that Preston froze.
Milo screamed. Not a childish whine or a manipulative whimper. A scream born of something sharp. Something that pierced. Something that burned.
The boy thrashed, trying to lift his face from the pillow. Tears poured down his cheeks in rivers. Their tracks revealed flushed skin already marred by tender red welts. He gasped for breath and struggled, hands clawing at the mattress.
Preston, blinded by his own irritation, interpreted the reaction as rebellion. He convinced himself it was misbehavior. He ignored the child’s terror and locked the door from the outside. He muttered something about disobedience and discipline, then trudged to his own room and collapsed into sleep.
What he did not know was that someone else had been awake. Watching.