He roared, eyes blazing red.
The thugs exchanged looks—was the job done? Would they get the rest of the payment?
"Out!"
Lucas was an enraged lion.
The extras scattered.
The living room was trashed.
I lay on the floor, blood at the corner of my mouth, eyelids swollen like walnuts.
Lucas crouched beside me, hands trembling, reaching out to help me up but not daring to touch.
With effort, I pried one eye open and shakily grabbed the hem of his shirt.
"Son… are you okay?"
"Did that scare you? When you were little… you were always terrified of thugs…"
Total fabrication—his mom was dead anyway, and dead men tell no tales.
Lucas's throat bobbed hard.
Looking at my wrecked state, that cold heart of his—frozen solid for forty-seven years—finally cracked.
"Shut up."
His voice was hoarse, eyes reddening. "Someone call an ambulance."
Internally, I flashed a victory sign.
This beating? Worth every bruise.
At the hospital. VIP ward.
I was wrapped up like a mummy.
Lucas sat by the bed, peeling an apple.
He peeled with intense focus; the skin came off in one long, unbroken spiral.
Over the past few days, I'd gone full "loving father" mode.
Every waking moment, I fed him "stories from before."