Abused.
Tortured.
And didn’t do a single fucking thing to stop it.
“When?”
Her arms tighten around me. “A few months ago.”
Fuck.
Seven years?
My heart breaks, and I pull her even closer to me, not caring if I’m squeezing her too tight. But despite it all, sick relief washes through me, knowing she didn’t have anything to do with my parents’ deaths, and I hate myself for feeling it. Not when it meant she was living in Hell instead.