The third strike was not merely a blow; it was a release of pent-up years of disappointment, a thunderclap of physical condemnation. The impact sounded like wet leather slapping stone, sending a spray of blood from Theo's split lip across the wall. His legs buckled, but Aurelia was relentless.
She didn't let him fall; she dragged him. Her fingers locked into the collar of his shirt like iron bands, her knuckles white and bloodless as she hauled his stumbling, broken form backward into the confines of his room.
The doorframe scraped against his shoulder with a sickening grinding noise as she shoved him inside. With a final, guttural snarl of disgust, she threw him.
Theo crashed onto the hardwood floor beside his bed with a bone-jarring thud that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the house. He lay there, curled on his side, gasping for air that tasted of copper and bile.
