Chapter 2

His eyes widened, scanning from my face to my blood-stained hands tightly gripping the dagger. That memory remained etched in my mind—the sensation of being seized, yelled at, the bruising grip on my shoulder shaking me like a rag doll. They restrained me with handcuffs, and it was then that my mind processed the grim reality before me.

My mother, my beloved mother, lay lifeless on the ground, bathed in crimson. Her eyes, once vibrant, now glazed over in death. Overwhelmed, I spiraled into hysteria, necessitating sedation upon my apprehension. If not for the alpha's intervention, I would have faced a swift execution.

At that moment, I hadn't comprehended that death might have been a merciful release from the inferno of torment I endured. The alpha had vowed retribution for my mother's death, a promise he faithfully upheld. Each day unfolded as a recurring nightmare, falsely accused of a crime I did not commit. While I knew in my core that I was innocent, the elusive truth of the real perpetrator eluded me.

The torment extended beyond the confines of my chamber of suffering; under direct orders, I faced cruelty and abuse even at school. There existed no respite, no escape, as the entire Lemuel Pack reveled in obeying the dictates of alpha Thor Terry—my father. This was the bleak reality of my existence.

Surveying my medium-length greasy blonde hair, I noted the vibrant array of bruises—pinks, blues, and purples—marring the side of my face. A scar marred the center of my eyebrow, a stark reminder of past brutalities. The bump on my narrow nose bore witness to a prior injury.

This, I silently lamented, was a life no one should endure. At 18, I had weathered five years of unrelenting torture, enduring daily violence for over months, the purpose of which remained shrouded in mystery.

Panicked by the realization of lost time lost in my own thoughts, I hastened my preparations for school. A delay would only invite harsher repercussions that evening. Retrieving my school uniform from its place, I hesitated, unsure of its cleanliness. Yet, the state of my attire mattered little; ridicule and mockery awaited me regardless.

The white button-down shirt bore stains at the wrist and collar, straining across my developing form. The navy-blue skirt, oversized at the waist, was a reluctant gift from my father, replacing its predecessor deemed too short by school standards.

Secured with a makeshift shoestring belt, the skirt reached my knees, paired with worn knee socks. Slip-on Mary Janes, salvaged from the school's lost and found, shielded my bare-soled feet. My schoolbooks rested on a dilapidated wooden rocking chair, its spindles missing, the wood marred by splinters and scratches.

This chair, alongside my mattress, stood as the sole furnishings in the basement—a stark reflection of my reality.

I tiptoed up the stairs, my steps light and cautious to avoid the creaking boards. A silent prayer escaped my lips, hoping my father remained in slumber, dreading the looming threat of another savage beating that could potentially prove fatal. A fleeting question crossed my mind—would death offer respite?

Placing my ear against the door, I strained to catch any sound. My father, a wolf shifter known for his noisy presence, had never been discreet in his actions. Finding silence, I cautiously turned the knob, allowing the oak door to reveal a glimpse into the familiar kitchen.

The kitchen, a remnant of its former beauty from my mother's time, boasted marble counters and stainless-steel appliances devoid of any smudges. Despite the pristine appearance, the haunting image of my mother on the kitchen floor lingered in my mind. With a tight closure of my eyes, I pushed the memory to the depths of my consciousness, exhaling in relief as I confirmed my father's absence and crossed the threshold with quiet steps.

The stark contrast between my family's living conditions and my own in the dungeon below brought a wave of melancholy to my eyes. Once a sanctuary of love and warmth, the house now concealed the horrors within its facade. The sudden brightness of the light caused a sharp sting in my eyes, requiring a moment to adjust to the newfound radiance.

After gently shutting the door behind me, I silently signaled to my younger brother, seated at the table, mouthing the question, "Is he still asleep?"

His widened eyes and the spilled cereal and milk from his spoon prompted a tense pause before I repeated my inquiry in a slightly louder whisper. His nod of confirmation eased the tension, allowing me to take a deep breath.

Moving with care through the kitchen, a sharp jab of pain made me wince, prompting me to grab a banana and pour a glass of orange juice for a simple yet essential breakfast. Despite its modesty, the tranquility it offered was more valuable than mere sustenance in that moment, especially with my brother's gaze fixed upon me.

Leonard, aged 12, the same as I was when my mother met her tragic end, possessed light brown hair that curled slightly when grown too long and captivating eyes of two different hues. One eye gleamed emerald green with hints of blue, while the other bore the color of honey with dark brown at its core. His gaze seemed to delve into one's thoughts, evoking a sense of profound understanding.

While I bore a resemblance to my mother, the striking likeness between Leonard and our father was uncanny, with their eyes being the most noticeable disparity. Leonard's eyes radiated serenity and purity, free from the ferocity and madness that haunted our father's gaze. Fear often clouded his eyes, eliciting my sympathy as I fervently hoped that my father would never subject him to the same torment he had inflicted upon me.

Her eyes softened as I ran a hand over his soft brown curls, eliciting a smile from him. His gaze then shifted to the rough bandage on my shoulder, noticing for the first time the bruises that marred my face.

Carefully settling into a seat, Leonard worried his bottom lip, then quietly slipped out of his chair. He made his way to the freezer and retrieved an ice pack, handing it to me before taking a seat next to me.

"Are you okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah," I replied.

"You don't look okay. I think you need to go to the hospital," Leonard expressed his concern, his gaze falling on the bloody bandage peeking from under my white shirt.

"No, I'm fine. It'll heal, and you know it'll be much worse for me next time if I went, not that they'd help me, anyway. No one will," I reassured him.

"But Aadita--"

"I'm fine, Leonard," I reassured him, placing my hand on his arm. "Really."

Worry gnawed at me for my brother. Despite our father's favoritism towards him, I harbored a deep-seated fear that one day he would turn his abuse on Leonard. I often shielded him from our father's wrath, sacrificing myself to divert his anger away from my brother. While our father had treated Leonard well overall, there were moments when I bore the brunt of his uncontrolled fury, leaving visible marks from safeguarding my brother against our father's unpredictable outbursts.

A sudden thud interrupted our conversation, causing both of us to freeze in apprehension. I held my breath, prepared to bolt regardless of the pain it would bring me. Tears welled up in Leonard's eyes, quickly blinked away. I knew my brother feared him.

To be fair, everyone was afraid of him. Leonard, mindful for a 12-year-old, navigated cautiously to avoid provoking our father's anger. His demeanor, once reserved and respectful, now seemed on edge, teetering on the brink of erupting into unbridled rage.

"I'm sorry," Leonard said.

"For what?" I inquired.