That night, my mother hit me until I couldn’t feel my arms, my ribs, my legs — fifty strikes that burned like acid on my skin. Xander didn’t stop her. Nadia didn’t flinch. They just watched. Smirking. Whispering. Mocking.
But as I lay on the floor, curled around my bruises, I promised myself one thing: Just a few more days. Just hold on a little longer.
And then I’d be gone.
I woke up on the cold concrete floor of the storage room, my body curled awkwardly under a scratchy blanket that smelled of mold and stale oil. Every inch of me ached — ribs, hips, the side of my face still raw where my mother’s ring had cut into my cheek.
I shifted, trying to sit up, and bit back a scream when pain shot through my shoulder. That was when the door creaked open and Nadia stepped in.
“Oh, look who’s finally awake,” she cooed, voice dripping with fake sweetness. She turned to Xander standing just behind her. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”
Xander’s eyes flicked over me like I was a stain on his floor. “Just let her rot. She’s nothing to us now.”
Nadia turned back, her smile sharpening like a blade. She shut the door and knelt next to me, pulling a first aid kit from behind her back.