If he’d had a body, he would’ve flinched.
But Daphne didn’t move. She just curled tighter, like she already knew what was coming. She sat on the cold floor, the fabric of her pink pajamas thin and too small, her arms clinging to her knees. One hand searched blindly beside her until it found an old, battered teddy bear, missing one eye, its fur patchy and matted. She pulled it into her lap and stroked its floppy head.
The scream sounded like something clawed its way out of a pit.
Slurred words echoed. Cruel, venomous. Each one cracked through the walls like a whip.
A soft sob followed, barely audible and choked. Almost like her mother was trying not to make sounds at all.
The song kept playing. Again. And again.
Another crash. Glass, Hunter thought, shattering like a waterfall of knives.
Daphne’s head snapped up.
And those eyes.
He knew those eyes. He’d seen fire in them. Defiance and rage. But now there was nothing but raw, animal terror. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, lips parted in silence.
A door slammed.
Then louder yelling. Her father’s. Her mother’s voice rising in panic. Then faltering.
Daphne stood.
Bare feet on the cold floor. Teddy bear crushed to her chest like a shield.
She tiptoed across the room, quietly, so quietly, until it reached the kitchen door. She opened it.
Hunter wanted to scream at her to stop. To stay put. But it was a memory. It would play no matter what he did.
And what she saw next froze the world.
Her mother. On the floor. Twisted limbs scattered like broken branches. Blood leaked from the back of her head, seeping into the tile.
Her father stood over her. Wobbling. Kicking hard her mother’s side. “You better get up, bitch. Fast.”
But her mother didn’t move. Would never move again.
A sound tore from Daphne’s throat, the tiny noise a soul makes when it breaks.
Her father turned, eyes glassy and unfocused. Spit trailed from his mouth. “You’ll keep your mouth shut, you little fuck,” he slurred.
Daphne didn’t move, staring at the shape that had offered the barest scrap of kindness in a house that fed on fear.
“Do you hear me?” he roared.
He stumbled toward her, rage pouring from every step.
Daphne frantically moved away from his reach.
“You make everything so fucking difficult. Just like that bitch.”
She ran, then. Out of the kitchen and into the hall, but she was frantic, and he was hellbent on using her like a punching bag. He caught up with her in the living room, cornered her by the Christmas tree. He towered over her. Blood still on his hands.
Then he grabbed her.
Lifted her like a toy. Shook her like a rag doll.
