His voice keeps going long after the blows blur into one long streak of pain—words carving deeper than the belt ever could.
“You’re mine to break. Mine to fix. Mine to beat.”
The last thing I remember is the taste of blood—and the certainty that if I make a sound, if I breathe wrong, if I exist too loudly… he’ll finish what he started.
Thesmell of whiskey clings to me even now. The ache in my ribs, phantom but sharp, makes me double over in the care home chair. My chest heaves, too fast, like the air itself is choking me.
I press my palms harder against my face until I see white sparks behind my eyelids. My body curls forward the same way it did then, a grown man collapsing into the shape of a terrified boy.
My breath comes shallow, ragged. Panic swallows me whole.
He’s out. He’s free. If he finds me— If he finds my mom—No. Fuck him. We’re not scared of him, not anymore.My stomach lurches. I slam my fists into my knees just to feel something real, something present. But the past bleeds anyway. I stumble to the window, gripping the sill. My reflection wavers in the glass, pale. I buried him under ink. Under scars. Under songs I screamed until my throat bled. But he’s not buried. He’s walking. Breathing. Watching. I keep my hood low, shoulders hunched, fighting the crack in my chest as I make my way outside. Stoneface is waiting by the car, leaning against the door, scanning the perimeter out of habit. He looks up when he sees my face, but doesn’t say a word. Just opens the door. I need to tell the guys and Mac… if he’s out looking for a handout, booze money, or hush money. No. Fuck him. Fuck that guy. Fuck everything about that toxic piece of shit. And fuck me for feeling anything at all—even fear. Fuck him.
Chapter six
Seraphina
Control – Halsey
The church swells with people, and the atmosphere wraps around me like a shroud, heavy and unyielding.
I keep my head low as father moves up the steps to the pulpit, his black robes sweeping across the floor like swathes of shadow. Sun filters through the stained glass, fractured beams of red and blue spilling across his face until he looks half angel, half deformed. Maybe it’s his true self.
The congregation waits, obedient and eager, hands folded neatly in their laps, Bibles balanced on their knees. Children shift restlessly, their mothers tugging them back into stillness. The air hums with reverence, fear, the sharp-edged silence of people too afraid to breathe too loud.
I don’t dare look up.
I know the rules.
Keep still. Keep silent. Keep obedient.
Father begins the sermon in his usual commanding tone, his voice filling the rafters, though I feel no comfort in the wordage.
“Rebellion,” he says, pausing long enough for every eye to fix on him, “is the rot that eats at the heart of righteousness. It begins small, like a weed. Left unchecked, it strangles everything holy. But obedience—obedience is the cure. It is the sword and the shield, may the wayward lamb’s return to the flock.”
The congregation hums their approval. Pages of Bibles rustle like wings.
I mouth the lines I’ve been forced to recite since childhood. That’s all they are to me now—lines, rehearsed like a play I never agreed to perform. I know them backwards and forwards, every pause, every inflection, yet the meaning I give them has nothing to do with my father’s sermons. He thinks they bind me. But when I whisper them now, it’s with scorn curling in my chest—a quiet rebellion no one can take from me. The words taste like ash on my tongue, but sometimes, in the hollow between syllables, their true meaning sparks—small, defiant joy.
Then, his tone shifts. Brightens.
“Today,” he announces, voice booming, “is a day of blessing. Today I present my daughter, Seraphina Carmichael, promised in holy union to Gideon Cross. Their wedding will be this Friday.”
The church erupts. Applause like thunder rolling through the pews. A few women press hands to their chests, smiling as though love itself has bloomed before them. The men nod, satisfied, some even chuckle as if congratulating father on a successful business deal.
My heart slams so hard I’m sure they can hear it.
Not one pair of eyes turns to me. Not one smile is for me.
I am invisible. I am the offering on thealtar.
Father raises his hands, commanding silence once more. His eyes never seek mine.
“Blessed is the man who tames the wild woman into obedience,” he intones.
The words fall heavy, harder than any hand ever could.
Blessed. Tamed. Obedient.
