“I don’t care if it scars,” I interrupt, tossing the cloth on the table. “Maybe it’ll put a damper on Dad’s plans for me. If he even has any. Who will want a damaged omega?”
Storm’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists in his lap. “But what about when you decide you want to be part of a pack?”
I smirk. “If a pack doesn’t want me because I have scars, then fuck them.” I’d never let Storm know I have more than the scar on my face. He’d go postal and kill my father, landing himself in prison. That’s something I could never forgive myself for.
A flicker of something dark passes over his face—satisfaction at what he’s doing maybe, or anger. He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
“I have to go out of town for work,” he confesses after a moment. “I have a meeting with some contacts for suppressants for your heat and scent blockers. I’m going to help you escape before you turn eighteen. We’ll both leave and never look back.”
I freeze, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my shirt as I worry my lip, the metallic taste filling my mouth. We’ve hadconversations about running before, about getting out, but this—this is real. A plan.
“He’ll know it’s you helping me,” I say, my voice unsteady.
Storm looks me directly in the eyes, his gaze fierce and unwavering. “I don’t fucking care.” His hands flex, the bruises on his knuckles standing out against his pale skin. “I’d rather fight battle after battle with him than let him ever hurt you again. Besides, he'd have to find us first.”
My eyes burn. I want to believe that we could outrun the nightmare we’ve lived in for so long, but deep down, fear claws at me. Can we really escape? Or would my father just hunt us down?
“I don’t want to leave you here. Not after this.” His voice drops.
“I’ll be okay,” I try to reassure him. “I’ll make sure to stay away from him when he’s drunk. I’ll stay locked in my room when I’m not in school.”
“And when it’s the weekend and school is out, what then?”
“I’ll find a reason to be out of the house. Trust me, Storm. I’ll be okay. I’ve made it this long, a little longer won’t make a difference.”
Storm’s expression darkens. “Promise me.”
I hesitate, then nod. “I promise.”
But we both know promises only mean so much in this house. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, they end up broken.
Storm exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m getting you out of here, River. Once I get what you need, we’re running far from here, where he can’t find us. I’ll make sure you’re safe. Now and always.”
I want to believe him.
But even I know it’s a long shot.
Chapter 3
River
It’s been a week since my father came after me. Since Storm stepped in to save me. I’ve kept my promise to him. School and home. Not that there’s much difference between the two. Both give me nothing but pain, just different people delivering it.
“The scar makes you look better.” Jenna smirks. “All they’ll need to do at the whorehouse is put a bag over your head.” A round of laughter erupts just as the teacher enters the room. School is a fucking joke. Instead of learning math, science, or even English, we’re stuck learning how to keep a home. Have they been to my house? It’s all I fucking do.
A balled up piece of paper lands on my desk. I look around to see who threw it, to find Jenna leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, pencil held between her lips as she gazes at me. Opening the crumpled paper, my eyes land on what’s written inside.
“Why don’t you just kill yourself?” I won’t let her see my response. Crumpling it back up, I drop it on the floor and open my book, ready for class to begin.
I’m the laughingstock at school. The daughter of the town drunk. I’m ridiculed and humiliated for the threadbare clothing I wear, the bruises and scars I bear, and my father’s antics around town when he’s on a bender.
Storm doesn’t know how bad I have it at school. I hide it from him with lies about how great it is and how amazing my friends are. There aren’t any. But if he knew, he’d rush in and try to be my savior, because that’s what he does, and it would only make things worse. My bruises are finally starting to disappear. All traces of my father’s brutality from the last bout of anger are fading from existence except for the cut on my cheek and the gash on my temple. Thin, dark scabs stretch across the wounds, cracking in places where my expressions have pulled at them over the last few days. The bruising around the cuts is in various stages of healing. They shift in color from a deep purple to a sickly yellow-green. It makes me look as though I’ve been carelessly painted with watercolors.
I let out a slow breath, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. It isn’t the first mark I’ve worn on my face, but it is the only one that’s left a lasting effect.
“You’ll never earn the attention of a wealthy pack looking like a disfigured hag.” My father made a point of telling me just two days ago.
It took everything in me to bite my tongue and not say a word. It’s his fault I even have the damn scars. I let out a deep sigh as I continued washing the dishes my father had left in the sink this morning. Even though it’s his mess, if I don’t clean it, then there will be a repeat of last week.
