Page 2 of Drowned By the Dreadnought

I scream as he pushes my face into the water again. Bubbles run up my cheeks and I thrash as he holds me under. He pulls me up before I inhale any water, but my lungs ache and terror thrums through my heart. I move my hands to the rim of the bucket and push back, but his grip keeps me poised an inch above the water. My hair sticks to my face as I stare at my murky reflection and struggle to catch my breath.

His knuckles close over mine on the lip of the bucket and he twists his hand in my hair.

“Fuck this. You’re not worth it. I should’ve done this a long time ago,” he snarls before shoving me down and holding me underwater.

I fight. My right hand slips off the bucket and it tilts and knocks into the side of my head. I flail and kick, only to scream out the last of my air as my father jabs his knee into my thigh. Cold burns deep in my lungs as I suck down water.

My knee hits the cabinet so hard the wood cracks. I grab the handle and use the last of my strength to yank it free and thrust it toward my father’s torso.

Warm wetness gushes over my hand. I jab again.

He releases me. I push off the sink and fall to the ground. Pain radiates up my tailbone, but I cough and sputter and scoot backward as my father’s curses fill the room. With the drawer handle clenched in my fist, my knuckles scrape across the floor, but I refuse to lose my only form of protection. The stench of blood curdles my stomach.

“What the fuck did you do?” he snarls.

I look up. He holds his side. Crimson gushes out from between his fingers. He steps toward me. I dig my heels into the pitted floor and push away, but he stumbles closer and grabs my ankle in a bruising grip. I swing.

The jagged wood and long, rusty nails sticking out the back end of the handle sink into his forearm. Bile rises in my throat as my weapon punctures his flesh, but I yank my arm back and swing again as he lunges closer.

The wet squish as the nails sink into his throat will forever haunt me, but adrenaline and fear buffer me from reality, so I pull back and swing again with a wild scream. He gurgles and chokes on his own blood as I bury the nails and jagged wood into his temple.

I tug on the handle, but it doesn’t budge, so I scurry backward out of his reach.

His eyes bulge as he clutches his throat. Red gushes over his hand to join the blood flowing from his forearm.

With belated realization, he grabs the handle sticking out of his head and yanks it free.

The life fades from his eyes as he falls to the side. I struggle to my feet and rush to the door on wobbly legs.

Nothing matters more than getting out of here. I killed my father. He’s dead, but terror grips me as I imagine him rising and coming after me.

With sticky, uncoordinated fingers, I fight with the locks until the door finally gives way, but when I dash out, I trip over a bucket of water and spill the precious contents all over me.

The beta woman delivered our weekly supply and left despite the sounds of violence coming from under the door.

Loneliness grips me. I’m all alone. I have been for years.

Realizing I won’t have access to water for a while, I grab the bucket and drink the last dregs before tossing the plastic away and using the puddle on the floor to rinse the blood from my hands and legs. There’s no hope for my stained slippers or shorts, but my drenched long-sleeve shirt seems relatively crimson-free.

I should go back inside and steal my father’s coat from the back of the couch, but I can’t force my feet to move toward the door. I stumble down the hall with my neck craned over my shoulder, unable to look away from my father’s legs through the open doorways, until I skid around the corner and rush down the stairs toward the main deck.

One of my father’s guard stands at the bottom. As he turns at the sound of my footsteps, I grab the railing and jump over. The lower staircase rushes up to meet me. I land on my feet only to crumple in pain at the impact.

His angry shout reinvigorates my flight response. I push myself down the stairs and finally find my feet again at the landing. When I push off the railing, the beta male’s yell comes from much too close.

I lunge through the doorway. Sunlight blinds me. I push through a crowd of women and dart toward the stairs to the lower levels. Other guards join the first in shouting. The ruckus grows behind me, but I set my sights on the darkened doorway and push myself faster. My legs burn and lungs ache as I run faster and farther than I ever have before.

Despite not knowing what’s on the other side, I dart through the doorway without slowing and slam into a wall of muscle.

I squeak as I bounce off an alpha at least twice the size of my father and land on the floor with a painful thump. Agony radiates throughout my entire body as I look up to meet the eyes of the male who didn’t move an inch despite me running full force into him.

Recognition spears through me. I stare in disbelief. My heart leaps with joy.

Shock widens his eyes, revealing the dark brown orbs I dream of every night, no matter how much I tell myself to forget him. A jagged scar runs down the side of his head, all the way from above his temple to the edge of his jaw. Without a trace of youth left in his handsome face, my childhood sweetheart stares down at me.

My stomach plummets as his disbelief morphs to hatred. His brows tighten and cold fury emanates from his eyes. The sour stench of alpha aggression fills my nostrils.

He looks at me the same way my father did. With hatred and disgust.

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