Page 3 of Nikolai

Reaching over, my father presses a button, lowering the window between us and the front of the car. Victor peers into the rearview mirror. "Sir?"

"Arrange a meeting between Alek Belinsky and me."

"Yes, sir."

2

Leah

The first strike of my father's leather belt across my back seeps into my skin, setting my senses on fire, catching me off guard, and I scream. It's my fault for falling asleep instead of lying in wait. Had I been awake, I could've at least prepared myself for the punishment. Being away at school has weakened me, and I have become careless. I have forgotten how important it is to stay alert. I should have known when I came home this afternoon this was going to happen. Dad came back from work, acting his normal self, but mom was more nervous than usual. My mom always knows when dad is about to dole out one of his punishments. She never warns me, because that would warrant her the same beating, but she has certain ticks about her that I've cataloged over the years. Ticks that remind me of what's to come. Only today, I slipped and didn't pay close enough attention—a grave error on my part.

"Ahh!" I scream again as the belt strikes the back of my head. My scalp burns when the strap tangles with a large chunk of my hair, ripping strands from my scalp. "Stop! Dad, please!" I scramble out of my bed, landing on the bedroom floor with a thud. My move only allows me two seconds of reprieve before my dad is standing over me, face red and chest heaving in anger. I get a moment's glimpse at his snarling face before I cover my head with my arms, shielding my face from the next blow.

"You thought you could go away to college and start acting like a little tramp! Move in with a whore and that boy from school! You thought you could get away with going to bars and dressing like a slut! You stepped out into public and allowed men to see you dressed like that!" my father yells, delivering blow after blow, the leather hitting every inch of my body. I hear my mother's sobs from the hallway, but she doesn't intervene.

Part of me hates her for being so weak; for not protecting me. But the last time she tried, she ended up in the hospital.

"Were you stupid enough to think I wouldn't have eyes on you?" Thwack, thwack, thwack.

"I'm sorry," I scream between lashes, every inch of my body feeling my father's wrath.

"You're not sorry. But you will be by the time I'm through with you."

Soon, each strike of my father's belt mixed with my screams, his heaving breathing, and my mother's sobs begin to echo off the walls of the bedroom. The same bedroom I grew up. If these walls could talk, I know the nightmares they would tell.

I don't know how long the punishment lasts. My father won't stop until he's exhausted himself, this much I know. That's usually not for a while. The only thing I can do is pray that the next blow will be the one to knock me out. At seven years old, I stopped praying for God to make my dad stop hitting me and started praying for the strike that would take away the pain.

A second later, my prayer is answered when the metal buckle lands across my head, and I'm swept into darkness.

* * *

My eyes flutteropen sometime later to an empty room—a peak of sunlight filters in through the curtains of the window above my head. The immediate pain that washes over my body is crippling. I bite my lip and suck in a sharp breath as I bring myself up to my hands and knees.

I mentally start checking off any symptoms that would warrant a trip to the ER. No nausea or dizziness, that's usually my main concern. Once I make it to a sitting position, I brace my arms on the edge of the bed and hiss when my ribs pinch in protest. I don't think they are broken, but they are sore and most likely bruised. Slowly, I make my way over to the floor-length mirror next to the dresser. Lifting the hem of my t-shirt, I take in the size thirteen boot print my father left behind, proving my suspicion right. Lifting my eyes to my face, I take in my split lip and the significant swelling around my left eye. I touch a finger to my injured flesh along my cheek. My chin wobbles, and I hold back a sob as I stare at my reflection.

My father said he had someone watching me while I've been away at school. I should have known. I knew going to Crossroads with Alba and Sam was a mistake. My father has his ways of finding out everything. My dad, James Winters, is Post Creeks's Chief of Police. He has several resources at his disposal. One of them is being able to keep tabs on me, even if I am nearly four hours away in Bozeman. If it wasn't one of his rookie lackeys doing his bidding for him, then it was the pastor's son. Last I heard Pastor Lawson's son, Aaron, has joined the academy. Aaron is probably my father's number one butt kisser these days. James Winters has everyone in this town fooled. On the outside, he's an upstanding citizen—the respected Chief and all-around wholesome family man who is front row at church every Sunday. Dad grew up in this town alongside Pastor Lawson. You can say the two are good friends. My father preaches the word of God in our house and holds my mother and me to a certain standard. Although, I don't think God would agree with him beating them into us.

He's not a man of God—he is the devil in disguise.

Hearingmy mom bustling around the kitchen, I head to the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom to clean up. My father will be expecting me at the table for breakfast this morning. That's one of his many rules; meals are eaten together as a family. Family. What a joke. Biting back tears that threaten to spill as the pain wrecks my body, I wash my face and change my bloody t-shirt. I stand rooted in place and take several cleansings breaths to prepare myself mentally and physically for the day ahead before I make my way down the hall and into the kitchen. When I walk into the kitchen, dad is sitting at the table with a coffee mug sitting in front of him. He's dressed in his uniform and ready for the day. He doesn't bother looking up from his phone when I pull out a chair and sit down across from him. My mother abandons her post at the stove, shuffles over to me and kisses the top of my head. "Morning, Leah." Then goes back to scrambling eggs, not even batting an eye at my injuries—something else I'm used to.

"Morning, mom," I murmur.

A minute later, she sets a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast down in front of my dad, followed by setting the same in front of me. But before her hand leaves the edge of the dish, dad stops her. "No. Leah gets oatmeal. Not only has her behavior spiraled while she's been away, but so has her weight."

Shame washes over me, and my cheeks heat. I've struggled with my weight most of my life. One day I had the body of a little girl, and the next, I was wearing a bra to accommodate my large breasts. Also, my hips spill over the sides of the chair when I sit, and I have a bit of a chubby tummy. It didn't take long for my father's side, handed comments over the years to affect how I looked at myself. The bullies in high school didn't help either. My father insisted my peers taunting me would serve as motivation to lose the weight. It didn't. If anything, it made me hate my appearance even more. Being short and chubby, paired with frizzy hair and glasses, made me a target. The same kids that tormented me in school were the same kids who sat next to me at church on Sundays. Life has a way of showing us how sick and twisted it can be for someone like me. No matter how bad things were at school, they were never as bad as my existence at home. It's pretty messed up when you prefer to spend your days with the kids who bully you, rather than go home and face your father.

Finally, looking up from my lap, I push my glasses up my nose and meet my father's eyes. "You'll never find a husband to take you on if you continue to let yourself go. No man wants a fat wife, Leah."

He should know. My father still controls every bite of food that goes into my mother's mouth. I bite my bottom lip as the humiliation of his words washes over me.

Mom sets a bowl of plain oatmeal down in front of me. I sit for several seconds. My eyes once again cast down. The words my dad speak next has my head snapping in his direction and all the air leaving my body.

"I want you to head back to Bozeman today, pack up your belongings, and be back home by the time I get off shift tomorrow. You're done with school. It was a mistake to send you. You have proven too unruly for me to allow you to continue your education away from home."

My protest is on the tip of my tongue, but my father holding my stare reminds me better of it. In this house, his word is the law. There is no negotiating, and there is no arguing. It was a miracle my father let me go to college at all. A woman's job is to stay home and take care of her husband and kids. Not go out into the workforce to support their family alongside her husband. Nope, that would make her an equal. Being equal to any woman is not something my father can fathom. His reasoning for allowing me to go to school is he doesn't believe I will find a man to marry me. He says I need to make myself useful so I can take care of myself. James Winters' beliefs are outdated, and he is misogynistic. Thank God he and my mom never had a son to pass his warped way of thinking down to.

"Do I make myself clear, Leah?" he snaps when I don't answer right away.

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