Page 10 of Where Broken Wings Fly

The final straw was when he threatened to kill Arianna, drunk on his own violence and power. I knew then that it was time to make a run for it, planning be damned.

Even more mottled bruises sneak beneath my plain, white blouse and faded-blue jeans, carefully hidden with a well-placed scarf. There isn’t an unmarked part of me.

He trampled me like a bug beneath his shoe, laughing his head off for the entire time. In that soulless moment, I thought I was finally going to die.

I had no choice but to take action and ask Pedro to steal us away under the protective cover of night. It was either that or risk leaving Arianna alone in the world when Mr Sanchez finally managed to kill me.

Arianna presses her lips to my cheek, swiping away tears that I didn’t realise had escaped my eyes. “There. All better now.”

“Thank you, baby.”

“No more crying. We’re going on an adventure!”

“We are. I’m so proud of you, Ari. You’ve been such a brave girl.”

“My fingers don’t hurt anymore,” she boasts proudly.

Staring down at the burned tips of her tiny fingers, I nearly lose my final remaining shred of self-control. Guilt is corroding my insides and making me dizzy with sickness.

“I’m so sorry. Mummy didn’t want to hurt you.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

She’s so matter of fact, despite the fact I seared off her fingerprints in an airport bathroom with a cigarette lighter, my hand clamped over her mouth to silence her screams.

Nobody can know who we really are, or who her father is. It would be a one-way ticket back to the demon’s lair, where we’ll both be punished for running.

Pedro already took his punishment. If it weren’t for him, we would still be trapped there. I’ll never get the chance to thank him. All I have left is the never-ending guilt.

Cuddling each other tight, we don’t let go until the aeroplane touches tarmac, announcing our arrival in England. Arianna claps the moment we’re on the ground.

“He didn’t crash it,” she declares, causing a nearby couple to frown at her sassiness. “We’re here!”

I quickly hush her. “Shhh.”

“No, Mummy.” Her glower is defiant. “I’m excited! We’re home.”

It was a long flight from Mexico, with two changes and a stopover on the way to throw my husband’s men off the scent if they managed to follow us. She’s been cooped up for days.

I release the breath I’ve been holding since we snuck out of the Sanchez Mansion last week, stealing across the sun-baked country with nothing but desperation and the good will of strangers to keep us going.

I didn’t think we’d make it.

Somehow, we’re here. Home.

“Hold on tight to my hand, Ari.”

Inching our way into the aisle, we cling on to each other, sandwiched between the press of impatient bodies. I forget how to breathe, searching the crowd for any familiar faces.

I don’t allow myself the luxury of a single ounce of relief until our feet hit the tarmac and the tickle of cool February sunshine dances across my skin in greeting.

Ignoring the frazzled travellers around us, I crouch down and graze my blistered fingertips across the cold ground, savouring the bite of gravel. While I’ll miss the rugged beauty of Mexico, this country is a welcome sight.

“We did it,” I mutter to myself. “It’s over.”

Part of me never believed I’d live to see this day come. After years of hopeless dreaming, we’re finally home. This is what freedom feels like—this feeling, right here.

“Mummy!” Arianna bellows impatiently. “What are you doing? I’m hungry.”

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