Page 8 of Where Broken Wings Fly

She’s such an inquisitive child. I have no idea how this damned place hasn’t scared that curiosity out of her, but on many levels, I’m grateful that it hasn’t broken her too.

I make myself speak calmly. “Daddy isn’t coming. I can’t tell you where we’re going because it’s a surprise. But soon, okay? We’ll go somewhere fun, somewhere nice.”

“Will there be ice cream?”

“Yes, baby. You can have all the ice cream in the world.”

Chewing her lip, Arianna’s striking blue eyes lift to meet mine. It’s like staring back at a living embodiment of the demon that’s controlled the last ten years of my life.

But instead of the revulsion my husband inspires within me, I feel nothing but love for my daughter. She isn’t his. Arianna is my girl, my baby.

I’ll give her the entire world, even if I have to burn it to the ground to make it perfect just for her. She’s seen and suffered through far too much for such a short life.

I want to give her everything I never had. No one loved me or protected me as a child, and I promised myself the day she was born that I’d never allow her to feel the loneliness I did growing up.

“Deal, but I want sprinkles and fudge sauce too,” she declares.

I press my lips to her temple. “Me too. Mint chocolate chip and strawberry ice cream, I think. What flavour do you want?”

“I don’t want that toothpaste ice cream. Yucky!”

“Mint is not yucky.”

“It is too. I want bubble gum.”

“Deal. Go back to sleep, Ari. We’ll have ice cream soon enough.”

It takes a while for her to drop off, but she eventually goes limp in my arms, snoring lightly. I hold her against my chest, stroking every inch of golden-blonde hair falling down her back.

Every part of my body is pounding with agony, and I can still feel the warmth of slick blood running between my thighs. He was brutal tonight, borderline murderous.

This isn’t living, not really. I’ve spent a decade pretending that I could survive here, but I can’t do it anymore. I’d rather die trying to escape than remain here for another second.

It’s taken years of careful planning and stolen whispers, preparing our grand escape. Pedro sourced the British passports that should get us both home, far from this mansion.

We’ll have new names, new lives. A fresh start. One free from this hell. I never had a parent to save me, but Arianna is my everything. I won’t let her die here with me.

Repositioning her sleeping body, I tuck the covers up to her chin and force myself to return to my nearby bedroom to take some painkillers and continue preparing.

Next to my open fireplace, the loose ceramic tile in the wall prises away easily. Inside the secret spot, two fake passports reside, along with a wedge of stolen cash.

Months of stealing and sneaking around have allowed me to collect enough to buy aeroplane tickets for me and Arianna to get across the ocean, to a life I left behind when Mr Sanchez stole me.

Pedro has promised to get us out, no matter what it takes. He’s the only friend I’ve ever had, but his family is here. He can’t come with us. We’ll have to find our own home.

I can’t remember what England even looks like; it’s been so long since I was there as a struggling sixteen-year-old girl. But I have one thing—a breadcrumb trail.

The faded, dog-eared letter has somehow survived the last ten years. It’s the one possession that I’ve taken care to hide from Mr Sanchez and his destructive rage.

Please come home, Willow.

Briar Valley is waiting for you.

Written and delivered a decade earlier and discarded in my youthful arrogance, it tells the tale of a long-lost family that I had no intention of meeting back then.

If I had taken that leap and gone to these relatives when I had the chance, it might have turned the tide on the worst ten years of my life. Instead, I ran straight to the Devil.

Well, no more. I won’t watch Arianna cry herself to sleep in fear for a moment longer than I have to. It’s time to take a stand. It’s time to run.

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