Page 9 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Into the arms of who, I don’t know.

CHAPTER 2

WILLOW

BROKEN - ISAK DANIELSON

Grabbing the small, black duffel bag we boarded the aeroplane with, I take an unsteady breath and check our passports for the fifth time. Still there. Still safe.

This final flight back to England is fraying my almost non-existent nerves. The hustle and bustle of the tight space has anxiety tightening my chest, which is already constricted by the wrap of bandages around my ribs.

My first aid is rudimentary at best, but I have no other options right now. I can’t afford to go to a hospital and run the risk of Mr Sanchez tracking us down. We’ve come too far.

Burying the pain at the back of my mind, I focus instead on the look of wonderment on Arianna’s sweetheart-shaped face. I’ve dreamed about this day for so many years.

“Mummy! Look, I can see land.”

Pointing frantically out of the window, she watches the approaching greenery as we begin to descend. I buckle both of our belts in preparation.

“Hold on tight, baby. Nearly there.”

“The sea is so pretty,” she coos, her nose pressed up against the glass window. “I want to go swimming in it. What would happen if I jumped out now?”

“That’s not a good plan, Ari. But when we get to our new home, I’ll teach you how to swim. We can go whenever you want.”

“Really? Daddy won’t be mad?”

“Daddy isn’t in charge anymore,” I murmur, tucking blonde hair behind her ear. “We can do whatever we want. No more rules, no more hiding.”

Arianna frowns with childlike confusion. “Isn’t Daddy coming to meet us? What about Pedro? He said he was right behind us.”

Dragging in an agonised breath, I crush the dark memories that her questions bring. Blood. Bullets. Shouting. Terror. It’s almost too much to hold in. I can’t breathe.

When Arianna repeats her questions, I press her head to my chest in an attempt to silence the conversation. I don’t want to remember. It’s taken everything to get this far.

The ultimate sacrifice.

I’ve had enough worried looks in the past few days of hurried travel to last a lifetime. An airport security guard even asked me if I needed help and didn’t buy my excuses when I declined.

I’ve been severely beaten and forced to flee across the continent with a young child with nothing but a single bag and a sizable stack of cash between us. It’s not a good look.

“Mummy?” she repeats.

“Daddy has some business, and Pedro has to help him,” I answer in a whisper. “It’s just us, Ari. Like we talked about. We’re going to be on our own from now on.”

She offers me a gut-wrenching smile. “Daddy doesn’t let me eat ice cream or go swimming, and he makes you cry. Can we stay on our own forever? Just me and you?”

I link our pinkie fingers, squeezing tight. “Just me and you.”

“Okay. Does your face hurt?”

I try to muster a smile and fail. “I’m fine, Ari.”

She reaches out, stroking her little fingers over the deep-purple bruises that are swelling my face to almost twice its usual size. Even that tiny touch pains me.

I have two black eyes, a broken nose that I’ve clumsily strapped into place and a fat lip split right down the middle. I must look like Frankenstein’s monster on a bad day.

Mr Sanchez spent every night of the past month beating me, spiralling further and further out of control. His rage has grown to disproportionate levels of unholiness.

---