Skye's POV
He didn't even let me turn around.
"You fucking bitch"
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so hard my vision flashed white.
Bang.
My forehead hit the edge of the kitchen counter.
Bang.
Pain shot through me so sharply my knees buckled.
Before I could breathe, his fist slammed into my ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Air exploded out of my lungs. My body curled instinctively, but that only made him angrier. He grabbed my collar and dragged me upright like I weighed nothing.
My head snapped to the side with the next punch.
My ears rang. The world tilted. The taste of metal filled my mouth.
I didn't scream.
I didn't fight.
Fighting only made the beating last longer.
His breath burned against my cheek as he brought his face close.
"Why didn't you just die with that bitch who gave birth to you?"
Another punch to my stomach. I folded over, gasping like a fish pulled from water.
From the doorway, my stepbrothers watched silently, arms crossed, eyes cold. They looked bored, like this was some show they'd already seen too many times.
When he finally dropped me, I collapsed onto the tiles, trembling, my palms stinging as I caught myself.
Footsteps walked away.
A door slammed.
Silence returned.
But something inside me didn't go quiet this time.
My whole body ached, my vision blurred, but under all of that… a single thought burned:
Enough.
Not whispered.
Not begged.
Not hoped.
Declared.
I pushed myself up slowly, every movement heavy. My breath shook. My hands shook. But my resolve didn't.
This house would not break me again.
Tonight, something inside me snapped — not like a fragile thing being crushed, but like a trap being released.
The girl they battered into silence was gone.
And the thing rising in her place…
would make the world tremble.
My body still hurt. My legs shook. But my hand moved on its own.
I reached for the nearest drawer—the one I knew he kept the knives in.
My fingers closed around the handle of a kitchen knife.
Cold. Solid.
Real.
For the first time in my life, I held something that made me feel dangerous.
I didn't think.
I didn't plan.
I just moved.
The hallway felt longer than it ever had before. Every step echoed in my ears. My breath came in sharp, broken pulls. The house was silent, the kind of silence that felt like it was watching me.
His door stood at the end of the hall.
Closed.
Like always.
I stopped in front of it, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might give me away. My hand tightened on the knife, knuckles whitening. The bruises on my ribs throbbed with every breath, each pulse reminding me why I was standing here.
Why I couldn't go back.
Why I couldn't let this continue.
My father had taught me that monsters rule by fear.
Tonight, I would teach him that fear could cut both ways.
I pushed the door open.
The hinges creaked.
He lifted his head from the bed, irritated, not expecting resistance. Not expecting me. Not expecting the girl he used as a punching bag to stand in his doorway with fire in her eyes.
His brows pulled together.
"What the hell do you—?"
I stepped inside.
For the first time, he looked unsure.
Just a flicker.
But I saw it.
And that was all I needed.
The fear was no longer mine.
It belonged to him.
He started to rise from the bed, anger twisting his face.
"What do you think you're—"
I didn't let him finish.
I moved before my mind could catch up.
All the fear, pain, and years of swallowed screams surged through me at once.
I rushed him.
He tried to grab me, but I was faster—faster than I'd ever been in my life. The knife drove forward straight into his stomach. He let out a scream, I stabbed again and again, driven purely by instinct, panic, and a lifetime of being powerless.
His shout turned into a struggle.
Sheets tore.
Furniture rattled.
The room shook with the chaos of it.
I wasn't thinking about aim.
I wasn't thinking about technique.
I wasn't even thinking about him.
I was thinking about every time he hit me.
Every time he trapped me.
Every night I wished I didn't exist.
My arm kept moving.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop.
I didn't realize it was over until my own ragged breathing was the only sound left in the room.
I froze, blood spilled on everything, my face, hands, furniture, everything...
My father's body laid there, lifeless.
My hand finally stilled.
The knife slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull clatter.
For the first time in years, my father was silent.
Completely… silent.
I staggered backward, trembling, the reality crashing over me in waves. The room spun. My chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths.
I should have felt victory.
I should have felt terror.
But all I felt was a strange, terrifying emptiness—
and the faintest spark of freedom.
I didn't get a chance to breathe.
A thud.
Then another.
Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway.
The door burst open.
Logan stood in the doorway first—tall, broad-shouldered, jaw clenched. Ethan hovered behind him, eyes wide, face pale, like he couldn't quite process what he was seeing.
Their father.
Covered in blood.
Me.
Holding the knife.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, all three of us stared at each other.
Logan's shock twisted instantly into rage.
"This little bitch!"
He lunged.
Instinct moved faster than fear.
I dropped to the floor, fingers closing around the knife before he reached me, and I twisted just as he grabbed my arm. His grip tightened—hard, bruising—
I drove the blade straight into his side.
Logan's scream tore through the room, raw and furious, as he stumbled back, blood already staining his shirt.
Ethan's mouth dropped open.
"Logan—!"
He rushed forward, panicked, grabbing me from behind. His fingers clawed at my shoulders, trying to pull me back. We crashed to the ground, pain ripping through my ribs as we hit the floor hard.
But I didn't let go of the knife.
I twisted under him, slashing upward.
The blade cut across Ethan's chest, and he gasped, stumbling back in shock. His hands flew to the wound, blood seeping between his fingers.
"Skye—stop—wait—" he stuttered, voice shaking.
I didn't stop.
Logan came at me again, teeth bared, fury burning in his eyes.
I turned toward him.
The knife plunged into his throat.
His eyes widened—surprise, terror, disbelief flickering all at once—then his body collapsed forward, heavy and limp, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
Ethan scrambled backward toward the door, eyes wild, hand slipping in his own blood as he tried to crawl away.
"Skye—Skye, please—don't—"
His voice cracked.
His fear only sharpened my clarity.
I rose slowly, each movement unsteady but unstoppable, and walked toward him. Ethan lifted a shaking hand, trying to shield himself, trying to push himself farther away.
"Please—"
I didn't hesitate.
The knife drove into his back.
Ethan's body jerked once.
Then went still.
Silence fell again.
Heavy.
Total.
I stood frozen in the center of the room, chest heaving, blood dripping from my hands, surrounded by the bodies of the family that had spent years breaking me.
I should have been horrified.
Or shaken.
Or screaming.
But I felt none of those things.
Only breath—raw and uneven—
and the dangerous, electric calm
of someone who had finally stopped being afraid.
For the first time in my life…
I wasn't the victim.
I was the ending.
Clap.. Clap... Clap.
The sound sliced through the heavy silence, through the ringing in my ears, through the chaos still spinning in my head. I turned sharply, chest heaving, fingers locked around the blood-slick handle of the knife.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Tall. Composed. Wearing a fitted black coat that somehow looked untouched by the violence around her. Her expression held no shock. No pity. Only interest.
She stepped into the room, heels tapping softly on the stained floor.
She walked right through the blood.
"Impressive," she murmured, eyes drifting over my father's collapsed figure, then to Ethan and Logan sprawled at my feet. "Most people freeze. Or beg. You didn't."
I swallowed, adrenaline burning through me like fire.
"Who are you?" My voice cracked, small in the ruined silence.
She stopped right in front of me. Close enough for me to see the faint scar on her jaw, the sharpness in her eyes.
"Someone who understands what you are," she said. "And what you can be."
My grip on the knife trembled. "I didn't… I didn't have a choice."
"Oh, Skye," she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a gloved hand. "You had the hardest choice. And you made it."
My breath shuddered.
She smiled—not kind, but approving.
"And now your real life begins."
I didn't know her name.
I didn't know where she would take me.
I didn't even know who I was anymore.
But as she held out her hand, something inside me—something buried, bruised, and beaten—finally lifted its head.
"Come", she said. "I'll teach you how to survive. And how to kill with purpose."
My fingers slipped from the knife.
I placed my hand in hers.
And just like that, I left the girl who lived in this house behind.
To be continued...