Shattered Princess

POV: KAELIA

The heavy, sickening thud of flesh colliding with bone echoed through the suffocating kitchen air. My father loomed over me, his shadow swallowing my trembling form on the hard tile floor. The foul stench of stale beer and cheap liquor rolled off him with every ragged breath he took.

"Why the fuck can't you get anything right?" he roared.

He did not wait for an answer. A brutal kick landed square against my side, sending a shockwave of raw agony through my chest. Then came a backhanded slap that split my lip, the metallic tang of blood flooding my mouth instantly. He rained relentless physical blows down upon me, beating me into a bloody pulp. His fury burned over something as trivial as his dinner. I had not placed a hot plate in front of him the exact second his boots crossed the threshold.

I bit my tongue to trap my screams. Crying out only made the beatings last longer. I pulled my knees to my chest and curled inward, making myself as small as possible to protect my vital organs. I absorbed the impacts, waiting in silent torture until his tantrum ran its course. The barrage of strikes eventually slowed, replaced by his heavy, uneven panting. He grabbed a fresh bottle of beer from the fridge, the glass clinking sharply in the quiet kitchen, and staggered into the living room. Moments later, the heavy thumping of his body collapsing onto the couch reached my ears, followed soon by the deep, rhythmic snoring of a drunken stupor.

I remained paralyzed on the cold tiles. The frost from the floor seeped into my battered skin, but I dared not move. A sharp, stabbing pain pierced my chest every time my lungs expanded. Multiple broken ribs. The grim realization settled over me, turning my shallow breaths into a monumental chore.

"A couple of months until I turn eighteen, and then I will be out of here. There is nothing that he can do about it." I whispered the desperate mantra to myself through swollen lips, the words offering a fragile tether to my sanity.

Mustering every ounce of strength left in my malnourished body, I reached out with a trembling hand and gripped the leg of a fallen dining chair. My knuckles turned white as I used the wooden frame for leverage, pulling my battered weight off the floor. My healing abilities were agonizingly slow compared to a normal werewolf, a direct result of the constant starvation and stress. Fire flared in my chest with every microscopic movement.

I dragged my feet across the kitchen, leaning heavily against the walls as I began the grueling ascent up the staircase. We lived in a private wing of the packhouse, a privilege granted to him as the Beta. The quiet hallways felt like a tomb as I hobbled toward my bedroom.

Pushing the door open, I stepped into a pristine, aggressively pink princess-style suite. A massive canopy bed dominated the space, surrounded by ruffled curtains, soft plush rugs, and a gleaming white vanity. It was a sickening monument to his hypocrisy. He meticulously maintained this room, showing it off to visiting elders and pack members to project the fake image of a loving, devoted father. The truth was that he treated me worse than a stray dog, and this extravagant room was nothing but a gilded cage.

The digital clock on the nightstand flashed five in the morning. There was no point in attempting to sleep. I limped into the en-suite bathroom, peeling my ruined clothes off my aching body and dropping them into the hamper.

I stood before the vanity mirror and flipped on the harsh overhead light. The reflection staring back at me was a horrific canvas of abuse. My pale skin was marred with deep purpling welts, fresh angry red cuts, and a sickly patchwork of overlapping yellowing bruises from previous beatings. This was my reality. This brutal cycle of violence had taken root immediately after my mother’s tragic death when I was only six years old, and it had worsened with every passing year.

I turned away from the mirror, unable to stomach the sight any longer. Moving with extreme caution to avoid aggravating my broken ribs, I stepped into the shower. The warm water felt like liquid glass against my open wounds, stinging my skin until I gritted my teeth in silent agony. I washed my waist-length snow-blonde hair as quickly as possible and stepped out, shivering as the cold air hit my damp skin.

I retreated to my wardrobe to equip my daily signature armor. I pulled on a pair of thick black tights, followed by a baggy, loose-fitting shirt. Over that, I dragged a heavy, oversized hoodie down over my head. The thick fabric was designed to swallow my frame whole, hiding the extensive damage inflicted upon my body.

I was packing my schoolbooks into my bag when the bedroom door slammed open, rebounding off the wall with a deafening crack. I jumped, my heart hammering wildly against my shattered ribs.

"Hurry up. The pack breakfast is starting," my father demanded.

His words were thick with lingering alcohol, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He did not wait for a response. He closed the distance between us, his massive hand clamping down ruthlessly on my fragile arm. I let out a choked gasp as he dragged me out of the room and toward the staircase.

"Quit your complaining. What the hell is the matter with you?" he snarled at me over his shoulder.

He forced me down the steps at a punishing pace, oblivious and uncaring of the severe injuries he had inflicted upon me mere hours ago. I stumbled behind him, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out as my chest flared with blinding pain. He was too deep in his drunken haze to remember the beating, but my body remembered every single second of it.

We marched through the long corridors of the main packhouse. The moment we approached the grand double doors of the pack dining room, a terrifying metamorphosis occurred. My father stopped in his tracks. He released my arm, smoothed back his balding gray hair, and adjusted the collar of his shirt. He straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back until he looked commanding and formidable. The drunken tyrant vanished, replaced instantly by the mask of the pack's respectable and dignified Beta.

He pushed the doors open and strode into the sprawling dining hall. The room buzzed with the low murmur of conversations among the most influential pack members. The Alpha, the elders, the lead warriors, and the pack doctor were all seated at the polished oak tables.

We approached the lavish breakfast buffet. The long tables groaned under the weight of gourmet food—steaming platters of eggs, thick cuts of bacon, fresh pastries, and bowls of exotic fruits. My stomach cramped with vicious hunger, my mouth watering at the rich aromas. My father picked up a porcelain plate and shamelessly piled it mountain-high with meats and pastries. Then, he grabbed a second plate. He tossed a single piece of dry toast and one cold pancake onto it before callously shoving it into my trembling hands.

I clutched the meager offering and lowered my head, navigating through the crowded room. I bypassed the loud tables and headed straight for a quiet corner near the window. My best friend, Lorna, was already seated there. She was the Alpha's daughter, and despite the vast difference in our social standing, we shared a deep, unbreakable bond forged from the mutual suffering under abusive fathers.

I eased myself into the wooden chair opposite her, moving at an agonizingly slow pace to prevent my ribs from grinding together.

"I see you've brought the hoodie out again," Lorna whispered.

Her sharp eyes scanned my heavy attire, perfectly aware of the dark, bruised reality hidden beneath the thick fabric. We both knew the unspoken rule of the hoodie.

"I didn't realize that I ever put it away," I replied dryly, forcing my face to remain impassive to mask the throbbing pain in my chest.

Lorna offered a rare, genuine smile. I noticed she was wearing a fitted top and a light cardigan, lacking the usual protective layers she often wore to cover her own marks.

"Well, I'm glad that I don't have to wear mine today. He eased off of me," she noted, her voice carrying a trace of relief.

"Is there a reason why?" I asked, a pang of curiosity and a fleeting sliver of jealousy weaving through my words.

"Because my brother is coming home today," she beamed, pure excitement lighting up her features.

"You're kidding. Thorne is finally coming home," I said.

A genuine, warm smile spread across my battered face for the first time in months. Thorne was one of the few decent memories I had left in this place, and his return offered a tiny spark of light in the suffocating darkness of our daily lives.

As we spoke, I glanced around the dining hall. Whenever my eyes met the gaze of another pack member, they quickly averted their focus, staring intently at their plates or striking up sudden conversations with their neighbors. They pretended not to notice my pale face or my slow, pained movements. Everyone in this room knew exactly what happened to me behind closed doors. They heard the crashes, they saw the bruises that peeked through, and they smelled the fresh blood. Yet, no one dared to intervene. No one dared to cross the Beta.

They all knew that the Alpha would instantly back his second-in-command. The hierarchy was absolute. Defying the leadership or attempting to report the abuse meant exile, and in this pack, exile was a death sentence. The Alpha was a tyrant who ruled through fear and bloodshed. If anyone attempted to flee his control, he routinely dispatched his ruthless lead warriors to hunt them down. They did not just bring the runaways back; they slaughtered entire families, leaving the bodies as a gruesome warning to the rest of us.

We were effectively living in the dark ages, trapped in a barbaric system that stripped us of every fundamental right. Girls were strictly forbidden from training in combat. We were not allowed to defend ourselves, nor were we taught how to fight back. We were viewed as nothing more than fragile breeding stock, required to produce strong pups and keep the pack numbers up. It was insulting. It was suffocating. It was a terrifying absolute existence where we belonged to the men who controlled us.

I stared down at my single piece of cold toast, the heavy dread settling over my broken ribs like a lead weight. There was no escape, no reasoning with the men in charge. He was the Alpha, and in this living nightmare, his word was undeniable law.