Fated Magic (Claimed by Wolves #1) - Callie Rose Page 0,67
in hell I’ll let anything happen to her.
28
Sable
When I open my eyes, there’s a steady throbbing in my head that makes me think I might explode.
I can place the origin for the pain too. I remember seeing my uncle’s jacked-up truck sitting on a dirt road several miles beyond the cabin. At the sight of it, adrenaline pumped through me and turned me crazy. I knew without a doubt if I let him put me in that truck, I was as good as dead. So I kicked and punched and screamed as if my life depended on it, which it likely did.
Unfortunately, my uncle’s never been one to be squeamish about silencing my screams.
I saw his gun hurtling toward my temple, and that’s the last thing I remember beyond flashes of a hard floor and the rumble of his truck as he drove me away from my only means of protection.
They’ll never find me.
I fight back tears, because I refuse to give in to this situation. Clint won’t break me. I won’t fucking let him. I’ll fight like he’s never seen before—I’ll scream and claw and do whatever I can to hurt him before he kills me.
I recognize the four cold concrete walls around me. The antique metal Bud Light sign hanging by a long, narrow window filled with thick glass. The work bench along the wall covered in tools he rarely touched, and the paint canisters covered in a layer of dust. I know this basement all too well, as the place where I was punished when he felt like I needed an extra heavy hand.
I’m on my side, facing the work bench with the vises he’s used on me more than once. My arms are tied in front of me with duct tape, but he didn’t bother with my legs. The realization sends me reeling.
How many times have I just let him hurt me? How often did I just lie there and take it, to make him think I don’t need to be fully tied up now?
How broken does he think I am?
A thick work boot stomps into view, followed by the second. His boots are looking a bit worse for the wear, like he’s been too busy beating the shit out of me to care about the state of his shoes.
“So this is the thanks I get?” Uncle Clint grunts.
I roll onto my back so that I can see his face. Not because I care to lock eyes with the man who hurt me for so long, but because I can’t glare at him with the full extent of hatred in my soul if I’m staring at his boots.
“This is the thanks I get for raising your useless ass,” he goes on, glaring down at me. The arm I sliced is wrapped in a heavy white bandage, and the sight of it gives me a grim sort of satisfaction. “You running away. Takin’ off in the middle of the road like that, makin’ me chase after you. I just tore the countryside apart to find you, you stupid bitch.”
I ignore his final slur and focus on the words that send a harsh laugh bursting up my throat.
“Raising me?” The words don’t even feel real as they trip off my tongue. “If you ‘raised me,’ that would imply you did something good for my well-being. And you’ve never been good to me a day in your life.”
Uncle Clint stares at me for a long moment, shock clear on his weathered face. I’ve never talked back to him like this. Usually, his long rants are just met by silence from me, because I know anything I say will only piss him off more.
But right now, I don’t care.
Clint’s lip curls, an ugly sneer contorting his features. Then he drops to his knees with a lot more ease than a man his age and weight should have. He backhands me so hard that stars fill my vision, and I struggle to suck in air around the pain. He grabs my taped hands and pins them to my chest. With his other hand, he tugs the knife from his pocket and flips it open.
No!
I refuse to let him hurt me anymore. I’m not the girl I once was. I’m not. I was able to run away from him, to rise above my fear and get the hell out. I won’t be defaulting to my old ways, where I just closed my eyes and took whatever punishment he meted out.