Father and Daughter

​POV: Malia 

​The sound of his boots was something I had known since I was a child. It was the rhythm of a tyrant pacing his kingdom, the cadence of a man who measured his worth by how much he could control, break, or destroy.

​When the heavy iron key turned in the lock, my heart didn't stutter; it ignited.

​For days, this cell had been a tomb. The damp stone had seeped into my bones, and the heavy chain around my wrists had rubbed my skin raw until every movement sent white-hot agony shooting up my forearms. But pain is a wonderful teacher. It teaches you what you can live through, and more importantly, what you are willing to tear apart to escape.

​While they were upstairs panicking over the explosions and the screams, I had spent the last twenty minutes working the skin off my left thumb, using the friction of the coarse iron link and a slick film of old rust and blood to slip the cuff over my knuckle. It felt like tearing my own hand off, the cartilage grinding and popping, but when the metal finally cleared the joint, the sudden rush of freedom was better than oxygen.

​The heavy door swung open.

​Alastair stood there in the frame, his posture stiff, his silver hair neatly combed despite the chaos raging above us. In his hand, catching the sickly yellow light of the hallway sconce, was his Browning Hi-Power. The barrel was pointed straight at my chest.

​His eyes were dead. There was no father left in them, no memory of the few Christmases we’d shared, no trace of the family name he claimed to value above all else. Just a frightened, cornered animal ready to eliminate a loose end.

​"You always were too stubborn for your own good, Malia," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "A tragic waste of good blood."

​"You wouldn't know what blood is if you bled out on this floor," I whispered, my voice rough from thirst, but steady enough to make him flinch.

​He raised the pistol higher, his finger tightening on the trigger guard. "It's over, my dear. Your little stray dog is bleeding out upstairs right now, and you're going to join him in the dark."

​He didn't see my left hand slip free from behind my back.

​As the barrel rose to align with my heart, I didn't recoil. I lunged forward with every ounce of strength left in my battered body, throwing the heavy iron chain still attached to my right wrist straight across his face.

​The links caught him square across the cheekbone with a brutal, cracking sound. Alastair stumbled back, a gasp of shock escaping his lips as his aim jerked wide. A deafening crack echoed through the tiny stone cell as the pistol fired into the dirt floor, sending up a shower of dry earth and stone dust that choked the air.

​"You bitch!" he roared, lunging forward and grabbing a handful of my hair, wrenching my head back.

​Pain flared through my scalp, blinding and hot, but I didn't scream. I wrapped my free left arm around his throat, driving my elbow into his collarbone while my knees slammed upward into his stomach.

​We crashed against the damp stone wall together, the impact rattling my teeth and bruising my spine. Alastair dropped the pistol; it clattered uselessly against the flagstones, sliding into the dark corner of the cell.

​We were tangled together now in the dark, father and daughter, locked in a primal struggle for survival that had been building since the day I first realized what monsters hid behind our family crest. He clawed at my arms, his fingers digging into my skin, trying to push me away, but I locked my grip around his jacket, pulling him closer.

​I wasn't just fighting for my own life anymore. I was fighting for the gravel drive outside. I was fighting for the burnt-out gates. I was fighting for the man who had torn down a fortress with his bare hands just to find me in the dark.

​"Let me go!" he wheezed, his face turning red as my forearm pressed harder against his windpipe.

​"You should have stayed in your study," I hissed into his ear, my voice trembling with a rage so deep it felt like ice. "Because he's coming. And unlike you, he doesn't miss."