روايات وقصص ضمن Survival Methods Of The Cannon Fodder Daughter

“You endangered an infant for revenge?” “I endangered weakness. That baby represents everything wrong with our kind. Half-blood mother. Crippled father. Born into hiding and compromise.” Claire met her eyes. “That baby should have been mercy killed at birth.” Kade lunged from his wheelchair. Got his hands around the bars. “Say that again.” “Your daughter is an abomination—” Kade pulled a gun. Pressed it against the bars. Against Claire’s head. “Give me one reason not to kill you right now.”

When I was three, a fortune-teller ran his hand over my skull and said, "This girl was born unlucky. Money will never stay with her. "Give her no more than $6.60 a year. One cent more, and she'll pay for it with her life." So every birthday, my card held the same thing: a crumpled five-dollar bill, a one-dollar coin, and sixty cents in change. My adopted younger sister, Sophie, was different. Her birthday cash could cover an entire bed. I cried and threw tantrums. I even snatched one of Sophie's envelopes, the one with $660,000 in it. That same night, I broke out in hives from head to toe, went into respiratory failure, and ended up in the ICU. It took three days to save me. When I wok

Rolled behind cover. "Kill them!" Catherine screamed. "Kill them both!" Gunfire. Everywhere. Bullets sparking off metal. Off stone. Off everything. Hope clung to me. "Mama I am scared—" "Close your eyes baby. Close them tight. Do not open until Mama says. Promise?" "Promise." I felt for weapons among the corpses. Found two guns. Half magazine each. Maybe twenty rounds total. Catherine had fifteen soldiers remaining. Plus herself. Math was bad. Survival unlikely. But—

He took a deep breath before saying, "Prepare yourself, Ms. Sheraton." As the door opened, the elegant interior I'd imagined was nowhere to be seen. Instead, cardboard boxes and empty plastic bottles were piled everywhere. A faint but unmistakable stench lingered in the air. My smile froze on my face. This old lady was still hoarding trash despite living in a villa. She truly had some unique hobbies. "Now you know how terrifying my mom can be," Calvin whispered. "Cal! You're back!" His mother, Anne Thornton, hurried out from deeper inside the villa moments later.

She’d been living in a mistake, and what her parents did was a sin. "I am a daughter of a whore, Marga. My father was a bastard who killed my mother," Catriona said monotonously, like she was just stating facts. "Did you know why she was killed? She tried to provoke him by telling things she knew to the police, and that bastard man sold me off. I killed a man who tried to rape me—his customer. You are too lucky that you didn’t have to suffer as much as we did. But it’s also time for you to suffer, little by little."

“A girl. After everything they told us. She is going to be so loved.” He smiled through his own tears, his hand on my shoulder. “She already is. You did it, Clara. In the dark, in the cold, with everything against us. You brought her into the world.” The hunters moved past the warehouse, their voices fading into the storm. We stayed hidden, wrapped together for warmth, our daughter sleeping peacefully between us. The birth had been raw and terrifying, with no equipment and no doctors, Damien delivering his own child while fearing for my life. But we had survived. The male heir Victor demanded had never existed. Instead we had this perfect girl, a new beginning in the middle of the war.

Come back! "I was wrong! I'll give everything back to you! I'll trade my life!" "Forum, can you hear me? I'll trade! Bring my sister back!" But the countdown had already begun. No matter how much they regretted it, it was too late. I felt a wave of lightness. A soft white glow wrapped around me. Maybe this was fine, too. Goodbye. In the next life, let's not meet again. Being Dad's daughter hurt too much.

Instead, he broke their legs, cut the tendons in their hands and feet, cut out their tongues, and then dumped them deep in the mountains in some remote settlement where no one would ever find them. No one would answer their cries for help, and they could only drag out their miserable lives. It was truly a life worse than death. It was more satisfying than if I had just killed them. I never asked Dad about the diary and whether it was genuine. It didn't matter whose daughter I was, to be honest. It didn't matter at all. All I needed to know was that my dad loved me, and that was enough. I poured all my energy into my work in Jones Group.

It hadn't been a battle; it had been a cull. "They burned the barracks to flush the 'rats' out," she whispered, her hands clenching into tiny, white-knuckled fists. "My father... he was bleeding from his stomach. A spear. He picked me up and ran into the drainage tunnels. He shoved me through the iron grate into the forest. He told me to run and never look back. He wanted me to live." She had been in the woods for five days, hiding in hollow logs, eating snow and the occasional frozen berry. She had seen our caravan’s lights from a ridge and had followed us like a moth to a flame, driven by the scent of our abundant supplies.

Seraphina's POV "No. You're going to hear all of it. You're going to sit in these chairs and hear what happened to your daughter while you were pulling weeds and carving wood and pretending she didn't exist." I told them about the breeding camp. The posts and the ropes and the dirt floor. I told them about Maren and the apple tree and the fire and the beam falling on her while she held the door. I told them about the refugee road and standing fifty feet from Dax with his baby in my belly and watching him close the gate. I told them about the barn and the blood and the ten seconds and the silence after.