Heir of Broken Fate (HOBF Book 1)

No matter how strong I get, I always end up here.

Lifeless, helpless, and hopeless.

I feel it physically first, the burn in my cheek as my skin tears open. The protests of my ribs fighting to stay intact. The blast throughout my body as my knees hit the marble floor and the indescribable pain of my lungs screaming for air as it’s stolen from me.

My body sees it coming before I do, locking up every muscle until I’m frozen in place, my blood slowing in preparation to pour out of me. No matter how much I scream no sound slips between my lips. Never mind screaming, it will never do any good. I can never move, never fight. Not with him, never with him.

My father is beating me again.

The one who’s supposed to protect me, cherish me, and love me is the one who breaks me every day. Chipping tiny pieces away until I’m nothing but a broken shell of what I used to be. I can never do any good, because it is never enough.

“How dare you disrespect me with such filth!’ he booms, the heel of his boot connecting with my stomach.

I don’t dare speak, for the fear of his fists never stopping until I’m buried six feet underground.

‘You’re an embarrassment to this family. You should be ashamed of yourself,” he seethes.

Shame? No.

I never feel anything when this happens—not emotionally. Just the brute force of my father’s assault on my body. It’s as if my heart can’t bear to witness, so it checks out until my father is long gone.

I’m not sure what I did to earn this particular beating. Perhaps it was my horrible training lesson this afternoon. My father doesn’t view mistakes as a normal human experience; he sees it as an abomination to not be a perfectly unflawed person.

However, I don’t see Easton running to tell him about my little mistake today. He hates my father more than I do.

My father retracts, straightening his rumpled tunic as he slowly eases himself into the dining room chair. Gently picking up the silver cutlery beside his plate, he cuts into his roast, as if nothing happened.

He snaps his fingers once, twice. “Take care of it.”

It. Not daughter.

Servants are next to me in a flash, gentle hands under my arms lifting me to a standing position. I steal a glance toward my mother, who predictably is staring at nothing. She hasn’t been mentally present in a long time, let alone ever stopped this. If she didn’t wear the same bruises I do, I’d hate her more than him for sitting by silently while her only daughter is beaten to a bloody pulp.

I don’t need to look up to know where I’m going. The aftermath of my father’s rage has become as predictable as a ritual. The servants help me walk the long corridors to the nurse’s quarters where Annie will suck in a deep gasp and rush forward to tend to my wounds, while trying to inconspicuously wipe away the tears that escape.

Annie was hired as the palace’s head nurse before I was born. Besides the graceful ageing of her features, not much has changed over the years. Annie’s still got her gorgeous bright red curls pulled into a tight bun on her head, held by her signature white bow. Gold-ringed, kind eyes that see too much and plump, heart-shaped lips that smile extra wide when she sees me. Annie was unable to conceive children, she says it allowed her to focus all her motherly instincts on me over the years. If it wasn’t for Annie and Easton…I don’t know how I would have survived the past twenty-two years.

“Mean old bastard. I’m surprised he still finds the time to do this, considering the number of people he butchers,” she spits.

My cheeks burn red.

There’s the shame my father wanted to see.

Annie clicks her tongue. “His barbaric actions have nothing to do with you. You can’t so much as drop a pea on the floor without getting hit.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that my father kills innocent people.”

That makes Annie pause. “No, it doesn’t,” she says quietly.

I lower my voice. “Any updates on the people?”

I know I can trust Annie with my life, and hers with mine, but my father has people everywhere in this castle that kiss his ass to gain the slightest lick of attention from him. Not to mention the spies that riddle these halls.

Annie’s features visibly shut down, her face going wholly blank, her telltale sign.

“What?” I ask.

Her only response is a muscle ticking in her jaw, the silence in the room suffocating.

“Tell me what happened,” I demand.

“I’ll tell you in the morning. It won’t make a difference whether you know now or later. Right now, you need to rest,” she states.

“How bad is it?” I ask, my stomach sinking as I search Annie’s eyes.

“Bad.” Hopelessness rings out in her voice.

Everyone’s losing hope that the world will change. The prayers for peace are few and far between. I can’t say I blame them.

I wince as Annie moves in closer, applying a butterfly bandage to my cheek.

Her voice comes out so quietly, her lips barely move. “There are too many guards around this evening.”

Before I can respond the chamber doors burst open so hard, they ricochet off the wall, then slam closed from the force. All six foot two of powerful, taut muscles stride across the room. It only takes a second for him to be in front of me, cupping my face gently in his palms. I lift my head, finding green eyes peering down at me.

A sigh releases involuntary, my body relaxing fully.

Easton.

I scan every inch of him, each passing second of his presence easing the ache in my chest. Short shaggy brown hair that used to be blond but with age has taken on a rustic brown shade. Tan honey skin that makes his forest green eyes twinkle. Easton’s rigged jaw, clamped teeth, and scowl can’t even make him look unattractive. How can anyone look this attractive while they’re pissed off?

“I’m going to kill him,” he says vehemently.

“No, you won’t,” I say gently.

We’ve had this conversation many times before. I used to argue that despite how horrible my father is, no one deserves to be murdered. I stopped arguing that point a long time ago.

Easton pauses, scanning me head to toe before landing his beautiful eyes on my ice blue ones once more. He dips his head, as if coming to an internal decision.

A lopsided grin spreads across his lips. “Yes I will. Annie will help me set the trap.”

“In your dreams, pretty boy. I quite like my fingers and toes,” Annie teases, swatting his hands off my face to apply healing lotion to my new bruises.

Easton plants a kiss on my forehead, moving aside to take a seat beside me, his eyes never leaving mine.

Thank you, I mouth.

Easton is my best friend, my other half. We’ve been inseparable since the day we met. His father is the chief guard at the palace, and we met in a truly Easton-fashioned way.

He found me crying, hiding in a bush from my guards in the back garden after falling off my horse and skidding my knees raw. He climbed inside the bush, taking a seat beside me, only to pull one of my braids as he made a raspberry sound. “Stop crying so much, you sound like a girl,” he had said.

I then enjoyed giving him a thirty-minute tongue lashing, teaching him the proper etiquette on how to care for someone who is crying. Girl or boy, there was no need to be a sexist pig. I had no idea what “sexist” meant at the ripe age of five; I did, however, hear Annie muttering it under her breath the day before when speaking about my father. Looking back on it now, it was most certainly the right word to use. Learning from his lesson, Easton’s now a professional at consoling me. He knows what I need before I do.

“All done. No training tomorrow, you’ve got two bruised ribs, and a split lip and cheek.” Annie stares me down, her eyes as hard as steel. “I mean it, Delilah Covington. No training tomorrow.”

I nod, suddenly too tired for words.

Easton’s eyes flash with pain for a split second before his happy demeanor returns. Holding out his hand, he offers, “Come on, I’ll run you a bath.”

I ease to my feet, Annie and Easton both lunging forward to grab my arms.

Planting a quick kiss on Annie’s cheek, I murmur, “Thank you.”

Her eyes soften. “Don’t thank me. Not for this.”

I don’t know what home feels like, but I’m certain it doesn’t feel like this. The palace itself isn’t the problem; it’s the most beautiful palace I’ve ever seen—which doesn’t surprise me, as my father has to be and have the best. Cream walls line the corridor with columns painted black, while crimson red-carpet runners contrast the white marble floor. Every ten steps showcase a new art piece, each one having an outrageous price tag attached.

There’s color everywhere in the palace. Yet no matter how many flowers or colorful art pieces they place around the halls, it never takes away the slithering cold and detached feeling it emanates.

Walking up the grand double staircase, we reach the top floor, rounding the corner to the east wing. I have the entire wing to myself, while my parents have the west. It’s an outrageous amount of room, but I don’t complain. I can go days without seeing my father.

Easton shares the east wing with me, his room being across the hall from mine and as big as my own. When he became my personal guard, I insisted that he stay near me. Convincing my father of my idea for once, I sold the pitch with the safety of his precious belonging always being guarded and watched.

Considering Easton and I both have troubled homes and families, I thought it would be best if we stuck together.This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

In my peripheral, I see Easton glancing my way every second step. I know because I’m counting. I give him ten more steps until he spits out whatever’s on his mind.

We pass the black glass side table housing red roses—three steps. A painting of a rainbow arching over the Claremont River—six steps. Then finally, my white ensuite door—nine steps.

“I can come in and keep you company, if you want,” Easton offers, taking his tenth step.

“East, you know I love you…” I trail off. “But no.”

Like I said, it’s a routine at this point and unfortunately, I know it won’t change anytime soon.

Wrapping my arms around his waist I lay my head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart.

“Just give me an hour, okay?” I whisper.

“Okay,” he mumbles, laying his cheek on the top of my head.

Disentangling myself I turn around, stepping into my room without a backward glance.

Walking through the center of my dressing room, I enter the attached bathing room. To the left sits my vanity sink and to the right a deep clawfoot bathtub, with a floor-to-ceiling window that can only see out, thank the lords for that sliver of privacy. The view overlooks the eastern Claremont River. Sometimes I sit in the tub for hours and stare at it, fantasizing about where it leads to.

Filling the bath with water, I add oils to help with the new bruises and stiff muscles. Peering down at my hands I watch as they tremble, my fingers shaking wildly as I peel off my clothing. Wincing, I maneuver out of the tight corset.

My knees and arms wobble as I lower myself into the scalding water, the bruises marring my creamy skin disappearing under the bubbles. Tears begin streaming down my freckle-covered cheeks, no matter how hard I try to keep them at bay. This part never gets easier. My heart has finally decided to return to me. I never know where it disappears to when my father hurts me, but I’m grateful he doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I thank whatever gods who listen for that.

The floodgates have opened, and I have no choice but to allow myself to feel the burning rage, disgust, and deep unending sadness. I’d like to think I’d be used to it after all these years, yet it never gets any easier. The worst of it all is the emptiness in my heart as I realize that not only does my father hate me, but I am truly stuck with this miserable life, that there will never be any escaping his fists.

He’s the only person I can never fight back against, and I hate myself for it.

My body begins to shake with the force of my sobs, becoming more powerful with every breath I take, my ribs screaming in pain as I do.

Each time, I say never again, next time will be different, I refuse to be my father’s punching bag again. Yet when the time comes…I shut down.

I might not be able to fight back, but at least I see him for who he truly is.

I’m no longer a little girl, praying and dreaming every night for the next day to be different.

I no longer spend my nights lying awake crying, wondering why my father hates me.

I no longer dream of waking up to a loving father who doesn’t grimace at the mere sight of me.

That dream died years ago.

I chuckle quietly to myself an hour later as I exit my bathing chamber to find Easton sitting in the middle of my bed, devouring chocolates. He has the biggest sweet tooth I have ever seen.

He’s also never been able to stay away when he knows I’m hurting.

Sighing, I look around my room. This palace might feel like a cold and detached prison, but I made my room feel safe over the years. The servants and decorators furnished it for a princess, going above and beyond to prove that the heir of Aloriah had the best in all the lands.

A four-poster white bed covered in silk sheets dominates the center of the room, its headboard backed into the very far wall. It’s covered in so many pillows it feels like a cloud. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases stretch across the right side of the room, filled to the brim and overflowing with every book I’ve ever collected in my life. Behind me houses my dressing room and bathing suite. Both sides of the closet are filled with frilly dresses, skirts, tops, and of course accessories. According to my dressers a princess can never have too many pieces of clothing. My favorite spot is to the right of the dressing room. Past the center seat cushions, tucked away in a little corner are my fighting leathers and swords.

The only section the servants aren’t allowed to touch.

Settling on the bed beside Easton, I watch as he shovels creamy chocolates into his mouth, smirking at me with it smeared across his lips.

“I’ve never seen someone love chocolates as much as you.”

Speaking around a mouthful, he taunts, “I’ve never met anyone so enamored with something so simple as a doughnut.”

I gasp. “How dare you question the goodness of doughnuts.”

“It’s fried dough with a hole in it,” he quips.

I snatch the box of chocolates out of his lap, holding them behind me. “Take it back or I’ll let the cooks know who’s being sneaking into the kitchens and stealing their chocolate stash.”

He narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” I smirk.

Easton rolls his eyes as he sighs. “You win by default, pulling the princess card with your connections.”

“I would never take advantage of my title,” I mock pout, placing a hand over my heart.

There’s truth behind my words—the only threats I ever make using my title are against Easton and those are always a joke.

His face turns grave. “Any news about the sectors?”

Just like that, any happiness I was feeling dies.

“Yes, but Annie won’t tell me until morning,” I say, sliding further into my pillows.

His voice lowers. “Not good news then.”

“No.”

Easton and I fall into silence.

The only time Annie withholds information regarding the people of Aloriah is when it’s horrible. She spends the day fretting about how she’s going to tell us. Easton being my personal guard has isolated him. The other guards don’t trust gossiping to him about the people of Aloriah, knowing how close we are, so our updates come from Annie.

The sectors started rebelling seventeen years ago when my father, the King of Aloriah, added a long list of laws to an already corrupt system. He became the ruling king when his father died, passing the title down in the family. My father has always been a cruel and wicked man, yet as the years pass, the sliver of kindness in his soul deteriorates.

The people of Aloriah broke the day he announced his new rulings. Their patience and prayers for a better world were not heard. Instead, they were mocked. The protests started peacefully, yet my father didn’t see it that way. The first execution was set three days after the new rulings. The so-called “rebels” were few and far between after watching their friends and loved ones be whipped and hung at the gallows.

My father was pleased with the fear that spread throughout the sectors, utilizing his people’s pain and fear to control them. His armies and council members revel in the changes, knowing they live behind the capital wall, hidden and safe. Profiting off the sectors’ misery.

Then ten months ago, my father started changing the laws again.

Curfews are being set earlier each week. Every crime no matter how small—something as simple as being late for mandatory labor—is punishable by death. Executions are set daily at five p.m., mandatory for all to watch. Those who dare speak ill of the king have their tongue cut out before being executed.

Freedom doesn’t exist anymore, not for those who can’t buy it.

My father doesn’t care that families are lining the streets at night, that children are starving, morgues are overflowing, the hospitals turn away the ill, and orphanages deny children due to being at max capacity. He doesn’t notice that children no longer run around playing, no one smiles in the street, and you rarely smell food burning from the chimneys of homes.

We no longer live in a kind world.

Easton’s deep voice drags me from my thoughts. “We should leave.”

I groan. Not this again. “To where?”

This isn’t the first time Easton’s brought up running away. If he could get away with it, I believe he’d smuggle me out in my sleep.

“Anywhere but here, as far as we can go.”

“I think you’re forgetting I’m the princess of Aloriah. There’s nowhere I could hide…” I trail off on a whisper. “My father would hunt us.”

“It’s not right. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but I can do more being here.” I sit up, turning to face Easton. “Besides, it’s wrong to flee, to leave the people of Aloriah to suffer while I run for a better life they will never see.”

Easton’s jaw clenches, his eyes focusing on the veranda doors, peering at the lake.

“I know I can’t do much…but I have to hold onto hope that one day I’ll be reigned queen and be able to fix everything he’s broken,” I whisper.

Easton turns his forest green eyes to me. “You would make a beautiful queen,” he murmurs.

“I don’t care about the title or being the best queen. I care about people being able to live a life worth living.”

“I know.” Easton wraps an arm around my shoulder, bringing me down to lay beside him. “That’s why you would make a beautiful queen, Delilah. Because you care.”