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I’ll Fight In The Morning

Hypothetical Question: If you had to kill someone in the most boring way possible, just to mess with their loved ones, what would your method be?

Carina

When my father said he wanted to break me, he wasn’t just talking. He meant every fucking word.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Hours? Days? Time doesn’t exist in this place—only pain. It drags me under an endless, suffocating tide.

My ribs scream with every breath, sharp and unforgiving. My wrists burn from the ropes that held me, my skin raw and torn. A knife wound on my thigh pulses with agony, blood still sluggishly leaking from where he carved into me with my own blade.

The irony is bitter on my tongue.

I try to focus, but the world is a haze, a nightmare without an end. Fear should be clawing at me, choking me, but all I feel is the slow, smouldering burn of fury.

Before, I wanted him to pay.

Now I want to burn his fucking life to the ground and watch him weep before I drain the life out of him.

The door creaks open. Despite myself, I flinch.

He steps inside, his presence filling the dim space like a shadow stretching across my soul. The smell of his cologne clings to the air—something expensive and sharp, something I used to associate with power. Now, it makes bile rise in my throat.

His boots echo on the concrete floor. “I think you understand now that I’m not playing games,” he says smoothly.

I say nothing. Words are a weapon I refuse to give him.

A sharp tug on my wrist. My arms fall free, the sudden release sending a fresh wave of pain lancing through me. My body is a ruined thing, a collection of wounds barely holding together.

I try to move—to lash out, fight, or do something—but my limbs betray me. They are weak and unresponsive.

His fingers clamp around my arm, iron-hard, as he drags me toward the door. The sudden motion rips a gasp from my throat, but I swallow the sound. Refusing to break.

Each step up the stone staircase is a jolt of fresh agony. The world tilts dangerously, black spots creeping into my vision, but I grind my teeth, forcing myself to stay conscious. I won’t pass out in front of him.

Light. Too bright, too sharp. My eyes struggle to adjust. We’re in a house—not his, or at least, not one I recognise. The realisation slithers down my spine.

Another staircase. Wood now, creaking beneath our weight.

At the top, a door opens, revealing a bedroom. Bare. Devoid of personality. A bed in the centre. A prison dressed up as comfort.

He shoves me forward.

My legs crumple, and I hit the mattress hard, a fresh explosion of pain tearing through my ribs.

His voice follows me down, cold and final. “You’ll stay up here as long as you can behave.”

Then, silence.

I don’t move. I can’t. My body is wrecked, trembling, on the verge of shutting down. But my mind?

My mind is still my own. And as long as I have that, I am not broken.

I’ll fight in the morning.

The feeling wakes me first.

Not pain. Not the dull, aching weight of my injuries.

The weight of someone’s gaze.

The hairs on my arms stand on end. The air shifts. It feels wrong, charged with something deadly.

A shadow at the edge of my vision.

I force my eyes open.

When I do, I’m met with the sight of him looming over me, a twisted smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Time for breakfast,” he says, his voice icy, laced with dark amusement.

I blink away the grogginess, my mind still foggy from the haze of exhaustion. His face is too close—too close for comfort.

“Fuck off,” I mumble, my throat raw from shouting and the silence of my imprisonment.

He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t test my patience, Naomi,” he warns, his voice low and menacing.

I groan as I try to sit up, but every muscle in my body protests. My ribs ache, my limbs feel like dead weight, and the pounding headache is unbearable. It’s like my body is revolting against me for even trying to move.

“That’s not my name,” I force out. The words are barely a whisper, but I know he hears them.

His expression doesn’t change. “It is the name I gave you.”

The finality in his tone sends ice through my veins. This isn’t just imprisonment. He’s rewriting me.

I grit my teeth, forcing down the nausea rolling through me. I need to hold onto myself. If I lose that, I lose everything.

“Why are you doing this?” I manage to get the words out through gritted teeth, my voice cracking from the strain. My heart pounds in my chest, but it’s not from fear—it’s from the overwhelming rage that’s building inside me. I need answers.

“I told you,” he responds flatly, “You’re mine.”

The words coil around me, suffocating me.

I stare at him, something sharp and broken clawing up my chest. “You sold me,” I spit out, the words tasting like bile.

He shrugs. Unfazed. Like this is a discussion about the weather.

“I needed the money.”

The simplicity of it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. No remorse. No hesitation.

Just a man making a business deal.

“There are other ways to get money.” My voice shakes—not with fear, but with a rage so consuming it feels like it might swallow me whole.

He hums, tapping his fingers lightly on the bedpost. Casual. Thoughtful. As if we were discussing investment strategies.

“Perhaps.” A slight shrug. “But they didn’t come with as many strings attached.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

He’s enjoying this.

“This way, I could ensure a steady income. A nice little side business.” His smirk widens. The implication slithers through the air, wrapping around my throat.

I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms. My body is still too weak to fight, but my mind isn’t.

“So, this is all a business transaction to you?” My voice is dangerously calm now.

He watches me, assessing, his amusement flickering into something sharper.

“You never saw me as your daughter. Just a commodity to be sold. To be used.”

For the first time, something flickers in his gaze. Annoyance? A ghost of regret? But it’s gone before I can grasp it.

His mask slams back into place. Cold. Impenetrable.

“You’re overreacting, Naomi.” The false patience in his voice grates against my skin like barbed wire. “This isn’t personal. It’s just business.”

The words hit like a fist to the gut.

Not personal.

If it were, maybe he would’ve cared.

But to him, I was never a daughter. Just inventory.

He pushes off the bedpost, turning toward the door. Done with me.

But I’m not done.

I force myself upright, swallowing back the agony that claws at me. He thinks he’s already won.

Let him.

Because the moment I get the chance—I will rip his world apart.