Page 105 of Baby for the Bratva King

“It’s not like you to cause a fuss,” says a dark voice, approaching from behind.

I turn around—which requires way too much energy. But my heart still finds a way to crawl inside of my stomach when I lay eyes on that black pointed hood and cape.

My father balances the spear over his shoulder. The metal gleams in the light, highlighting the sharp point. No wonder I was in pain.

Disappointment cuts through my chest, my breath running thin once again. My father has officially hit a new low, and now the punishment is physical.

He stalks closer, thrusting the spear into the ground as he watches me over my grave—mine the only one without a gravestone.

“You woke up faster than I thought.”

I flip my arm around, examining my blotched skin where he stuck the needle in.

The day comes back to me in small pieces: my father on national TV painting Felix as the enemy, Felix later confessing his love; me walking home later that day with lifted spirits when I log into my account and see how many people I’m reaching with my tutorials.

What if everything is working out how it’s supposed to?

I glance up at my father, his face hidden somewhere underneath that hood.

Headstones surround him, the black cape blowing in the wind, like death himself is here to deliver a message.

I stare at the spear, examining the pointed edge. This is no Halloween costume. This is my father in his true form. This is who I’ve been dealing with my whole life, who I’ve been trying to win over—a fucking demon.

“What’s with the spear? Couldn’t find a gun?”

Black cloth ripples in the wind—the only thing moving on his body. The rest of him is eerily still. “Being buried alive would resonate well with the public. More shocking than a simple bullet to the head.”

Tears fall from my eyes, pain striking through my chest. This is my father unstripped. He never loved me, never cared. I knew it was all fake, but it still hurts.

My actions have brought out a completely different side of him, and I know I’ll never live the same again…

If I even survive my own father.

“My plan was working perfectly.” My father’s voice is dark. “I planted the seed in the public’s head. All I needed to do was act and let the seed grow.”

“By burying me alive and blaming Felix?”

“Well, he’s the reason you’re dying.”

If that’s true, then death feels liberating. I read Dracula at high school. I know the score. Man bites woman. Woman dies. But what if the woman never wanted to live?

She spent her entire life being lusted after, receiving multiple proposals in one day. She is congratulated. Swooned over. A woman is valuable in society when she is beautiful and seen as attractive in the eyes of men.

But maybe she wanted liberation.

Maybe in death she can find that.

Dracula bites her on the neck, and away from expectations, she can redefine what it means to be a woman. She can live freely. She can be feared if she wants.

Felix was never sucking the life out of me. He breathed life into me when I needed it the most.

My father on the other hand—he fills my lungs with dirt. I’m tired of living hopefully between the highs and the lows, relying on another person to define my happiness when I’m capable of doing that myself.

Felix and I will always look out for ourselves, but we learned valuable lessons along the way.

I clamber onto my feet, my legs shaking. My body has been through a lot. Sedated and buried alive in one night? Jesus wept. It’s going to be one hell of a recovery.

But I can’t rest yet.