Caged Girl, Crowned Queen

Content Warning: The early chapters contain domestic violence and extreme survival choices. Later(after Ch.39) the story moves into a multi–love-interest (reverse harem) battlefield and intense desire/power dynamics.

I won’t put a warning at the beginning of each chapter, but I’ll give the chapters that contain sexual content a title, so you can choose to read them or skip them.

Emily's POV

The nightmare yanked me out of sleep at 3:17 a.m.

Same one as always—something huge and shapeless chasing me down endless hallways, my legs made of concrete, fingers closing around my throat.

I shot upright, heart punching against my ribs. For three long seconds I lay perfectly still and did my usual inventory. Door locked. Window shut. Same water stain on the ceiling shaped like a crooked heart. My room. My bed.

Safe.

I almost believed it.

Then the crash came from the living room.

Glass shattered against the floor. My father's voice exploded through the thin walls.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

"Jack, please! I'll clean it up! Please just calm down—"

The sound of a fist hitting flesh made me flinch.

My mother screamed.

I was out of bed before I could think. My bare feet hit the cold floor and I ran down the hallway. The apartment smelled like it always did—mildew, cigarette smoke, stale beer.

I shoved open the living room door.

Blood. That was the first thing I saw.

My mother was pressed against the wall next to the TV stand. One hand covered her face and blood was already seeping between her fingers. Her other arm wrapped around her ribs. Green glass from a shattered beer bottle covered the carpet.

My father stood in the center of the room. His wife-beater was soaked with sweat and his face was red with rage. He was breathing hard.

"Worthless! You made me lose my job! Can't cook, can't clean, can't do a goddamn thing right!" He kicked the coffee table and it crashed into the wall.

"Stop!" The word burst out of me.

His head turned toward me. Slow and dangerous. His bloodshot eyes locked on my face.

Then he smiled. That smile terrified me more than his fists ever had.

"Well, well. Little princess wants to play hero again." He took a step toward me, heavy and deliberate. His eyes dropped to my left wrist, to the scar. "Want another one? Maybe on the other arm this time. Make them match."

My hand went automatically to the scar on my left wrist. Six months old, still raised and pink. A reminder of what happened the last time I tried to help.

Behind him, my mother tried to stand up. "Emily, no. Go back to your room. Please, baby, please—"

But my father was already moving. His arm came up.

I threw myself forward, putting my body between him and my mother. I squeezed my eyes shut and raised my arms to protect my face.

He shoved me hard in the chest.

I flew backward and my hip slammed into the sharp corner of the coffee table. Pain exploded through my side, white-hot and blinding. I hit the floor and couldn't breathe.

When my vision cleared, he was already past me, moving toward my mother.

"No—" I tried to say, but I had no air.

His boot caught her in the stomach.

She made a horrible sound, like all the air being forced out of her lungs at once.

He kicked her again, this time in the ribs.

She curled into a tight ball, trying to make herself smaller. Her whimpers got quieter and quieter.

"Please," she gasped. "Please, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Damn right you're sorry!" He was panting now, actually tired from beating his own wife. "Useless piece of shit."

I tried to stand but my hip screamed in protest. By the time I managed to get to my knees, he was done.

He stood over her, fists still clenched, looking down at what he'd done.

"I need another drink." He turned toward the kitchen and stumbled a little. "Clean this mess up before I get back. Both of you."

Then he was gone, his footsteps fading toward the kitchen.

I crawled across the floor to where my mother lay. Glass bit into my palms but I didn't care.

"Mom," I whispered. My voice was shaking. "Mom, are you okay?"

It was a stupid question. Blood covered her face. Her breathing was all wrong—too shallow, too fast.

She turned her head and looked at me. Her eyes were completely empty.

"I'm fine, baby," she whispered. The words sounded automatic, like a recording. "I'm fine. It's not that bad. He didn't mean it. He's just stressed."

Something inside my chest cracked.

Ten years. Ten years of this hell. Ten years of fists and broken bottles and blood on the carpet. Ten years of calling 911 and watching the cops take a statement and leave. Ten years of teachers who saw the bruises and looked away. Ten years of neighbors who turned up their TVs to drown out the screaming.

Ten years of my mother saying "it's fine" and "he didn't mean it" and "it'll get better."

I looked at her now, watching her already trying to push herself up. Already getting ready to clean up the blood and glass. Already preparing to pretend this never happened.

She would never leave him. I knew that now, knew it with absolute certainty. She would stay until he killed her, and nothing I said or did would ever change that.

Unless I changed it myself.

My eyes drifted to the kitchen doorway.

I could hear him in there, opening cabinets and slamming them shut. Cursing because he couldn't find his vodka.

The kitchen. Where we kept the knives in a wooden block on the counter.

I stood up slowly. My hip throbbed but it held my weight. I walked toward the kitchen doorway like I was in a dream.

The kitchen was small and cramped, lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb. My father had his back to me, bent over the lower cabinet where he hid his liquor bottles.

The knife block sat on the counter to my right.

I could see the black handle of the chef's knife sticking up from the center. Eight inches of steel. I'd used it a thousand times to cut vegetables for dinner. I knew exactly how it felt in my hand, knew it was sharp.

My father was only three steps away from me. His back was completely turned. His neck was exposed.

One quick motion and this would all be over. No more screaming. No more blood. No more waiting for the day he finally went too far and killed her.

I took the first step.

The police wouldn't help us. The courts wouldn't help us. Nobody would help us. But I could help us. I could end this right now.

I took another step and reached for the knife.

My fingers closed around the handle. The knife slid out of the block with barely a whisper. It felt cold and heavy in my hand.

Just do it, I thought. He deserves this. He deserves worse than this.

I took the final step. I was right behind him now, close enough to smell the beer and sweat on him. Close enough to hear him muttering to himself about where that bitch had hidden his vodka.

His neck was right there in front of me. Just below his ear. There was a small mole there that I'd never noticed before.

All I had to do was raise the knife and let it fall, and my future would end at the same time his did.

"EMILY!"

My mother's scream shattered the moment like breaking glass.