Black Rose (Rose Kisses #1)

16

Isaline Winter

I sighed happily as my mother combed through my hair with a tenderness that only a mother could carry in the palm of her hands. She untangled each curl slowly, careful so not to cause me any pain or disrupt the pattern of which my hair liked to follow.

When my hair was thoroughly detangled, she moved to her vanity and collected a comb and a small wood box from the top drawer. After situating herself behind me once more, she opened up the wood box and passed it to me to hold for her as she licked the pad of her middle finger and used it to grab a piece of gold foil. She continued to do this until the crown of my head was covered in gold and then, taking the comb, she began to brush until the gold blended seamlessly into every strand of hair.

This was my favorite part of the night. In the morning, when I awoke, I'd go play outside in the sun and my hair would shimmer like it had caught sunshine in its strands. It made me feel feminine and pretty—everything that my father despised and everything that I adored.

Suddenly, she grabbed a fistful of my hair and jerked my head back so hard that there was an audible crack. I cried out and reached up to try and untangle her hands from my hair but it was no use. Her grip was too tight and she was far more strong than I was.

"What'd I tell you about putting gold in your hair?"

I stiffened at the sound of my fathers voice in my ear, the tears that once threatened to fall now halted in their tracks, as if they too were afraid of what would come if he saw my tear-stained cheeks.

He yanked my hair harder and I cried out once more, biting my lip to try and silence the sobs that threatened to escape me. "Answer me, girl. What'd I tell you about putting gold in your hair?"

The words tasted like acid as I recited the saying bitterly, "Gold is for little girls and I am not a little girl anymore."

He threw me forward then and I went diving into the carpeted floors. Suddenly, I was no longer a little girl. I was much older now, stronger too.

And yet, I was still rendered weak in my father's presence.

"You're a Winter," he spat. "Winter's are warriors."

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"But you aren't a Winter, are you, girl?" he sneered. I bowed my head and forced my tear-filled eyes to dry back up. Don't you dare fall, I told them silently. Don't you dare let him see us cry.

"I am a Winter," I said. My head snapped backwards and he kicked me in the face. I tasted blood in my mouth and was surprised that my teeth hadn't shattered from the impact.

"No," he said. "You're weak. Pathetic. You were never a Winter and you never will be."

He picked me up by my hair and dragged out of the room. I kicked and screamed and clawed and begged. Nothing worked. Nothing ever worked. He never listened when he got like this and he never cared either. All he could see in these moments was the abomination of a child he'd had and the absence of his deserved heir; a son.

He brought me to the living room and tossed me away. I rolled away from him and landed in a warm, thick fluid. I glanced up hesitantly and immediately screamed at the sight before me.