Eyes Like The Ocean | A Culled Crown Novella

Chapter 4

He had reminded her, time and time again, why she loved him.

Why he was her best friend.

The next morning, she had lay next to him, the thin sheets clutched to her bare chest, his arm a steadying weight across her abdomen. The only sound was that of birds chirping and his steady breathing. Viera had never tasted alcohol, had never wanted to after what it did to her father, but that night Leighton had tasted like strawberry wine and the cigars she'd bought him for his birthday. Bittersweet in so many ways.

Viera had decided, right then and there, that she wanted every single morning to be like that.

She had worn his shirt and his jacket home. He'd let her keep them, said it all looked better on her away. That was lie, and she told him so—but it hadn't kept her from wearing the clothes back to her family's estate. She'd hidden all of it in the top drawer of the dresser; next to the knife her mother had asked her to keep.

She took those things with her now. They were all she would take.

***

The hall outside her bedroom was warm and quiet, the only sound the soft patter of rain on the roof above her head. She held the jacket in one hand, the knife in the other. Her boots were silent as she made her way across the old wooden planks of the estate. She was careful as she pulled her bedroom door shut behind her, her attention on the shut bedroom door down the hall from hers.

Viera held her breath as the slight click of the door meshed and blended with the sounds of the night around her. She paused, waiting, her breath caught in her lungs, to see if the sound had been enough to rouse her father. When nothing changed, she exhaled and took a step, just one, towards the top of the staircase.

"Where are you going?"

Every muscle in her body tensed, pulled tight. She looked straight ahead, towards the bottom of the stairs and the doorway beyond. Viera could not move, could not turn to look at him. Not once during all the beatings, when he'd hit her or called her a mistake, told her she was a disappointment, had she ever begged him to stop.

The words had never come, even when she wanted them to, even when it would have perhaps appeased him. She had sewn her mouth closed with hatred and quiet deceit. Let the knowledge of her future with Leighton placate her tongue.

Viera knew this man, had listened and seen. She knew that the beating was not what sated his temper, the begging was. He wanted power—power over Viera, power over her sisters, power over her sick and dying mother.

She looked at that door—her ticket to freedom.

"Please," no one word had ever been harder to say. But she made herself repeat it, louder, "Please, just let me go."

She felt her father step forward, saw a light turn on in her parent's bedroom. His silhouette loomed over hers. Sweat slickened the knife in her hand.

Again, she said, "Please."

"Where do you think you're going?"

She swallowed and slowly turned to face him, using the jacket in her arms to shield the knife from view. She could lie, but he wouldn't believe her. And it would only anger him further if she lied. And what could she say when she was dressed like she was, obviously prepared to leave the house.

All excuses died from her lips as she whispered, "Leighton and I are—"

He cut her off, his laugh a humorless sound. "I'm so damn tired of hearing about that boy."