Eyes Like The Ocean | A Culled Crown Novella

Chapter 4

Viera stiffened as he took another step towards her. She forced herself to stay still, to look up at him and meet his gaze. He was larger than she was, nearly twice her size with muscles born from hauling sacks of grain and hoisting heavy metal trays of goods.

She knew what it felt like to have those fists hit her.

He took another step and this time she conceded, inching back toward the stairs. The familiar groan of her mother's metal wheelchair echoed off the tall ceilings of the landing. Another step and the backs of her boots were against the edge of the top step.

She would run.

She would turn and run.

But she could hear the sound of her mother hoisting herself from the bed. Viera winced at the groan of the chair, the clink of the brank being released, the soft sequel of the wheels. And she was lost to those noises. Afraid of what would happen if she left.

He would hurt her mother. He would hurt her and this time there would be no one to tend to her mother's wounds. No one to curl into bed next to her mother and stroke her hair, no one to lie and say it would all be alright. This time—this time Viera would be gone and Lorna would be truly alone with her father.

No. No. No. That darkness inside her lurched, flaring and twisting in her gut—as if it too remembered, as if it knew what would happen to her if she allowed this man too close. Viera needed to run. She needed to run, but she loved her mother too much to make her feet move.

The squeal of the metal wheels stopped as her mother appeared in the doorway of her parent's room. Lorna Kevlar was pale, her face all angles and shadows in the dim lighting of the hall. She was breathing heavily, all her rationed energy drained to get herself there—to make it to her youngest living child.

It had been months since she had found the strength to hoist herself into the chair.

"Viera." Her eyes darted to the knife now clutched openly in her daughter's hand. "Viera." It was a quiet, broken plea. To run, to stay, to use the knife—Viera didn't know.

She looked to her mother, to the terror written all over her exhausted features. Viera's eyes darted back to her father. He was watching her, that sizzling rage making his eyes turn molten. She could see him deciding how to lash out—what tactic would get him what he wanted?

Viera kept her voice steady as she said, "Please just let me leave. I can't—I won't join the Culling. I don't want to be queen."

Her father's face was flushed with anger. The fists at his sides shook. "You have a responsibility to your country—to your family to—"

"I will not," she whispered.

His lips pulled back from his teeth in a livid snarl, "It is not a choice."

Viera nearly lost her balance on the steps as he moved towards her. Her sweaty palms caught the banister and she managed to steady herself. She dropped down a few steps. Then froze as he loomed over her.

Her mother's eyes were wide, a plea.

Carefully, Viera began sliding her foot backward, searching for the edge of the next step. Her gaze remained on her father as he retreated toward her mother. She did not know if she could leave—not now, not looking at her mother's frail body next to her father's angry hulking form.

Viera held out the knife angling the blade towards him, terrified she might use it and terrified she might not get the chance. Something flashed in his eyes, a malicious sort of recognition, as if the thought of her fighting back gave him pleasure. Like he wanted her to try it.