Heir of Broken Fate by Mads Rafferty EPUB & PDF

Heir of Broken Fate by Mads Rafferty EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online

  • Status: Available for Free Download
  • Author: Mads Rafferty
  • Language: English
  • Genre: Epic Fantasy
  • Format: PDF/ EPUB
  • Size: 2 MB
  • Price: Free

No matter how strong I get, I always end up here.
Lifeless, helpless, and hopeless.
I feel it physically first, the burn in my cheek as my skin tears
open. The protests of my ribs fighting to stay intact. The blast throughout
my body as my knees hit the marble floor and the indescribable pain of my
lungs screaming for air as it’s stolen from me.
My body sees it coming before I do, locking up every muscle until I’m
frozen in place, my blood slowing in preparation to pour out of me. No
matter how much I scream no sound slips between my lips. Never mind
screaming, it will never do any good. I can never move, never fight. Not
with him, never with him.

My father is beating me again.
The one who’s supposed to protect me, cherish me, and love me is the
one who breaks me every day. Chipping tiny pieces away until I’m nothing
but a broken shell of what I used to be. I can never do any good, because it
is never enough.

“How dare you disrespect me with such filth!” he booms, the heel of his
boot connecting with my stomach.
I don’t dare speak, for the fear of his fists never stopping until I’m
buried six feet underground.
“You’re an embarrassment to this family. You should be ashamed of
yourself,” he seethes.

Shame? No.
I never feel anything when this happens—not emotionally. Just the brute
force of my father’s assault on my body. It’s as if my heart can’t bear to
witness, so it checks out until my father is long gone.
I’m not sure what I did to earn this particular beating. Perhaps it was my
horrible training lesson this afternoon. My father doesn’t view mistakes as a
normal human experience; he sees it as an abomination to not be a perfectly
unflawed person.

However, I don’t see Easton running to tell him about my little mistake
today. He hates my father more than I do.
My father retracts, straightening his rumpled tunic as he slowly eases
himself into the dining room chair. Gently picking up the silver cutlery
beside his plate, he cuts into his roast, as if nothing happened.
He snaps his fingers once, twice. “Take care of it.”
It. Not daughter.

Servants are next to me in a flash, gentle hands under my arms lifting
me to a standing position. I steal a glance toward my mother, who
predictably is staring at nothing. She hasn’t been mentally present in a long
time, let alone ever stopped this. If she didn’t wear the same bruises I do,
I’d hate her more than him for sitting by silently while her only daughter is
beaten to a bloody pulp.

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