Destined ~ Volturi Kings ~ (A Twilight Fanfic)

Chapter Twenty-One

*Addi's POV*

I stood in the cramped kitchen of my home in Portland, Oregon, the familiar scent of garlic and rosemary filling the air as I prepared dinner. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables provided a fleeting sense of calm, a fragile peace that shattered when I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. A jolt of fear coursed through me and my heart raced as I instinctively tightened my grip on the knife.

With a slow, trembling exhale, I turned to see my father, Derek, stepping into the kitchen, in his detective attire. The shadows cast by the setting sun framed his silhouette, making him appear larger than life, imposing and menacing. "Hi, Dad. I just finished making dinner." I said, with my voice wavering slightly as I forced a smile that felt brittle against the tension in the room. "Yeah, well, I've had a hard day at work. You better have made something good." He grumbled, his tone heavy with irritation. As I set the cooked chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, and vibrant green vegetables on the table, my hands trembled, betraying the calm facade I tried to maintain. The way he spoke felt like a warning, a reminder of the power he held over me.

Seated at the table, Derek poured himself a generous glass of wine, as his movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring each drop. "So, how was school today?" He asked, with his voice slurring slightly, oblivious to the fact that it was spring break. My heart sank; I could hardly remember the last time he had shown genuine interest in my life. "It was good." I replied, with the lie slipping off my tongue too easily, while I met his gaze, searching for any sign of recognition, but found only the dull haze of alcohol clouding his expression.

As we finished our meal, I gathered the plates and the half-empty bottle of wine, while my movements were mechanical and anxious. Each clatter of porcelain felt like a reminder of the unspoken tension that hung heavily in the air, suffocating and oppressive. The silence between us was thick, filled with an anticipation that made my skin crawl. I glanced at my father, who was leaning back in his chair, with his eyes half-closed and sweating, as the remnants of his earlier irritation fading into a dull haze.

With a deep breath, I made my way to the sink, with my hands trembling as I stacked the dishes. The clanking of the plates echoed in my ears, each sound amplifying my unease. As I placed the half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, I felt a flicker of defiance surge within me—a desire to pour the remaining wine down the sink, to rid our home of its bitter influence.

But before I could act on that impulse, my father's voice pierced through the moment like a knife. "You think I'm done with that, girl?" He snapped, with his tone sharp and accusatory, without even bothering to look at me. The words hung in the air, heavy with an unspoken threat. I felt the familiar chill of dread washed over me, a sensation I had come to know all too well. "I—I was going to pour some more for you, dad." I stammered, forcing the words out as my insides twisted with fear. The lie felt like a bitter pill, but I knew better than to show any hesitation. I clutched the bottle of wine tightly, with its cool glass a stark contrast to the heat of my rising anxiety as I headed back to the table.

With careful precision, I poured a generous amount into his glass, with the deep red liquid swirling ominously. My father finally looked up, with his gaze locking onto me with a mix of scrutiny and indifference. "You better not waste it." He muttered, taking a long swig from the glass, his lips curling around the rim as if he were savoring a forbidden treasure. I felt a sickening knot form in my stomach, with a blend of fear and resentment coiling tightly within me.

After pouring the wine into his glass, I retreated to my chair, with my palms clammy against the cool wood. But when I looked up, I found him staring at me intently, with his expression a sharpened edge that made my heart race. "You have that look on your face. What is that look for?" He said harshly, with his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife. I could feel my pulse quicken as the anxiety clawed at my throat. I took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm my nerves. "There's no look that I have, dad." I replied, with my voice steadier than I felt. But the moment the words left my mouth, I could see the skepticism in his blue eyes, the way he leaned forward slightly, as if he were a predator sizing up his prey.