Princess (Ziam)

Hurt

Sorry this took a while. Struggled with this chapter a bit.

Anyway, here's the update! Hope you all enjoy 😸

Chapter 31:

"Whose clothes are those?" I heard as soon as I walked into the house, and I looked over to see my dad on the couch, his eyes still trained on the TV as he spoke to me. "Because they sure as hell aren't yours." He said, standing up as he flicked the TV off, and I froze in my spot as he looked at me. "Unless you somehow slipped by your mum and I coming home this morning."

I lowered my eyes to the floor, feeling the familiar aching of my nody begin to build, eventhough he hasn't hit me yet. I was just use to it. I knew what to expect before it even came. It's all I've known for years, and I was still afraid of it.

"Are you going to answer me or just stand there like the fucking idiot you are?" My dad sneered, moving toward me, and I stepped away, attempting to go to my room, but he caught my arm, gripping it so tightly I let out a yelp.

"Whose are they? One of the disgusting fags you let fuck you?" He asked, his tone full of hatred. His grip on my arm hurt to the point that bruises were sure to form, and I didn't know if it was a bad thing that the only thing I thought about was how to hide them.

"N-no, I just-" I began, but his hand came up to grab my cheeks harshly, stopping me from talking.

"I don't want to hear your lies. Your mum sure as hell didn't buy them, and you can't say you got them anywhere else but from some asshole little shit who decided you were good enough for a lay." He spat out, and it made me rethink the intimate moment Zayn and I had last night. Maybe that was his goal.

But no. Zayn wouldn't have been so gentle. He wouldn't have settled for the minimum that I offered. He wouldn't have denied himself the ultimate pleasure that I got to receive. He wouldn't have spoken to me so tenderly. He wouldn't have shared such an intimate story if that was his only goal.

"Take them off." He said as he stepped back, and I was frozen in shock and confusion. "I will not allow you to wear those fucking clothes in my house! Take. Them. Off.... Now!" He roared, pushing me back against the wall.

"B-but d-dad-"

"You're not my son!" He spat, and I think a part of me knew that. A part of me knew that I was nothing to him anymore, but the other part - the part that remembered when my dad would show pride and joy whenever I accomplished a small task - that part missed the man I called my father.

I stood still, completely still. Not making a move to take the clothes off at all, and my dad's face filled with rage at my disobedience. I felt fear creep up on me as he dug into his pocket, and I felt the stiff scabbing of the burn marks on my neck. But what he pulled out wasn't a lighter, but a pocket knife.

I attempted to run away, but he caught me by the shoulder, fighting me back against the wall, and I continued to struggle until I felt cold metal against my kneck. I froze. Barely even breathing as I felt the blade resting on my throat, my dad's sinister smile matching his hateful eyes.

"I'm not going to tell you again. Take the damn clothes off. Or give me this satisfaction." He hissed, and I swallowed thickly, feeling the way he pressed the edge a bit deeper into my skin, not enough to cut, but enough to scrape and sting.

He stepped back as I moved to pull the shirt over my head, smirking in achievement. He held his hand out for the shirt, and I gave it over, feeling a part of me break with the action. He waited as I stepped out of my shoes and socks before I took the pants off as well, handing them over to him and shivering in fear as I stood in boxers alone.