The Lost Queen

Chapter Three

Warning: Abuse and Language

Daya's P.O.V.

I woke up around 6:00 AM so I could cook breakfast and leave early for school to get my ID. I had already texted Carter James, the human selling me the fake ID, to meet me at the school at 7:00 AM because it takes him about 30 minutes to make one during technology class.

I stuffed the small black box with my passport and money into my backpack, just in case someone decided to go through my room. I quietly walked up the stairs, trying not to wake any of the pack members. I managed to make it out the front door in one piece and started on my way to school.

When I arrived, I headed straight for the Technology class where Carter should be. The halls were empty, with only the janitor and maybe the principal around. Once I entered the classroom, I looked around and found Carter typing rapidly at a computer. I walked up to him and spoke softly,

"Hi, umm... is it done?"

He looked up, startled by my sudden presence.

His glasses were slipping off the tip of his nose, but he slid them back up with a quick swipe of his finger. He was cute, with his curly brown hair and brown eyes hidden behind the glasses. I'd always had a small crush on him because he was the only one who had ever been kind to me. But I knew we could never be together.

He smiled at me before returning to his typing. "Hey, Daya. It's just going to take one more minute, then I'm done."

I nodded, even though he couldn't see, and sat down next to him, watching his fingers move over the keyboard. I could've done it myself, but I didn't have the resources and was afraid of getting caught. I was a straight-A student, and I could've graduated and gone to any college, but my parents insisted I have the "high school experience." Bullshit. They just wanted me locked away here.

True to his word, Carter was done in a minute and handed me the ID, which looked incredibly real. I thanked him and glanced at the clock. It was only 7:15 AM. I decided to head to the library to kill time and study.

School was the same as always—nothing special. When the day was finally over, I came home and cooked and cleaned. I hadn't seen my main abuser, my father, at all today. The beatings hadn't been as bad lately, and I had a feeling something was off. But it didn't matter because I was leaving tonight.

I lay in bed with my backpack ready, packed with everything I could carry. It was already 11:30 PM, but I wanted to wait until midnight to be sure everyone was asleep. Sitting here doing nothing made me reflect on all the horrible things I had endured in this house.

~Flashback~

I was 16 years old and wanted to run away from home. I had packed my bags and was ready to leave. But before I went, I knew I had to tell my parents. It didn't go well.

It was noon, and I had just finished making lunch for everyone. I walked upstairs to the second floor of the three-story pack house, where my parents' room was. If I passed anyone, I kept my head down and stepped out of their way, just like I was taught.

I lightly knocked on the door and stepped back, waiting for it to open. My backpack was slung over my shoulder, and I wore my usual sweater and jeans, along with my black Converse shoes.

"Come in," I heard my father shout from the other side of the door, causing me to jump.

I slowly opened the door and peeked inside. My father and mother were lying on the bed, cuddling and watching television. When they saw me, a frown instantly spread across their faces.

"What?" my father scowled, untangling himself from my mother and standing up, crossing his arms. My mother followed his lead.

I was shaking with fear. How was I supposed to tell them I didn't want to be here anymore? That I couldn't take the abuse? I took a deep breath and spoke,

"I-I don't want to be here anymore... P-Please let m-me go, please," I begged, looking at both of them with pleading eyes.

I thought I saw my mother's eyes soften, but it was gone as soon as a furious growl tore through the room, replaced by a glare. My father rushed toward me, grabbing my arms and pulling me out of the room.

"Please, Daddy, please," I begged again, using the name I used to call him before he first hit me.

He never allowed me to call him "Dad" or "Daddy." Only "Sir" or "Father." I'd rather call him "Sir" because he was nothing close to a father to me. I thought that using "Daddy" might make him feel something, but it only angered him more.

"Don't call me that!" he screamed in my face, grabbing my hair and yanking me down the hall.

It felt like he was trying to pull my hair from my scalp as he dragged me down the stairs toward the cellar. I knew what was coming next.

"No! Please stop! I'm sorry!" I sobbed, struggling against his grip.

From the commotion, I could see pack members gathering to watch, enjoying my suffering. I glanced behind me to see my mother following us, her face blank.

"Help me... please," I begged her again, exhausted from being dragged down the stairs, from the yelling and crying.

When we reached the cellar doors, he flung them open and threw me inside. He slammed the door behind us and kicked me in the side repeatedly, causing me to spit up blood. I cowered on the floor, sobbing, but it didn't stop him. He kept kicking, shouting, and punching me.

After another 10 to 15 minutes of relentless beating, he finally stopped. He dragged my limp body toward a wall where silver shackles were waiting, cuffing me by my wrists and ankles. As soon as the silver touched my skin, I let out a blood-curdling scream. The pain was unbearable, the silver sinking into my flesh. My wrists and ankles were raw. I sat on the floor, numb from the agony. I looked up at my father's furious face and spit the blood from my mouth onto his shoes.

He let out a threatening growl and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I was left in that room for a whole week without food or water.

That had been the worst beating I'd ever gotten. It was why I was so afraid of leaving again and getting caught.

I reached up to touch my face, feeling the wetness of tears streaming down my cheeks. I hurriedly wiped my eyes and checked the time.

11:57 PM. My phone read.

I grabbed my bag and made my way up the basement steps, careful not to make too much noise. Before opening the door, I heard a furious, menacing howl in the night that shook the entire house. It sounded like a declaration of war.

Oh, shit.