Page 21 of Broken & Bound

“I hate you!” The screams echoed off the walls.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Die you piece of shit.”

The sounds of shattering glass filled the room, mingled with my harsh cries. With each blow, a primal need to obliterate my past, to reduce it to nothing, consumed me. The poker connected with a deafening crack. Glass exploded outward.

For a split second, the painting remained intact behind it. His smiling face. Echoes of his voice sounded in my head. Then I swung again.

The metal tore through the canvas, splitting Sonny’s painted smile from cheek to jaw. Good. My chest burned as another scream ripped from my throat. I struck it again. And again.

The elegant ballroom mask I’d painstakingly painted all those years ago disappeared beneath jagged tears. Black paint flaked away as the canvas buckled inward. The carefully rendered tuxedo vanished beneath violent slashes.

My stomach twisted. Another swing, this time aimed at the doll—the porcelain version of me sitting obediently on his lap. Her cream-colored Victorian dress spread around her in perfect folds. Rich black curls framed a face I’d spent hours painting from memory because Sonny insisted every detail be exact.

The sight of her nearly brought me to my knees. I was just a little girl. One who knew my very breath depended on obedience. One who learned how to smile when she was terrified. One who sat perfectly still because the alternative was worse.

A furious sob escaped as I brought the poker down directly through the doll’s face. The canvas ripped with a sound that felt almost alive. I screamed louder, unintelligible words, lapsing into Italian at one point.

I wasn’t sure if I was screaming at the painting, at Sonny, or at the ghosts tormenting me. All I knew was that I had to get the sound out. To free all of us in some way. So I screamed this time for every tortured soul that met its fate at the hands of our captors.

Then I doubled down, swinging for Spring, for Summer, for Winter, for me.

The doll disappeared beneath another strike. Then another. And another. Until there was nothing left of either of them. No more monsters—no more creepy doll forever frozen in oil and canvas.

It was the death of my past. It was shredded fabric, splintered wood, and fragments scattered across the floor. And it was freeing as hell.

My arms trembled, and my lungs burned. I stood surrounded by the wreckage, tears streaming freely down my face as years of anger, grief, and helplessness poured out with them. I heaved with each breath I dragged into my lungs. Then my eyes found Pasha’s.

Beautiful brown eyes stared into the depths of my soul. Seeing me. The real me for the first time. My hands trembled, and I knew I’d made the right choice. Because beyond the concern and fear, there was resolve and appreciation.

And more importantly, genuine love. The realization wrapped around every part of me, pushing me. I turned my gaze toward the door and moved as adrenaline took over. We weren’t quite done.

A primal scream tore from my throat. Sprinting across the hall, I flung the door open and recoiled, feeling Pasha at my back. I turned, bringing the weapon up. The fire poker swung wildly, metal whistling through the air.

Pasha’s eyes widened—for a second before he moved. A sharp sound rang out as his hand closed around the rod, inches from his heart. His fingers tightened, knuckles paling, the tendons in his forearm flexed with strain. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but he held firm. He stood, his breath coming in heavy bursts.

“Isabella, it’s me.”

Three simple words cut through the haze, and I froze. My arm trembled where he held the poker between us. His eyes held mine steadily. The frantic pounding of my heart didn’t stop immediately, but the panic driving it loosened its grip.

I drew in a shaky breath. He matched it. Several more breaths passed between us. And suddenly the room sharpened back into focus. The scent of his cologne filled my nostrils, and the amber flecks in his eyes caught the light from an open window.

The tension in his shoulders eased first. Then his hand loosened around the poker. A faint look of approval crossed his face as I found my way back.

He nodded. “You’re doing so fucking good. What’s next, princess?”

“Gather the ones in the case. I want to take those with us. You’ll see why,” I said.

Pasha didn’t argue. He simply nodded and stepped around me. For the first time since entering the room, I stayed where I was and watched his every move.

The display case stood against the far wall, nearly six feet tall and crafted from dark wood. Dust coated the glass, softening the details hidden within. At least until he reached it. Then everything became painfully clear.

His hand stalled halfway to the latch. The movement was subtle, but I caught the hesitation—the need to prepare himself. With a deep breath, he carefully opened the door. The hinges groaned. His hands weren’t steady. Not even close. Slowly the realization hit, and his shoulders stiffened.

For several seconds, he simply stared. The top shelf held four dolls. One wore a half mask. Even after all these years, it was unmistakable. X. My throat tightened. The remaining three stood beside her in carefully arranged poses, each dressed in elaborate Victorian clothing.

Their painted faces stared blankly ahead, frozen in time. Forgotten by everyone, even the monster who had collected them. As he plucked them from their perch and tucked them into his arm, my mind drifted.

Who were they before? What were their names? Was anyone still searching for them? Was there a mum or dad somewhere leaving a room untouched, hoping they might return? Did they leave a porch light on, just in case?