Beautiful Surrender (Whispering Oaks Ranch #2)

Prologue

Callie

? Never Let Me Go - Florence + The Machine

Sixteen years old

We were happy once; at least, I think we were.

Before my dad died.

Before Clio left me.

Before each day started to blur into the last, marred by unending grief and pain.

There’s this distant memory I cling to on my worst days: Clio and me sitting on either side of my dad’s lap as he reads to us about princesses and happy endings.

He’d do all of the voices and linger on the pictures so we could point out our favorite parts.

Try as I might, I can’t remember his voice anymore.

When he died, I stopped believing in them—happy endings, I mean.

There were no happy endings after that. Not for me. I’m not a princess, and there’s no knight in shining armor coming to rescue me. Not now, not ever. I still search for them in books; it’s the only escape I have from this hell I’m living in.

There’s a pit in my stomach as I tiptoe out of my bedroom, glancing down the hallway between the open doors. The house is quiet for once—no sign of my mother or her deranged husband. If they were home, I’d know it before I left my bedroom.

I take another tentative step. My eyes catch on an old family photo hanging on the wall.

I was still a baby, oblivious to the world’s cruelties and what would become of our lives after our father passed.

Before Rodney arrived, and before Clio left.

I wish I could remember more of those days—long before pain became a constant companion.

My stomach growls, urging me forward. I haven’t eaten since I got home from school, afraid someone might say something about my weight again. My stomach has been vehemently protesting my decision for the last hour.

I pad into the kitchen and set the frying pan on the stove to heat up. With any luck, I’ll have dinner made and put away before anybody knows I was here. If I’m really lucky, maybe they won't come home at all.

It takes about five minutes to make my grilled cheese. I slice it down the middle—diagonally, of course—and set the plate on the kitchen island. Only monsters cut sandwiches any other way.

I know a thing or two about monsters.

As I take my first bite, the front door crashes open. The doorknob embeds into the wall, leaving yet another gaping hole in the plaster. My entire body freezes as my stepfather barrels inside in another one of his alcohol-fueled rages. He must’ve been at the casino again.

“Where’s your mother?” Rodney bellows.

My body jolts from the sheer force of his anger. I should be used to this by now.

I calmly set down my grilled cheese and stand, inching backward to put some distance between my greatest tormentor and me. "I—I don’t know."

"Then you better get your ass in there and make my dinner, girl."

"O-ok." I creep around the far side of the island, careful not to let him out of my sight. If I let my guard down, this will end in disaster.

My shoulders draw up as he steps over to the fridge, way too close for comfort, and pulls out a beer. I set the pan back on the burner and turn on the element. Each tick of the clock feels like an ominous countdown.

My skin prickles. There’s something off tonight, a heady feeling of dread settling deep in my bones.

The chair legs scrape against the tile as he pulls out a stool beside the one I’d been using. He slams the beer against the counter. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

"S–sorry. Is grilled cheese ok?"

I learned long ago that it’s best to measure every word before I speak to mitigate their reactions. Head down, short sentences, stay quiet and submissive.

"Shut the fuck up and cook."

My bottom lip quivers. I have no choice but to turn my back on him as I pull open the cutlery drawer. I pause with my hand hovering above the utensils, my eyes snagging on the sharpened edge of a knife blade. One slice. One cut could be my ticket to freedom. His… or mine.

I pick up the paring knife and set it on the countertop with trembling hands. Inhaling a breath to compose myself, I get to work making two grilled cheese sandwiches. When the underside is perfectly golden, I slip the spatula beneath the first one and flip it.

"What the hell is taking so long?" Rodney’s thunderous rage distracts me.

The sandwich falls onto the handle of the frying pan, sending it careening to the floor.

My instincts take over, and I drop to the tile along with it as Rodney hurls himself around the island. I bring my hands up to protect my face, waiting for the first blow.

It doesn’t come.

His fist wraps tight around my hair. I let out a cry as he pulls me up by my ponytail until his face is less than an inch away from mine. "You incompetent little bitch. I guess you need to be reminded how things are done around here."

With one hand still tangled in my hair, he reaches for his belt buckle as his rage-filled eyes bore into me, cold and unyielding.

“No. No. Please. I’ll fix it.” I manage a few shallow breaths as fear threatens to suffocate me. "Just let me go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to."

"You never mean to. You’re useless! Just like your mother."

Tonya Anderson. My mother. Both a victim and an enabler. She’s never once protected me from her husband.

Tears fall in earnest now as my body shakes uncontrollably.

I look around for an escape. My eyes catch on the knife sitting on the cutting board.

Time seems to slow. The leather slips through his belt loops with an ominous swish.

My fingers inch along the wood grain, and I wrap my fist around the handle.

“I can’t mess up that pretty little face of yours, but that don’t mean I can’t find other ways to punish you.”

My knees slam against the tile as he shoves me back to the floor. The belt snaps against my back with a deafening crack. I hardly have time to register the pain before he rears back and brings another one down.

I only have seconds, maybe less, to decide what happens next.

Him or me.

Unable to draw in a breath, I close my eyes and swing. The blade slices through his neck with a sickening crunch. Rodney releases my hair and claws at the wound, the knife still sticking out of him as he gasps for air.

I scramble away, dragging my bloody palms against the slick tile. His body slumps sideways. Thick, red blood pools around his prone figure.

"What have I done?" My voice is low and ragged.

Get up, Callie.

I stand on shaky legs and make my way to the bathroom in a daze, frantically washing the blood from my hands. By the time I’m finished, my fingertips are red and raw, but my hands will never be clean.

Running to my bedroom, I change my clothes and shove as much stuff as I can fit into my backpack, including the shoe box full of money I’d been stashing from my part-time job at the diner.

I was planning to leave as soon as I saved up enough for an apartment, but this will have to do.

I might not get far, but I can’t stay here. There’s no other option but to run.

The framed photo on my nightstand catches my attention, and my heart squeezes at the portrait of me and my sister, Clio.

I wish I could go to her, but I don’t know where she is.

She ran away from this hell years ago. Despite her promise to return for me, she never did.

I remove the picture from the frame and tuck it between the pages of my favorite book, shoving it into my bag with the rest of my belongings.

I press my ear to the door for a few moments and creep into the hallway, peering around the corner to the kitchen. Rodney hasn’t moved from his slumped position. If he’s not already dead, he will be soon. I tiptoe past the gruesome scene and out the front door.

The second my feet hit the pavement, I run.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t go back. Sirens wail in the distance, and my heart thunders.

They know.

They know, and they're coming for me.

I turn onto a rural street leading out of town, moving as fast as my legs can carry me. I don’t stop until my lungs are burning and my legs give out, sending me crumpling to my knees.

I let out a horrifying wail as the weight of what I’ve done bears down on me.

I’m a murderer.

No.

It was him or me. I did what I had to do to survive.

Somewhere on the outskirts of Pennsylvania, I withdraw my most recent paycheck and stock up on crappy gas station snacks. I grab a pair of scissors near the checkout and add them to my pile, too.

A few miles down the street, I spot a shitty roadside motel. The lobby smells like mold and cigarettes, but what choice do I have? I have nowhere to go, no family to speak of.

The front desk clerk flips through a newspaper as I approach the desk. He doesn’t bother to look up. “Seventy-five bucks a night. Cash or card?”

“Cash.”

“It’s an extra one-hundred-dollar deposit for incidentals, and I’ll need to see some ID.”

I hand the clerk my fake ID, grateful when he doesn’t look twice or ask questions. He hands me a key dangling off a plastic keychain. “You’re in room 110. Go back outside and turn right. You’re halfway down the row beside the ice machine.”

“Thank you.”

The room is small, with a double bed taking up the center. It smells faintly of bleach, but it’s overpowered by that same moldy smell from the lobby. There’s a mysterious stain on the ceiling, and the bathroom door doesn’t close all the way.

When I glance in the mirror above the sink, I barely recognize the broken girl staring back at me through hollow eyes.

I bring the scissors to my hair and draw in a steadying breath.

I can still feel Rodney’s fist gripping it as he shoved me to the floor, still hear the sound of the belt whipping across my back as he held me down.

The first cut feels like agony; the second comes with a sweet release.

Unwanted tears stream down my cheeks as I desperately shred away every ounce of vulnerability. With each cut, I shed another piece of my past until sad, defenseless Calliope Marsden no longer exists.

The scissors clatter to the floor as I let out an agonizing wail. My back hits the wall, and I slide down. It should hurt. I should be writhing in pain from the deep welts across my back, but the physical pain holds no power over me anymore. I’ve become numb to it.

I run my fingers through the shorter strands, staring down at the discarded locks of dark hair surrounding me.

Sorrow wanes, giving way to a profound sense of relief.

I might be running on borrowed time, but I’ll take this moment of freedom over living another day trapped in that hell, even if I die trying.