My Fated Mate Can Have Her Chapter 197: Father

Rowan

"Why are you so scared of , Father?"

The question had been sitting in my chest for so long that when it finally slipped out, it surprised even .

I was young. Too young to understand the full weight of what I was asking, but old enough to notice the way his eyes changed whenever they landed on . The servants’ children would speak of their fathers with warmth, admiration, and the simple uncomplicated love that ca from being held and protected.

I didn’t know what that felt like.

So I asked.

And for a mont, he just stared at .

His face went through a different range of emotions, or maybe it was just the discomfort of being seen clearly by a child who should have been too young to notice anything at all.

Then he hit .

Again, and again, and again.

If I cried out, or even made any sound at all, Mother would hear.

She would co running, and then Father’s attention would shift.

It was good to be silent.

I let him spend his fury on , blow after blow, until his breathing grew ragged and his arm began to tire. I watched his face the whole ti, searching for sothing I couldn’t na. An answer, maybe. An explanation for why my existence made him so angry.

He didn’t like when I did that.

Maybe if I reacted how a normal child would react, would he stop?

He grabbed by the collar of my shirt and dragged across the floor. My body scraped against stone, and I watched the ceiling pass overhead, the familiar cracks and shadows I had morized long ago.

The closet door opened.

He threw inside, and the door slamd shut with a sound that echoed through my bones. The lock clicked into place, and then there was only darkness.

I sat there with my back against the wall, my knees drawn to my chest, and waited.

It was tiring, sitting in the dark like this.

From sowhere beyond the door, I heard my mother scream, enraged.

I tried to move, but my body failed to cooperate. Until I looked down and saw the blood pooling beneath .

It spread slowly across the dark floor, black in the absence of light, and I watched it with a distant sort of curiosity. I hadn’t even noticed the wounds. It was strange, even as darkness swallowed whole.

[ - ]

The bird was a small thing, with a heartbeat so rapid I could feel it thrumming against my palm like a tiny drum. It had landed on my outstretched hand without fear, drawn perhaps by the stillness I had cultivated.

I stroked its head with one finger, careful to keep my touch light. Gentle. The way I wished Father would touch .

"Young Lord, please..."

Ezra’s voice cracked on the words, and I looked up to find tears streaming down his face. He was supposed to be teaching today, but his hands trembled where they rested on the open book in his lap, and his eyes were fixed not on the pages but on .

On my arms.

I glanced down at them, following his gaze. The cuts were still visible, red lines crisscrossing my skin in swollen patterns.

Why was he behaving like this? The wounds would heal.

They always healed faster than they should. Faster than was natural. Father hated that most of all, I think. No matter how much damage he inflicted, my body would knit itself back together, erasing the evidence of his fury like it had never happened.

It made him hit harder each ti.

Or maybe he didn’t like that I was larger than most children?

"Don’t cry, Ezra. It makes you look older."

Ezra shook his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He wanted to say sothing.

He never got the chance.

The door swung open, and the bird startled from my hand, wings beating frantically as it escaped through the window.

Father stood in the doorway.

"You were using the sword again today, boy."

His voice was quiet. That was always more dangerous than shouting.

I said nothing. I really didn’t know what to say.

He had forbidden from training and going hunting, but I had only been a bit curious about the sword. I hadn’t done anything wrong or trained.

He stopped in front of .

I still said nothing. There was nothing to say. He wasn’t looking for an explanation. All he just needed was a reason to do what he was already going to do.

His gaze shifted to Ezra, and sothing ugly twisted his features.

"You. Get out."

Ezra scrambled to his feet, nearly dropping the book in his haste and backed toward the door.

His foot caught on the edge of the rug and he stumbled to the floor, injuring himself.

Father moved toward him, and I knew exactly what was coming.

I was between them before I consciously decided to move.

The blow ant for his younger beta landed on my face instead.

I let him have his way with , glad Ezra had managed to flee.

When it was over, Father stood there, staring at with sothing that might have been hatred.

Or might have been fear.

The difference no longer mattered at this point.

[ - ]

The closet had beco familiar.

I knew every crack in the walls, every splinter in the wooden door, every way the shadows moved when light crept through the gap at the bottom. I knew how the air grew stale after an hour, how the cold seeped up from the floor after two, and how my legs would cramp if I sat the sa way for too long.

I knew the sounds, too.

Through the thin walls, I could hear everything that happened in my father’s chambers. The clink of glasses. The murmur of voices. The rustle of fabric and the creak of the bed.

Tonight, the voice was that of a woman different from the others he would bring in.