Broken Beyond Belief

Chapter 3:Monday Morning

Mira’s POV

I’m jerked awake at 6 AM by Jacob’s voice.

“Get up, you worthless runt!” he yells.

I barely have a moment to comprehend his presence before ice-cold water crashes over me, drenching my already damp clothes from the night before. The shock of it sends violent shivers down my spine, my body locking up as the chill seeps into my bones.

I scramble upright, standing to attention on instinct.

“Breakfast should’ve been ready ten minutes ago, b***h! We just got back from training with Caleb, and you’re still in bed?” His voice is full of disgust.

I open my mouth to stammer out some excuse, but the words die in my throat when I meet his glare. That look—the one that promises pain if I say the wrong thing—keeps me silent. I drop my gaze and bow my head in submission.

Jacob huffs, satisfied, before storming out of the room.

The moment he’s gone, I move. My soaked clothes stick to my freezing skin, making me tremble harder, and every step reminds me of last night’s punishment. The raw blisters on my feet burn as they press against the wooden floorboards, and I wince with each movement. But I can’t stop.

I have work to do.

Downstairs, the moment I step into the kitchen, the atmosphere shifts. The conversation at the table halts, and three pairs of eyes lock onto me with matching expressions of contempt.

“Move it, you stupid cunt,” Joshua sneers.

“Yeah, come on, you worthless little b***h,” Nathan chimes in.

I keep my head down and hurry toward the fridge, ignoring the knot in my stomach as I pull out ingredients. Monday mornings mean training, and training means they want their usual—pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausages, scones, fruit bowls, and toast with homemade jam. Luckily, I remembered to prepare the jams yesterday, or I’d be in even more trouble.

As I set the bacon and sausages in the pan, I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking the batter for pancakes. My movements are automatic, practiced—survival.

The boys resume their conversation, no longer paying attention to me.

“Hey, did you see Chantelle and Caleb last night?” Nathan says with a laugh. “They were going at it—hard.”

“Yeah, I’ll be surprised if she can even walk this morning,” Jacob snickers.

“She wasn’t the only one he pounded,” Joshua adds, grinning. “I saw him disappear later with Steph too.”

“No way! That dog,” Nathan chuckles.

Their laughter fills the kitchen as I quietly plate their food. I’m grateful when they’re like this—distracted, entertained. When they’re happy, they pay less attention to me, and that’s always a good thing.

As I finish serving the last plate, I hear the heavy footsteps of my father, Jasper.

He walks into the kitchen and settles onto a stool by the counter, saying nothing. He doesn’t acknowledge the boys. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he simply pours himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he lifts it to his lips.

I hesitate for a moment before turning back to the stove. I drop two more slices of bacon into the pan and grab a couple of pancakes from the table. Once the bacon is ready, I plate them up and carefully carry the dish over to him.

“Father,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Maybe you should eat something today.” I set the plate down in front of him. “It’s important to keep your strength up.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. It’s like I don’t exist.

I swallow hard, trying again.

“Dad, please—”

A shadow looms over me before I can finish, and I barely have time to register Jacob standing beside me, his expression dark and vicious.

“Don’t call him that,” he growls. “He’s not your dad.”

I clench my fists.

I know I should let it go. I know pushing back will only make things worse. But something inside me snaps.

“He is my father,” I spit back, turning to face him. “And this is my business. Don’t you see? He’s killing himself! If this doesn’t stop, he’ll—”

SLAP!

The force of the blow sends me crashing to the floor. A sharp sting spreads across my cheek, and warmth trickles down my face—I can taste the blood on my lips.

For a moment, my vision is blurry from unshed tears.

I expect to see Jacob standing over me, but when I look up, it’s Joshua.

His eyes burn with rage.

“Mind your f*****g place, you worthless little b***h,” he snarls. “Who the f**k do you think you are, talking to Jake like that?”

I press my palm to my stinging cheek, my whole body trembling. I want to scream at them, to fight back—to tell them I am Jasper’s daughter and that I’m the only one who even cares about him anymore.

But I don’t dare.

Fear keeps me frozen. I stay on the floor, head bowed, hands clenched.

Jacob crouches down and tosses a crumpled piece of paper beside me.

“Well, Mira, you know the rules,” he says, voice mocking. “No school with bruises. And that one’s gonna leave a hell of a mark. So instead—” He gestures toward the list. “You’ve got plenty to do today.”

I don’t need to read it. I already know what it says.

Deep clean the kitchen. Scrub the toilets. Bleach the tiles. Wash the curtains. Polish the silver. Dust everything. Wipe down the banisters and skirting boards. Vacuum the entire house. Do the laundry. Iron everything. And, of course, make sure dinner is cooked and on the table by 4 PM sharp.

I nod numbly, reaching for the list.

I knew I wouldn’t be going to school today. I hardly ever got to attend. And even if I hadn’t been hit this morning, last night’s bruises already guaranteed I wouldn’t be allowed out.

It wasn’t just their rule—it was Hayleigh’s. And even in death, her rules were still law in this house.

I don’t argue. I don’t cry.

I just pick myself up, wipe the blood from my mouth, and get to work.

Because that’s all I can do.

I stand up and begin to make my way out of the kitchen when Joshua’s voice cuts through the hallway like a whip.

“And before you do anything else… clean this f*****g mess up, b***h! I don’t want this house covered in your filth—we’ll catch a disease!”

With that, the front door slams shut, rattling the walls as the boys leave for school.

Confused, I rush into the hallway—then I see it.

Bloodied footprints trail from my room to the kitchen, stark against the worn wooden floor. Another reminder of last night’s grueling walk. My stomach twists. I hadn’t even noticed I was leaving a trail. How much blood have I lost? How much more can I afford to lose?

Then another realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

I have no clothes left.

Last night, the ‘hit squad’ of Hellhounds tore up what little I had left—my only set of clothes, even my swimsuit. Gone and then this morning Jacob drenched what little I had left, a spare hoodie and some battered pyjamas. My stomach clenches. So much for slivers of happiness. Sometimes, I worry I’ll die before I ever actually experience it—happiness.

I swallow hard and race upstairs. My hands shake as I grab the last of my bandages, wrapping them tightly around my feet. The pressure sends sharp stabs of pain up my legs, but I grit my teeth and force myself to finish. I’ll need to swipe more bandages from the pack hospital soon—maybe tomorrow if I get the chance. But not today. There’s no time, and I already know I won’t be going to school for the next few days anyway. Not with these bruises. Not with these cuts.

I glance at the clock. If I’m quick, I can make it.

Slipping out the back door, I keep my head down and start the long walk to the pack village.

Our pack is large and sprawling, with the Pack House perched on a hill, surrounded by dense forest. Below that, nestled in clusters, are the main settlements—rows of luxurious wooden cabins that house most of the pack’s families. The village itself sits at the center, complete with a few local stores, the school, the nursery, and other necessities. The hospital is closer to the Pack House, while the training grounds, gym, and leisure center stretch toward the outskirts.

Then there are houses like ours.

The forgotten homes on the edge of the border, far from the heart of the pack, isolated and easy to ignore.

The donation bin sits near the village square. If I’m lucky, I can grab something—anything—to wear.

If I’m lucky.

I push forward, every step a battle against the screaming protests of my torn feet. The cold seeps into my bones, numbing my fingers, my face. I pull my soaked hoodie tighter around me, but it does nothing to stop the shivers racking my body.

I need to move faster.

I need to stay hidden.

If the boys find out I left without finishing my chores, I’ll pay for it. If they catch me outside with bruises, it’ll be worse.

But if I don’t do this, if I don’t find something to wear, my body will betray me before they ever get the chance. I can’t work if I can’t move. And if I can’t work…

I shake the thought away and push on.

Five miles. Just five miles. And then I’ll have clothes... Maybe even shoes.

I just have to make it there first.