ASTRID

CHAPTER 2

“You were threatening them with a knife to the throat.”

I swallowed hard. My father’s voice was calm. Too calm. And that was what unsettled me the most.

There was something in the way he spoke, something cold and measured, like a blade pressing against my skin. It always made my stomach twist.

“Then why did you train me?” I shot back, surprising even myself. “Why teach me how to fight if I’m not allowed to use it outside?”

I had no idea where this sudden defiance came from. I never talked back to him. Not like this.

His expression darkened. “You will stay here, Astrid. You are not allowed to leave. Whether you like it or not. Understood?”

His voice rang with finality, like a door slamming shut.

“But why!?” I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms.

Why did we have to hide like rats? Why did he keep me locked away while his men could come and go? What was out there that he refused to let me see?

I didn’t understand his motives. Why was he keeping me here? What was he so afraid of?

“Just listen and follow, Astrid,” he said, his tone sharp as steel. “You will stay here. And stop acting like a child—threatening my people—”

“I wasn’t threatening them,” I cut in, my voice rising. “I was asking for information.”

“Then stop asking.” His eyes darkened, his next words hitting like a hammer. “You will not step outside this place ever again.”

The weight of his command pressed against my chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

My heart clenched. I didn’t understand. It was like staring at a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Before, Hillary had been allowed to do whatever she wanted. She had freedom, choices.

But me?

Why was he treating me like this? Why was he locking me away like some prisoner?

“I can’t believe you!” My voice cracked as I pointed a trembling finger at him. “You—” The words caught in my throat, too heavy, too sharp.

“You’re the worst!” I finally spat, voice breaking.

Without waiting for his reaction, I stormed out of the office, slamming the heavy wooden door behind me. The sound echoed like a gunshot through the cold, stone hall. Let him rage. Let him tear the whole place down. I didn’t care anymore.

My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my skin as I stalked down the corridor. My chest burned. My throat ached from holding back the scream clawing its way up.

This life... it sucks. No, this isn’t life at all. Life isn’t supposed to be a cage.

I stopped outside the training room—my so-called “sanctuary.” It was just down the hall, hidden in the underground wing of my father’s estate. A place few dared to go.

The door was thick, reinforced steel, its surface cold and smooth beneath my palm. I pushed it open with a grunt.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of metal, sweat, and old blood. The room was vast, its stone walls lined with racks of weapons—swords, daggers, staffs, and guns. Dim, flickering lights embedded in the ceiling cast shadows that danced along the floor. The floor itself was a dull gray mat, worn down from years of combat drills.

In one corner stood a mannequin riddled with knife marks. Across from it, a row of punching bags hung like silent sentries. Scars from blades and bullets marred the walls—silent proof of every rage, every moment of weakness, every fight fought within these walls.

This was the only place where I felt in control. Where I wasn’t just his daughter—his prisoner.

And right now, I needed that control.

I stalked toward the row of punching bags, my breaths ragged, my vision blurring with the sting of unshed tears. Without thinking, I drew back my fist and slammed it into the nearest one.

The impact sent a jolt up my arm, but it wasn’t enough.

Again.

And again.

I hit it harder each time, the sound of flesh against leather echoing in the empty room. My knuckles burned, but I didn’t stop. I wanted to destroy it. Tear it apart. Rip it open until there was nothing left.

In my mind, it wasn’t just a bag anymore. It was his face. His cold, unfeeling eyes. His voice that dripped with control and power.

“I hate you,” I whispered through clenched teeth, slamming my fist once more. “I hate you.”

Breathing heavily, I staggered back, my fists trembling. But the rage... it was still there, burning hotter than ever.

I turned, eyes locking onto the gun rack.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the pistol—my favorite. My hands knew its weight, its cold, deadly comfort. I loaded it swiftly, the familiar click loud in the stillness.

Lining up the sight, I aimed at the red targets painted on the far stone wall.

Then, I pulled the trigger.

The sharp crack of gunfire tore through the air, deafening and sharp. The bullet struck dead center.

Again.

Another shot—perfect. Clean. No hesitation.

Each bullet hit its mark, the red center blooming like blood against stone.

The sound echoed, bouncing off the walls, drowning out the screaming in my head. For once, I didn’t miss. Not even once. Every shot was flawless.

The targets were shredded, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

But it was the only thing I could control.

And right now, control was all I had left.