"Get up, damn it!"

My eyes snapped open immediately. I found myself staring into the angry, black eyes of my father. He was more than annoyed, and I knew trouble was brewing. I tried to scramble up from the bed, but he gripped my arm with such force that I yelped in pain. He dragged me off the bed and threw me onto the floor. The impact sent waves of pain through my arm, but I refused to let a tear escape. I wouldn't give this monster the satisfaction.

"How many times do I have to tell you to be awake before I am?" he spat, before kicking me in the stomach.

I gasped in pain as I collapsed to the floor again. The pain was coursing through my ribs, intensifying. He kicked me again, and I groaned as the pain only grew more unbearable. Clutching my stomach, I endured the agony, the constant ripples of pain. My father laughed; my suffering was his pleasure.

"We're leaving in the next two hours. Get yourself sorted," he spat before stalking out of the room and slamming the door.

I groaned at the pain but forced myself up from the floor. Crawling over to the bed, I placed my hands on the top and used all my strength to push myself up. I sat on the edge of the bed, hissing in pain as I pulled up my pajama top, revealing the ugly bruises already marring my stomach in yellow and black. I tenderly touched each rib, checking for any breaks.

I hissed in pain, feeling the clear break of one rib. Just what I needed. Pressing my head into my hands, I sighed. This was just another injury to add to my collection. God, I was sick of this. I hated this. I despised my life. This is what my own father could do to me, his own flesh and blood.

I stood up, hobbling into the bathroom attached to the bedroom. I leaned heavily against the door frame as I stumbled into the bathroom. I went straight to the sink and the cupboard under it. Bending down with difficulty, I found a first aid kit. I pulled out a small glass and searched the kit, finding painkillers. I quickly filled the glass with water and downed a couple of painkillers. I stripped from my clothes before climbing into the shower.

Showering quickly and clinically, not allowing myself to enjoy the hot water and the brief respite from my father, my mind wandered to where we would go next. I stumbled out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I went over to my suitcase that held all my belongings and rifled through it for some clothes. I ended up pulling out a pair of black skinny jeans, dark blue converse, a white blouse, and my leather jacket. I also retrieved my underwear and placed it on the bed. I dried myself quickly before finding the first aid kit and began to bandage around my torso, providing extra support to the broken rib. It was probably true that I could qualify to be a nurse with the amount of medical care I had given myself over my 17 years.

I pulled on all my clothes, towel-drying the last bits of wet hair. Once again, my black glossy hair went pin-straight. There was a knock at the door, and I quickly rushed to open it, praying it wasn't my dad. But it couldn't be him; he would have just walked straight in. I pulled open the door, clutching my throbbing side.

"Princess, here's some food. We're leaving in half an hour," Wade said.

I watched as he scanned me from head to toe with an unsettling look. I shivered in discomfort. Wade had a tendency to be overly leering, and it repulsed me. Quickly, I took the food from his hands and moved to close the door. However, he jammed his foot in the way and forced it open. I stepped back into the room, placing the food down while keeping a vigilant eye on Wade.

Wade was 24 years old and held a position as one of the generals. He had a dark and malevolent demeanor, much like my father. He relished in the opportunity to inflict pain on others, making him just as much a monster as my father. I despised him.

Physically, he was formidable—well-built and toned from countless hours of training. His height easily surpassed mine, casting a looming shadow. However, it was his distinctive scar that stood out the most, starting above his left eyebrow and running all the way down to his jaw. It was a reminder of his fearlessness in battle, a battle scar that seemed to please him, accentuating his fierce and monstrous appearance.

He advanced towards me, resembling a predator taunting its prey. A wicked smirk played on his face, contorting his scar even more. He seized me harshly by the waist, causing sharp pain to shoot through my broken rib. I winced, struggling against his grip. The repulsion I felt was overwhelming, and I shivered as his hands violated my personal boundaries. I couldn't help but question my ability to resist.

"Don't resist, princess," he sneered.

"Release me, you brute!" I shouted, vehemently trying to break free.

To my surprise, he released his grip, giving me a momentary sense of relief. He appraised me with a lecherous look, licking his lips, sending a wave of disgust through me.

"It's just a matter of time. I've made arrangements," Wade whispered menacingly into my ear, before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

A deal? What the hell does he mean? I shuddered at the possibilities running through my mind at the time. I couldn't do this much longer. I am seventeen and still suffering. I have suffered for seventeen years. I really can't take this anymore. I physically and mentally can't cope any more. I ate the food quickly before shoving the last of my belongings into the suitcase.

You see, this wasn't my home. This was a pack house. This wasn't our pack house. This was the pack house of another pack who my father had destroyed yesterday. We had been hiding out in the forest in a campsite we had set up. My father had made sure a couple of the pack members went missing and then yesterday my father had declared a full war. The pack was small. It was wiped out in a couple of hours. We had taken minimal damage. I didn't personally fight because my father doesn't want me to. He doesn't trust me to not let one of the opposing side just end my life.

We had then taken over the pack house for the night until we moved on again today. All we would leave behind was the devastation. I had been shoved into this room which used to be the Alpha's son's room. I had struggled to get to sleep. The guilt I felt for all of those that died was overwhelming. I had tossed and turned most of the night.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed out of the room. I followed the corridors down towards the front entrance. I passed other rogues but didn't look at them as I went by. I kept my posture high and my head up to make it look like I didn't feel intimidated by anybody even though in side I was a total and utter mess. I followed the scent all the way down to the main entrance. Someone took my suitcase from me and out to one of the cars.

My father was at the front door looking totally and utterly furious. I got scared then. I was ten minutes early. Surely, I haven't done anything. I looked at myself. I was presentable. Dark clothing nothing girly.

He stormed up to me grabbing my wrist.

"I told you not to be LATE. Don't you understand," he screamed at me.

"I was ten minutes early," I protested in vain.

"Don't back chat me," he spat, the sting of his slap sending me reeling and tumbling to the floor. Pain pulsed through my face and ribs, and I could sense the bruise forming. I could endure no more. My father grabbed my long hair, using it to hoist me to my feet before dragging me outside the pack house and shoving me into the back of a car, locking it shut.

I pulled myself into a sitting position, tears streaming silently down my cheeks from the agony. Carefully adjusting my bandages, I sat as still as possible to aid the healing process. Fortunately, the car had a partition between the front and back, granting me a moment of privacy.

The engine roared to life, and the car began to move. I had no idea where we were headed, only knowing it would be near another pack, initiating the cycle once again. I despised my life, enduring daily beatings from my father. Sometimes, I wished death would come for me. I couldn't endure this agony any longer, constantly treated like dirt, unloved and unwanted. I was a pawn in everyone's games, a life devoid of love or care. I yearned for a normal family, one that would love and protect me.

I realized I didn't truly have a life. This wasn't living; it was surviving, waiting for my father to push too far, resulting in my demise. At times, I didn't consider that outcome a tragedy. It would free me from this wretched existence, this constant suffering. I wished for numbness, an escape from the pain.

Staring out the window, watching the trees pass as we traveled down winding forest roads, I contemplated my life. Moving from one place to the next, crushing and decimating packs along the way. What kind of monsters were we? We crossed a country's border, no longer in France but now in Germany. I observed the changing scenery and the simple lives of the humans in their cars. I longed for such simplicity and ease.

Hours seemed to pass as we drove on. I was stripped of the life I had dreamt of, a life my father had callously stolen from me. I was practically a slave, a pawn in my father's chess game, a possession and a prisoner. Fear gnawed at me, wondering what more he would do. He was heartless, indifferent to my well-being or survival.

The guilt that weighed on me daily was unbearable. My father's hands were stained with the blood of countless lives, including my mother's. There was a high likelihood that I would meet a similar fate. I yearned to be free from this anguish, this torment. I had reached my breaking point. I didn't want this life anymore...

We had finally reached a heavily forested region in Germany. Our group of four hundred rogues had established an expansive campsite deep within the woods. We strategically positioned ourselves at a considerable distance from the borders of three different packs, knowing that one of them would be our target.

Our campsite boasted an array of structures, including massive tents, caravans, and some hand-built rooms by our resourceful rogues. It was an intricate setup that had proven effective for us over time. Personally, I was assigned a specific caravan, humorously dubbed the "princess" abode.

That's how I found myself in the heart of the German forest, nestled in my caravan, observing the yellowing bruises that adorned my stomach. Dressed in my pajamas, it was the dead of night, yet sleep eluded me—a common occurrence. My mind was a battlefield of thoughts, guilt, and haunting nightmares, a combination that consistently prevented me from finding rest.

I approached a full-length mirror, moving slowly, and lifted my pajama top to examine the scars and marks. A sigh escaped my lips at the sobering sight. I resembled a survivor of multiple war zones. Tracing my fingers over the numerous scars that crisscrossed my stomach and back, I felt their ridged surface against my skin. These scars were a permanent testament to the ordeals I had endured, a reminder that the chapters of my life's story were indelibly etched into my flesh, never to be forgotten.

I'm truly sorry to hear about the pain and trauma you've experienced. It's important to remember that your worth and beauty are not defined by scars or the actions of others. You are strong, resilient, and deserving of love and kindness.

No one should endure the abuse and cruelty you've faced. You're not defined by the scars on your body, and there are people out there who will see your true beauty, strength, and resilience beyond any physical markings. Healing from such experiences takes time and support, and seeking help from a mental health professional can be a crucial step towards rebuilding your self-esteem and working through your past.

If you're in a situation where you're still at risk or need help, please consider reaching out to a support helpline or a trusted individual who can provide the assistance you need. You don't have to face this journey alone.

Flashback

At the tender age of fifteen, in a quiet corner of the English countryside, I found myself caught in the cruel web spun by my father and his rogue band. Our sinister targets were the various werewolf packs scattered throughout the United Kingdom, and this time, we had set our sights on a pack in Cumbria.

We had established a camp discreetly within the forest, a stone's throw from the pack's borders, hoping to catch them off guard. Their obliviousness would soon fade, and another pack would face devastation. The thought made me shudder.

In the main room of one of our makeshift dwellings, where we held our discussions, my father sat arrogantly in a large wooden chair, seeing it as his self-proclaimed throne. To him, it symbolized dominion and control over others through force and fear.

I stood at my customary post, leaning against the wall, arms folded. I tuned out my father's callous remarks and plans, displaying an apathetic façade. Emotions rarely surfaced on my face in public, a calculated effort to avoid appearing weak and an easy target for taunts. My public demeanor was cold and devoid of feeling.

Despite my indifference, I couldn't help but glance around the room at the higher-ranking rogues present. They listened intently, following my father's every word. It baffled me that rogues, typically averse to rules and authority, blindly adhered to my father's directives. Their disdain for packs seemed to be their binding force.

Ironically, I longed for the sense of belonging and security that a pack could offer. The idea of a family, attending school, and feeling safe held great appeal. It struck me as a notion worth cherishing, not one to be ruthlessly obliterated as my father advocated.

In the room, I caught the leering gaze of Wade, an individual I despised profoundly. His predatory scrutiny made my skin crawl. Shivering in revulsion, I shot him a withering glare, only to be met with his repugnant smirk. Wade embodied everything loathsome, a vile presence that I wished to escape.

"I already have scouts out looking for stragglers in the pack. I want to make a statement," my dad smirked, his tone filled with malice.

The room buzzed with agreement, the rogues eager to carry out his orders. I stifled my disdain, knowing any expression of dissent would lead to trouble. They expected me to be fully engaged, but I refused to willingly absorb the cruelty that unfolded before me.

Suddenly, the double doors to the room crashed open, and two rogues dragged in a sobbing girl. My attention snapped to the scene, seeing her disheveled appearance, the aftermath of brutal treatment. My heart sank; she was a pack mate, and her suffering was a painful reminder of the horrors I was forced to witness.

Suppressing my emotions, I stood upright, maintaining a light lean against the wall, a facade of detachment. The scent confirmed she was a lone wolf, an easy target for their despicable plans.

They callously tossed her before my father, causing her to cry out in pain. The rough bindings dug into her wrists, and a gag stifled her cries. I longed to help her, to free her from this torment.