Help me!

"WHERE IS THE MONEY!"

Luke, her father's voice boomed through the tiny room, shaking its fragile walls.

"WHERE IS IT!!!" he yelled again, his rage echoing like a storm.

Violet tightened her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she braced herself. She knew what was coming. She always did. Yet, knowing never made it easier to endure. Her back pressed harder against the door as she watched her father tear through their sparse belongings with the fury of a man possessed.

He rummaged through drawers, overturning their meager contents onto the floor. He threw open the chest beneath the bed, spilling what little clothing they owned onto the dirty wooden planks. Even the bucket of water wasn't spared. He slammed it to the ground, sending water splashing everywhere, soaking into the damp rags that lay nearby.

It was as though he believed someone had hidden the money from him—money they didn't even have.

When his frantic search turned up empty, Luke whirled around, his bloodshot eyes blazing with frustration. His heavy footsteps thudded as he stalked toward June, his wife, who stood a few feet away from him staring at him with fear in her eyes.

"Luke..." she began to softly say knowing her husband well enough to know not to raise her voice only for her words to be cut off as she watched him scream right into her face.

"THE MONEY!", grabbing her by the collar of her worn dress and yanking her upright.

June gasped, her frail body too weak to resist. Luke's face was inches from hers, his breath reeking of alcohol and fury as he bellowed, "THE MONEY YOU EARNED TODAY! WHERE IS IT?!"

Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on various points of her face, but Luke didn't care—or didn't notice. His grip on her clothes tightened, the material bunching in his fists. His hands were tense, itching for violence. Violet could see it in his eyes, and the thought sent a shiver down her spine.

She couldn't stay silent. She couldn't let this happen.

"Stop!" Violet stepped forward, her voice trembling but firm. Her heart raced as she tried to force herself between her parents. "What we earned—mother used—" She hesitated for a split second, then lied, "I—I used it to buy—"

Her words were cut off by the sharp, stinging crack of her father's palm against her cheek. The impact was brutal, snapping her head to the side. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as she staggered back, clutching her face.

"You… YOU!" Luke stammered, his voice shaking with unbridled rage.

His trembling hands shot up to his hair, yanking at it in frustration. His bloodshot eyes darted around the room, wild and unfocused. "They're coming for me! They'll kill me! I can't—can't—" he muttered, pacing erratically as his anger bubbled into desperation.

Violet could smell the stench of alcohol clinging to him, thicker than ever, wrapping around him like a second skin. She pressed a hand to her throbbing cheek, her mind racing to figure out how to defuse the situation before it escalated further.

"We needed to buy foodstuffs!" she said, her voice trembling but louder now. "Everything's more expensive since the war ended and the districts were created! The lords aren't—"

She froze mid-sentence as her father's eyes snapped back to hers. The madness in his gaze made her take a cautious step backward.

"Money… money… I need money!" he mumbled under his breath, his tone frenzied. His hands clawed at his hair again before his gaze shifted to Violet. This time, it lingered. His bloodshot eyes roamed over her, sending a wave of revulsion coursing through her.

"Purple eyes… pale skin…" Luke muttered, his voice trailing off. Then, louder, he said, "I know men who would pay good money for that!"

Violet's heart stopped. Her body stiffened as her father's words sank in. She had moved closer moments ago, intending to intervene, but now she found herself stepping back in fear.

"You're a woman!" Luke spat, taking a menacing step toward her. "You can earn money with your body!"

"No!" Violet gasped, the word escaping her lips before she could think. But her defiance only seemed to spur him on.

Luke lunged forward, his rough hand clamping around her elbow with bruising force. Violet cried out, tears springing to her eyes from the pain.

"Stop! I'm your daughter!" she screamed, her voice raw and desperate.

"Exactly!" Luke shot back, his tone disturbingly rational. "That's why you should protect your father!"

For the first time in her life, Violet felt real, unrelenting panic flood her chest. She struggled against his grip, but he was too strong. Her gaze darted toward the small adjoining room where her siblings, Oliver her brother and Sarah, her sister peeked out, hesitant to step forward.

"HELP ME!" Violet screamed, her voice cracking. She prayed that one of them—anyone—would step in. But before anyone could act, Luke yanked the door open, prepared to drag her out into the street.

Then he froze.

Violet, too, stopped struggling, confusion momentarily overriding her fear. Her father's grip slackened on her arm, and she followed his gaze to see what had caused the sudden change.

Three men stood at the doorway.

They were clad in old, formal suits that hung awkwardly on their burly frames, but it was the tattoos that drew the eye. Dark, jagged designs covered their arms and crept up their necks, stark against their skin.

The man in the center, clearly the leader, was plump with a wide, unsettling grin that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. The two men flanking him were taller, their expressions devoid of warmth. Their mere presence sent a chill down Violet's spine.

"Going somewhere?" the plump man asked lightly. His tone was polite, almost friendly, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Violet's stomach churn.

"M-Mr. Flint!" Luke stammered. For the first time, his voice carried something other than rage—it carried fear. His hand dropped from Violet's arm as he stumbled back into the house as fast as he could, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"I—I wasn't expecting to see you today!" Luke babbled nervously. "If you'd waited, I would've—"

Mr. Flint raised a hand, cutting him off. His gaze flickered briefly to one of the men behind him. "He's drunk," he said, his tone dispassionate. "Make him sober up."

The bodyguard grinned, cracking his knuckles. "With pleasure," he said, stepping forward with a predatory gleam in his eyes.