About a half hour later I stand up and try to compose myself as much as possible. The bleeding gashes on my arm need to be treated. After all, tomorrow is my 18th birthday. The day where I officially become of age for suitors. I will be broadcast on all of my kingdom's net screens and it will be mandatory for them to watch as the king makes a slit down my right arm with a knife, symbolizing that I am no longer a child. For a woman this meant that I had reached the age where I could legally sleep with a man and produce offspring. No where in the law did it mention a woman sleeping with a woman before 18. I, unlike my older sister, did not take advantage of that loophole. The first on my list of suitors is Nukwu. I'm so excited for my birthday. Just can't wait. Like all of the royal women who ever lived in our kingdom, the current king will choose my suitor for me. Before I leave my room the too vivid image of Nukwu pressing my stepbrother against the wall while kissing his face and neck flash before my eyes. This has been a horrific day.

Like she always does when it comes to these situations, Oria doesn't say a word as she cleans the wounds on my left arm. The king all to smart. He always did my left arm. Every time just to prepare me for my life under the public eye. Now that I think about it, it was probably to protect him. Every single negotiation he had ever had with anyone else he had always blames bad outcomes on his kids. And since I'm the only one he doesn't share a drop of blood with, he takes out all of his psychotic anger on me. Since I was five years old. Oria finishes cleaning my wounds but she doesn't get up and move immediately on to document my visit here like she always does. Instead she looks up at me and squeezes my arm in a soft, reassuring way. Then she gets up and walks into her office.

I walk out of the infirmary and stare at my arm tightly and carefully wrapped in gauze. For the first time I wonder if anyone else knew about my scars and the beatings. For as long as I can remember the seamstresses have always made me long sleeved dresses. My maids always reminded me to wear a pair of opera gloves when I left the castle in the springs and summers. When I was younger I never understood why my stepsisters got sleeveless dresses to wear on hot days and only wore there opera gloves to important occasions. When I got older I was grateful for the coverage. Insecurities over powered my curiosities and I never gave it a second thought. I remember being called rude nicknames by my step siblings and I didn't understand being called cold blooded because I wore long sleeves every day. I was, like, six.

I decided to go to the stables to see my horse Domino. I dropped by my room to change into my riding clothes and then walked down the polished cobblestone path to the stables. But before I could walk down to Domino's stall, a firm, calloused hand pulled me into an empty stall, covered my mouth with another hand, and turned off the stable lights. And it was. Pitch. Black.