A/N: Please follow, favorite or review! I may have slipped in a few quotes from another favorite series of mine, let me know if you notice!
My father squeezed my shoulder roughly as we turned a corner, causing me to stumble. One of the two guards posted outside his study took a step towards me, as if to help, but my father dismissed them both. For a split second, half of me wanted to yell, to order them to stay. But I knew there was nothing anyone could do. This was my secret, and I alone could bear it.
My father shoved me into the room and calmly walked towards his desk.
"Father," it was always better to get ahead of him, "What America said was wrong. I accept full responsibility for providing her the diaries, I had no idea they would be so… troublesome… for us."
My father laughed, "No, I suppose you didn't. Well after today I will make sure you remember their importance to our family and to Illia." My heart raced, I knew how he would make me remember. "Chair," he ordered.
I knew the drill. I grabbed one of the wooden chairs from a table near the wall and brought it to the center of the room. As I slowly removed my shirt, I remembered the first time he had brought me into his office. I was around 11 and I had been caught doodling during a meeting. The advisor who pointed it out thought it was a joke, but one look in my father's eye made it clear that he thought it was no laughing matter. He had always been harsh with me before, but only went as far as shoving me around or slapping me a few times. When he dragged me in here the first time, I felt like I would die from the pain. Before he left, he made it clear that I was not to tell anyone else about our little "talk", and slashed me an extra time to drive home that point. It had been years since that happened, but somehow those first cuts were still fresh in my memory.
My father started talking, his rage simmering barely below the surface. "I didn't realize I had such a fool for a son. What kind of person have I raised, who would risk this country for a stupid girl."
I stared at the floor, not listening as he berated me, It wasn't as if he hadn't said it all before. My mind wandered to the most recent time I had visited his office, the night Marlee and Carter had been caught together, the night I had spent dancing in America's arms. When word reached my father that I would have them caned instead of killed, he exploded. "15 strokes each for embarrassing my family's name? Then I'm sure you won't mind taking the remainder yourself." I had been torn from my America-driven bliss and wasn't prepared for the onslaught of the hard reality of my life. I tried taking a swing at him, but he whacked me over the head with the butt of the whip, which knocked me to the floor. He didn't pull me back up, instead taking out all his anger on my back, making me regret my one act of defiance.
I stood, leaning against the chair for support, knowing tonight could not be the same as last time. As if to emphasize the point, my father brushed his whip across my back. "It is a shame that America had to miss this. I'm sure if nothing else, one look at your back would send her running," he chuckled.
I hung my head in shame, accepting it was probably true. Years of scars and dead skin covered my back. Due to my own pride and my father's threats, I always carefully kept covered and avoided any activity which required me to remove the heavy suitcoats I preferred. If anyone ever found out, I would be horrified.
I was jolted from my thoughts as the first lash hit my back. I felt it cut me, but knew it was just a warm up. I bit my tongue to keep from making a noise. Staying as silent as possible made me feel stronger, less helpless. But it also had the disadvantage of making my father even angrier the longer I resisted. It was only a matter of time before he would get the reaction he wanted out of me.
He stood behind me, admiring his work. He liked to stretch this out and reveled in the anticipation. The never-ending dread was why I rarely slept, he had a habit of making me think I had won an argument, only to have me dragged from my room in the middle of the night when I wasn't expecting him. It was easier to be constantly prepared, constantly on-guard for an onslaught. He leaned close and shoved a finger in my new welt. I gasped and my knees buckled. "Is she really worth it, Maxon?"
When I gave no reply, he stepped back and hit me twice more. I struggled to stay quiet and on my feet under the force of his anger. "When you leave here, you will send her home. One of the other girls will do just fine as your wife," he spat out the last word.
Dizzy with pain, I tried to stay standing straight. "No," I whispered angrily. "It is my choice."
Enraged, my father hit me again, twice as hard, and intensified by my other wounds. This time I let out a groan and fell to one knee. I tried to steady myself, although I felt like I would vomit from the agony coursing through my back. It wasn't like I hadn't been here before, but I had never wanted to resist like this. How could he take this one thing away from me, the one shot I felt I had of making my own decision, of finally having someone on my team. I despaired, realizing that he had probably never intended to let me have this one slice of happiness. I thought of America's soft red hair, her warm smile. Knowing I might never see her face again or hear her melodic laugh was almost too much to bear. Today she had betrayed me, shattered my trust. And it was clear that my father would do anything in his power to keep her out of the palace. But I couldn't give up on the one person I had ever loved.
"In addition, I think you have lost the privilege of making this decision at all. Anyone who could fall for that appalling girl will make a poor king, wouldn't you agree?" He said to himself. He traced one of the new welts on my back with his finger. The pain was incredible. He leaned closer, "She. Is. Leaving."
"No," I said, although even to my own ears I sounded uncertain.
As he paced around me, rage set to detonate; I began to pray to whoever was listening. Not for this to be over, because I knew it would be soon. But for the strength to send America away. Even if I'd never had courage before, I prayed for the strength to face her without falling to my knees and begging her to stay.
My father walked around the chair next to which I was kneeling, two hands on the whip. He was shaking with anger. Usually once the lashes started, I was fairly quick to let him win. I knew there was no point in causing myself more pain, he always won in the end. But my heart ached at the thought of America walking out of the door.
He gripped the whip tightly with both hands. I tried to stand, knowing at this angle the damage would be worse. He kicked me back down and in a sudden explosion, brought the whip down on my back. I felt the deep cut from my shoulder to my lower back and finally screamed. I toppled over onto my injured shoulder, gasping for breath, fighting unconsciousness. My father smiled, satisfied. "I think we have come to an understanding?" he questioned.
Agony and despair poured down on me. There was nothing I could do. For a split second, the pain in my back overwhelmed the pain in my heart and all the fight left my body as I laid panting on the floor. He took my silence as agreement, and I allowed it. What could I say? How could I ever make him agree to allow me to marry her now? I had lost her as soon as she pulled out that diary, and nothing I could say, no amount of pain I could endure on her behalf would change that. He stood up, walking to the en-suite bathroom and rinsing off his whip, before returning to his desk. He proceeded to pick up a stack of papers, dismissing me with a flick of his hand like nothing had just happened.