Broken Cages (MCU)✔️

Four Years Prior

"Bring her in the room".

I was surrounded by men I did not know, but my father's voice was not a comfort. The men did not touch me as they guided me into the room. The only thing more dangerous than them was my father, who did not like his property touched.

His office was cold. I never liked cold things, even though I had been surrounded by them my whole life. The walls of my father's office were seemingly carved from an endless expanse of unforgiving concrete. My father sat in a leather chair that was less comfortable than it looked. But it was large and sturdy, intimidating, the way he was.

He was feared more than respected. But he was still respected. And so I was still his untouched doll. I didn't greet him as I approached his desk; two imposing men flanked him, loyal guard dogs at the ready. My mother sat across from him, her face betraying the toll of her thirty-four years.

I did not spare her more than a glance. She would not protect me from my father. No one saved her, and so she grew up just as cold.

"Daughter. A deal has been made." I tried to keep my face blank, but my heartbeat quickened.

My father laughed as if he found this whole situation casual entertainment. "They wouldn't take our supply without you. But five years of weaponry supplied at a great profit was worth the promise of your hand."

My father motioned me closer, and I stepped toward the desk. His hand was quick to grasp my chin, pulling my face upwards to look at his. A gesture that could be so gentle, a motion I had read about, but he pulled me with such force that I stumbled.

"You will make me proud," he declared, his grip unrelenting. I couldn't nod; I'd been trained not to speak. My nature was to defy, but I was getting better at obeying orders. Disobedience came with a price.

"Bring her in."

I couldn't turn my head. My gaze remained locked with my father's, our eyes equally cold, equally brown—mistaken as black. I inherited his eyes, while my mother's blonde hair, which I shared, had become tainted by the discoloration of cigarettes. So now hers was the colour of ripe strawberries.

"You will be a wife, Katya. You no longer need childish things."

He twisted my face towards my Nanny, Rosalie. She was in her early thirties, about the same age as my mother. A woman who had been given to my father to care for me when my mother had better things to do, like make him a son. Not an ounce of kindness had been shown to her her whole miserable life, but she still rocked me to sleep every night when I had nightmares. Even now.

Rosalie kept her eyes trained on me, even as the knife at her throat drew blood.

"No," I whispered, a protest escaping my lips.

I'd been following the rules, hoping to prevent harm to anyone. I didn't want this. If I played my part—smiled, kept silent, and looked the part—no one had to suffer.

My head was pushed by my father's hand, and I stumbled backwards. "Weak," he spat. Before I had steadied myself, he held a gun, and smoke came from the barrel. He always was a quick shot.