Introduction
„Es tut mir leid, Liebling. War das zu viel?“ Ich konnte die Besorgnis in seinen Augen sehen, als ich tief durchatmete.
„Ich wollte nur nicht, dass du all meine Narben siehst,“ flüsterte ich, beschämt über meinen gezeichneten Körper.
**********
Emmy Nichols ist es gewohnt zu überleben. Sie überlebte ihren missbräuchlichen Vater jahrelang, bis er sie so schwer verprügelte, dass sie im Krankenhaus landete und ihr Vater endlich verhaftet wurde. Jetzt wird Emmy in ein Leben geworfen, das sie nie erwartet hätte. Nun hat sie eine Mutter, die sie nicht will, einen politisch motivierten Stiefvater mit Verbindungen zur irischen Mafia, vier ältere Stiefbrüder und deren besten Freund, die schwören, sie zu lieben und zu beschützen. Dann, eines Nachts, zerbricht alles, und Emmy sieht ihre einzige Option darin, zu fliehen.
Als ihre Stiefbrüder und deren bester Freund sie schließlich finden, werden sie die Stücke aufsammeln und Emmy überzeugen können, dass sie sie sicher halten und ihre Liebe sie zusammenhalten wird?
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About Author

Brandee DiPiero
Chapter 1
Es war früher Abend, als ich von der Arbeit an meinem letzten Gruppenprojekt des Jahres nach Hause kam. Das Haus war dunkel, und die Eingangstür, die seit einem Leck im Dach immer schlimmer klemmte, machte ein schreckliches Quietschen, als ich sie öffnete. Als ich mich umdrehte, um sie zu schließen, bemerkte ich einen Stapel Post auf dem kleinen Tisch im Flur. Fast alle Briefe waren mit einem roten „Überfällig“ oder „Letzte Mahnung“ bestempelt. Ich seufzte und legte die Post zurück, wo ich sie gefunden hatte. Es gab sowieso nichts, was ich tun konnte; ich hatte keinen Job und kein Geld.
Ich ging gerade in Richtung meines Zimmers, als plötzlich ein stechender Schmerz durch den Hinterkopf schoss. Ich wurde quer durchs Wohnzimmer geschleudert und schlug mit dem Kopf an die Kante des Kamins. Ich schrie auf, als mein Vater einen harten Tritt gegen meine Seite landete. Ich wusste einfach, dass das schlimm werden würde. Ich weiß nicht, wie lange ich bewusstlos war, aber der Raum um mich herum war dunkel und drehte sich, also schloss ich die Augen wieder. Ich konnte Blut, Erbrochenes und verbrannte Haut riechen. Mein Vater musste mich wieder mit Zigaretten verbrannt haben. Irgendwann später wachte ich wieder auf, als ich Schreie hörte. Der Lärm zwang mich, mich zu bewegen, bevor mein Vater mich entdeckte und die Prügel fortsetzte, die er begonnen hatte. Ich rollte mich auf die Seite, und Schmerz schoss durch meine Rippen und meinen rechten Arm. Mein Gesicht war so angeschwollen und blutunterlaufen, dass ich kaum aus meinen Augen sehen konnte. Großartig, meine Rippen waren entweder wieder gebrochen oder angeknackst, ebenso wie mein Arm, und ich begann zu vermuten, dass auch meine Nase gebrochen war. Ich gab das Bewegen auf, als das Geschrei näher kam, und schloss die Augen in der Hoffnung, dass er denken würde, ich sei immer noch bewusstlos und würde mich ignorieren.
Mein Vater rannte ins Wohnzimmer, Schweiß lief ihm übers Gesicht. Es war ein heißer Tag gewesen, wir konnten uns nie eine Klimaanlage leisten, und Ventilatoren konnten nur so viel tun.
„Du dumme Schlampe, du hast die Bullen auf mich gehetzt“, schrie er, während er hastig durch das Wohnzimmer eilte und den Flur hinunter in Richtung seines Schlafzimmers verschwand.
Die Geräusche der herannahenden Sirenen wurden lauter, und ich konnte das Krachen aus dem Schlafzimmer meines Vaters hören. Es klang, als würde er Möbel bewegen, um sich in seinem Zimmer zu verbarrikadieren. Mein Kopf fühlte sich an, als würde er gleich platzen, als die Polizeisirenen vor unserem Haus stoppten.
Es wurde an die Haustür gehämmert, Rufe der Polizei folgten, gefolgt vom Geräusch, wie die Haustür eingetreten wurde.
„Verdammt“, stöhnte ich. Der Lärm ließ meinen Kopf pochen, und eine Welle von Übelkeit rollte durch meinen Magen. Mehrere Schritte kamen schnell den Flur entlang, ich lag völlig still in der Hoffnung, dass sie nicht über meinen geschundenen Körper stolpern würden, als sie ins Wohnzimmer stürmten.
„Verdammt“, fluchte ein Polizist, als er vor meinem zerstörten Körper stehenblieb. Ich konnte sein Funkgerät knistern hören, als er Befehle hineinrief, einen Krankenwagen anforderte und einige meiner offensichtlichsten Verletzungen beschrieb.
Es gab viel Lärm aus dem hinteren Teil des Hauses, aber ich ignorierte es und versuchte, mich auf den Polizisten zu konzentrieren, der neben mir kniete und sanft meinen Arm ergriff.
„Fräulein, Fräulein, können Sie mich hören?“ fragte der Polizist und beugte sich vor, um in mein Gesicht zu schauen.
„Der Krankenwagen ist fast hier, bleiben Sie noch ein paar Minuten bei mir“, beruhigte er mich und strich mir eine Haarsträhne aus dem Gesicht.
Ich stöhnte und versuchte, mich auf ihn zu konzentrieren, aber ich hatte solche Schmerzen, dass ich wieder die Augen schloss. Ich muss ohnmächtig geworden sein, denn als mein Gehör plötzlich zurückkehrte, hörte ich die Stimme meines Vaters, der den Polizisten erzählte, dass ich ein dramatisches Gör sei, das seine Strafe nicht annehmen wolle, und dass ich sein Kind sei und körperliche Züchtigung legal sei. Wenn er mich schlagen wolle, könne er das tun.
Seine Stimme verklang, als die Polizisten ihn nach draußen zerrten und in den hinteren Teil eines Streifenwagens schoben. Gerade in diesem Moment fuhr der Krankenwagen vor, und zwei Sanitäter eilten mit einer Trage die Auffahrt hinauf.
Ich erinnere mich nicht an viel danach, nur an Stimmen und Bewegungen um mich herum, das Gefühl einer Blutdruckmanschette an meinem guten Arm, Zahlen, die ausgerufen wurden, und den Stich einer Infusionsnadel, die gelegt wurde. Ich wurde ohnmächtig, als sie begannen, mich zu bewegen, die Medikamente wirkten nicht schnell genug, um die Schmerzen zu lindern.
Als ich das nächste Mal aufwachte, war ich in einem schwach beleuchteten Raum, mit dem Piepen verschiedener Monitore in der Nähe. Tiefes Atmen war immer noch schmerzhaft, aber ich konnte spüren, dass meine Rippen verbunden waren, mein gebrochener Arm lag nun in einer Schiene an meiner Seite, und mein Gesicht war gereinigt worden. Mein Blick war jetzt klar, da kein Blut mehr in meine Augen tropfte. Ich schaute mich um und bemerkte eine Frau, die auf einem Stuhl am Fußende meines Bettes saß.
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About Author

Brandee DiPiero
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