Blood Right The Valente Betrayal

My five-year-old daughter came home from the Academy, knelt in front of me on the hardwood floor of our kitchen, and begged me not to send her back.

She said she didn't want to go anymore.

I asked her why, but she just cried and shook her head, too scared to speak. Her small fingers found the hem of my sleeve and curled into the fabric, holding on like it was the only safe thing left in the world.

Sensing something was wrong, I lifted her shirt.

Her arms and body were covered in tiny puncture marks. Dozens of them. Deliberate. Patterned.