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Prologue: Chris
The screen flickered, a grainy image sharpening as I zoomed in on her. Ella. Fucking Ella with her sunshine hair almost down to her ass like some goddamn princess. She paced the length of the cell, all wide brown eyes that hadn't yet lost their innocence despite the hell she'd been thrown into.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath, feeling the familiar tightening in my gut as she moved. It wasn’t right, this pull toward her, but fuck me if I could help it. She stopped abruptly, and I leaned back in my chair, trying to keep my composure.
"Hey, Belle," she called out gently. The sound of her voice through the shitty speakers was enticing, and I rubbed a hand across my jaw, feeling the rough stubble there.
Fuck. My pants pulled as she laughed at something Belle said. There was no denying it – my body reacted to her like a fucking live wire, every movement, every smile lighting me up inside. My other hand clenched into a fist on the cold metal of the desk, knuckles white.
There wasn't supposed to be anything arousing about watching a captive on a surveillance camera. This was business, monitoring, making sure the merchandise didn't do anything stupid. But Ella wasn't just any captive, and my body betrayed me with every hitched breath I took watching her.
My pulse quickened, my dick throbbing as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, delicate wrist exposed, skin pale against the dark bruise where the cuffs had chafed. I shouldn't give a fuck, but I did, and it pissed me off.
I shifted in my seat, trying to adjust the growing problem below. She stretched, arms reaching above her head, and my eyes followed the curve of her side, the hint of ribs beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. A low growl rumbled in my throat. Control was slipping, and the more I watched her, the more I wanted to break every fucking rule I'd ever set for myself.
She was a job, a task, a thing to be dealt with. A product that's been sold. Yet here I was, hard as steel, wanting nothing more than to tear through those bars and claim her.
Son of a bitch. My hand slammed against the desk. This was a dangerous game, one where I was supposed to be in control. But Ella, sweet, sunshine Ella, was flipping the fucking board and I was tumbling down with it.
One: Ella
Once upon a time, this house had been my castle—a testament to grandeur and love, a place where laughter echoed off the walls and the gardens bloomed with endless promise. Now, I stood before its skeletal remains, the grandeur replaced by decay. The peeling paint hung like aged skin, and the overgrown gardens clawed at the earth as if trying to escape their own neglect. This was no fairy tale; it was a cemetery of dreams, weathered by storms and indifference. I couldn’t wait to be out of New Orleans. This place just reminded me of all the pain I held inside.
My gaze traveled up the imposing facade, catching on broken shutters that flapped in the breeze. Each step toward the once majestic front doors tightened the knot in my chest.
"Late night?" My stepmother's voice sliced through the morning silence.
Priscilla Trevaine loomed in the doorway, her presence commanding even the sun to retreat behind clouds. Tall, elegant, a statue carved from ice—her beauty was matched only by her cruelty. Shadows played across her features, casting her dark eyes into hollow pits that seemed to swallow the light.
"Work ran late," I replied, voice steady despite the quiver in my heart.
"Those tables won't clean themselves." A thin smile curved her lips, but her eyes remained cold, unfeeling.
"Of course not." My fingers curled into my palms, nails biting into the skin until they left crescent shaped indents.
"Now you can clean ours." She stepped back, granting me entry, her perfume trailing behind her.
The door creaked closed behind us with an ominous thud, sealing me inside. I moved past her, each step echoing too loudly in the oppressive silence. The air felt colder here, tainted by whispers of the Cinder Crew’s dealings— of violence and power that had seeped into the very foundation. My father would have been appalled. With a sigh, I cleaned the kitchen before heading toward my room.
In the clutches of this crumbling sanctuary, Priscilla was queen—a spider at the center of a web woven with deceit and ambition. And me? I was merely the butterfly pinned against the wall, wings torn, yearning for the sky. But as I ascended the staircase, avoiding the creaking boards, my mind turned to my secret escape—the online courses that promised knowledge and perhaps, one day, freedom. Somewhere beyond these suffocating walls lay a world where I could weave dreams anew, far from the reach of Queen Bitch's icy grasp.
The first ray of sunlight was a traitor, sneaking through the cracks in the curtains to drag me from the clutches of sleep. I lay there for a moment, letting the warmth tease the chill from my skin—a fleeting caress before reality set in. My lids fluttered open, revealing the stark walls of my prison cell masquerading as a bedroom.
Another day.
I rolled out of bed, my feet touching the cold floor. The threadbare rug did nothing to shield them from the bite of early morning. Making the bed was a silent ritual, smoothing out the creases, aligning the faded patchwork quilt just right.
My clothes hung limply on the back of the door; the fabric worn thin. I dressed quickly, the familiar texture of cotton clinging to my skin. There was no mirror here; I didn't need one to know the pale shadow I'd become, the way these clothes hung off me like whispers of a life half-lived.
I tiptoed across the creaky wooden floorboards. My stepsisters slept in and hated being woken by me making them breakfast. It was easier this way. The less time in their presence, the less time they had to make my life hell.
The staircase loomed before me—my daily descent into a world that didn't want me. I counted the steps, a silent rhythm that kept time with my heart. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen... At the bottom, I paused, listening for any sign of life. Nothing stirred—yet.
Creeping through the dim hallway, I slid past the kitchen towards the back door. The scent of stale wine lingered, mixing with the mustiness that permeated the house. It clawed at my throat as the reality of my life hit me once again.
Can't let them see you flinch, I reminded myself, straightening my spine as I made my way to the back door. This was the tightrope I walked every dawn, the fine line between subservience and rebellion.
I stepped outside, the cool air nipping at my exposed skin. A shiver ran down my spine, not from the cold but the knowledge of what lay beyond the overgrown gardens and peeling paint—the world of the Cinder Crew, dark and all-consuming.
