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PROLOGUE
SIX MONTHS AGO
Death...
...that’s my future.
I wished someone would save me.
I was wrong.
So very wrong.
Something unsettling burrows its way into the depths of my stomach, setting like hard cement. I pick up my pace, almost running. Footsteps sound faster behind me, the crunch of boots on dirt and snaps of twigs follow closely. He isn’t quiet, his heavy breath filling me with dread.
Whipping around, I chance a look over my shoulder, and in amongst the shadows of night, under the city streets, I catch a glimpse of a large body charging at me like a bull. My breath hitches as my heart hammers, and fear swims through my veins as though it’s running a marathon. My feet attempt to pick up speed as I keep running. I don’t look back again.
My need to survive takes over. Here, I thought I’d gotten ahead. Only, within what feels like seconds since my glimpse of the body following me, arms wrap tightly around my torso. His hard-as-iron grip and what breath I have left are slowly squeezed from me, but not before a deathly scream erupts from my lungs, and something hard hits me in the head.
Then nothing.
Blackness.
1
The scent of wet dirt fills my nostrils, causing a fit of coughs. I attempt to open my eyes, but the throb in my head stabs me behind my eyelids. I slam them shut again, and darkness closes in around me. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, wishing this to be a bad dream I really want to wake up from. Only a scraping sound that reminds me of nails on a chalkboard causes my breath to hitch, and I know this isn’t good.
The shovel scrapes along the rocks again, and the wind is knocked out of me as pile after pile of dirt is dumped on my limp body.
The impulse to jump up and run is strong. If I did, I wouldn’t make it very far, my body is still and numb.
Even the creatures of the night have fallen silent, not a single chirp from a night bird or a cricket. I’m alone—no one to save me.
Voices flow through the cold breeze, my body shakes, and I’m not sure if it’s from the cold air or fear, most likely a mix of both, but leaning more toward fear.
I attempt to listen to the unfamiliar, deep, manly voices argue. “Why did you do this?” one hisses out, and the shovel pauses.
Thank goodness.
I strain my ears to hear the reply.
“Her death is payment, she must die, her family owes it to yours,” the other man growls out.
Payment? For what? I don’t owe money to anyone.
“But she’s done nothing wrong.” His voice is firm and unwavering, while the other man bellows with such power and strength it would make anyone fear him.
“Her family broke the rules, and now I’ve been left to clean up the mess.”
Family? For as long as I can remember, I’ve had no one close enough to resemble anything close to that. Growing up in the streets is not my idea of family. Trying to find my next meal or a warm place to sleep is no life for anyone, but it was mine.
A cough rips up my dirt-coated throat. I gag on it, dry retching.
“She’s alive. We have to get out of here now,” the gentle but firm voice says with urgency.
“No. She must die,” the other persists.
What could I have done to him to owe a death penalty?
