Page 1 of Grim’s Angel

Chapter 1

McKenna

The envelope in my lap contains directions to the man who bought me.

At twenty-three, I am newly licensed as a nurse. I can start an IV without bruising a vein, recognize the early signs of shock, and name enough fatal conditions to ruin an otherwise pleasant headache. None of my training covers what to do when my older brother gambles away our parents’ house and lists me in an online marriage auction to win it back.

I keep thinking there should be a protocol for this. A hotline. A form. Someone authorized to tell me whether being guilted into a marriage contract counts as consent.

In my family, Alan has always been the emergency, and I have always been expected to carry the bandages.

I read the instructions again, although this makes the seventh time since leaving Black Pines. The same Las Vegas hotel waits at the bottom of the page, and the same carefully polished paragraph informs me that my future husband will identify himself after I arrive.

My husband.

The words look harmless sitting there in black ink. So does benign until the biopsy comes back.

I press the edge of the envelope beneath my thumbnail and stare through the rain-streaked bus window. Roseburn Falls spreads across the mountain valley below, its dark pines and wet rooftops disappearing beneath trails of mist. The town looks as though it has tucked itself between the mountains and hopes nobody will notice it.

I respect the strategy.

The bus shudders around a curve. My suitcase gives a wounded squeak from the rack above my head, and the woman across the aisle looks at it before directing the same disapproval toward my hips.

I give her the smile I reserve for people who consider my body a personal inconvenience.

It is a useful smile. I have worn it in narrow aisles, clothing stores, family photographs, and every room where my mother has looked at Alan’s athletic body before suggesting I might be happier if I tried harder.

My suitcase squeaks again.

At least one of us is willing to complain aloud.

My phone vibrates against my thigh.

Mom: Let us know when you meet him, sweetheart. We are so proud of you.

Pride should feel warm. This feels like a strap pulled tight beneath my ribs.

Another message waits below hers.

Alan: Don’t screw this up, Kenny. The deed isn’t released until you get there.

His concern is for the paperwork. I am relieved to see that selling his younger sister has not interfered with his ability to prioritize.

Three months ago, Alan walked into our parents’ kitchen with a split lip and a gambling debt large enough to swallow the house. Two weeks ago, he admitted he had uploaded my name and photographs to an online auction for a one-year marriage contract. Three days ago, I signed because my mother cried, my father called me their last hope, and everyone at the table spoke as though Alan had saved the family instead of setting it on fire.

I told myself it was only a year.

I told myself the contract contained medical protections, personal boundaries, and a private room if I requested one. I told myself a man willing to spend that much money on a wife might be lonely rather than cruel.

Mostly, I told myself that coming home with the deed might finally make my parents look at me the way they have always looked at my brother.

The bus passes a sign welcoming us to Roseburn Falls.

Something inside me settles.

I cannot do this.

The certainty arrives without the usual racing pulse or trembling hands. Anxiety loves a meeting, an agenda, and several hours of preparation. This thought ignores procedure and walks straight into my mind.