Chapter 1

LYRA

8 years ago

Pain.

All I feel is pain.

Firm arms hold me against his bare chest, the sprinkling of hairs irritating my sore cheeks. My stepfather's usual rule of leaving my face unharmed is apparently thrown out the window tonight, along with every shred of dignity I have managed to cling to until now. Every piece of me is limp in his hold, swaying with each step he takes—I'm a dead weight, completely disconnected from myself. There's no way I can let myself back in, not yet.

Blood and sweat drip onto the pristine floors, leaving a trail of crimson in our path, bloodied footsteps from the basement to what I'm assuming is my bedroom. It doesn't really matter, just as long as he leaves me alone. Mom is going to kill me for the mess. Maybe it will be for the best.

It's almost laughable, if I hadn't just experienced the worst night of my life, a weak chuckle likely would have crept through my chest. It's what she gets for letting the cruelty in this home spread to her only daughter, the child she is supposed to take care of, love, even. After tonight, though, I'm not entirely sure she knows the meaning of it. Love doesn't allow the devil incarnate to taint its only child, stripping her of her innocence while watching from the sidelines. When the authorities dropped me at her door years ago, they deemed it safe. She's my parent, and that's enough to make them happy, apparently.

I remember their words when they first pulled up here with a sobbing teenager in the back seat. They preached about how nice the neighborhood was, how lucky I was to be coming to a place like this because other kids don't have the opportunity. It's better than the alternative, kid. Trust me.

The worst part was, I did trust them. They had lulled me into a false sense of security with the temporary placement they put me in to start with. A beautiful older couple who helped to pull me from the deep fucking pits of hell I found myself in. I was warm and safe, comforted in a time of need until they decided to take me to her.

"Pretty girl. You did so well for me tonight. We showed him who you belong to, didn't we?" Stanton purrs, running his nose along my tear-streaked cheek. His closeness makes me feel sick, but there's no way my legs can carry me right now. "My son won't look at you twice, not after seeing what happens when the little prick provokes me. Thinking he could take you from me after all the hard work I put in to get you here; no. We showed him, precious girl. We showed him exactly what I worked for, and he won't so much as look at you anymore."

Bile rises in my throat at his words, the bitter tang mixing with the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Ryker watching, tears streaming down his face, pain etched into his stunning features—that moment will be seared into my mind for the rest of my life, branding me in the most permanent way. My stomach heaves at the thought, acid stinging everything it touches on the way up. I'm empty. Spent. Fucking done.

"Come on now, Lyra. Get yourself cleaned up and rested. Now that I've had my proper fill, there's no stopping me. I will be back in the morning to check on you, to clean up these pesky little cuts on your legs. Nothing a shower and some antiseptic won't fix. No one will know; it's our little secret."

I remain silent, closing my eyes as he kicks my bedroom door open and strolls toward the bed. He drops me onto the soft comforter, wiping away a stray hair stuck to my cheek before tucking it behind my ear. His touch has me biting the flesh on the inside of my cheek, taking some control of the pain, even if it is just a shred. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of owning my pain right now.

"Heed my warning. My son is not your savior. He will not be able to take you from me, regardless of the sweet nothings he whispers in your ear. I will look after you and your mom as long as you do exactly as I ask. Am I making myself clear?" he asks from beside me, no hint of softness in his tone—not that I would expect any from him. My eyes remain shut, nodding as much as I can muster at that moment in the hopes that he will leave.

Stanton's hands slide up my bare thighs, his fingers digging into the slices he made earlier. Saliva pools on my tongue, telling me I am moments from throwing my fucking guts up, but I hold strong, my jaw tight. The asshole hums to himself as he watches the flesh separate, splitting further apart.

The burning pain should have my body wincing, moving from his touch, but it doesn't. His blood-soaked fingers push my thighs apart with force, a moan rumbling from deep within his chest. The man is a sick fuck, relishing in the pain he caused. He slides his fingers between my legs, gathering up as much of his release as he can and pushing it back inside me.

Tears flow freely from my closed lids, gathering on my lashes before running tracks down each side. I need him to leave, the looming presence over me tempting the bile still settling in my stomach. But he doesn't leave; instead, he lingers for a moment with nothing but the sounds of his heavy breathing melding with my sobs.

"This is mine and mine alone. If you dare let anyone near it or tell anyone of what happens within this home, you will meet the same fate as your father. If you so much as look at my son, he will meet his end too. I have worked too fucking hard. Get some rest; you are going to need it."

Heavy footsteps echo through the quiet room, the timber floor creaking under his weight. Size alone allowed him to overpower both of us tonight, with my small stature doing nothing to protect either of us and Ryker being too concerned about my well-being to see his father coming. It was over for both of us before it even started, with my mother at the door to prove his point. We had no choice, no control. Nothing.

A few moments of silence pass until a loud click in the door tells me he locked me in here. A small reprieve, knowing I will be able to hear him if he comes back for me. It's something to take comfort from in a moment of darkness. Allowing myself to break, I curl into the duvet, smashing my face into the softness to scream until my throat hurts. This is all too much.

I lay there for what could be hours or minutes, allowing my mind to detach itself from the vessel it lives in, even for just a moment. Letting my thoughts wander, I catch a glimpse of the crystals hanging at the center of my bedroom, moving ever so slightly. The way the moon catches them projects a beautiful pattern on my pale pink wall has me entranced, unblinking as they twirl. It's soothing, watching the patterns ebb and flow, dancing freely despite hanging in the home of the devil.

Warmth starts to flow through my numb limbs, willing the fire to spread through my veins enough to move, to scrub every inch of my body of the sweat and filth seeping into my pores. The moment my back straightens, blood rushes back, forcing the room to spin on axis, each heavy thump of my heart echoing through my ears. If there was a drop of anything in my stomach, I'm certain it would be covering the tufted pink rug beneath my feet. This whole room is so sweet, it's sickening, bows and pink covering every possible item.

Without even switching the light on, I step under the searing stream of water in the shower, allowing the steam to consume me. The clammy feeling rolls into pins and needles, numbing one layer while the rest screams for reprieve. My usual body wash does nothing to rid my skin of his scent, the mix of cologne and sweat fusing with my pores. It doesn't matter how many layers of skin I scrub raw with the loofah; the pain of his touch still lingers like strapped weights, pinning me down just as he had.

Drying off as quickly as possible, I slip into my favorite pajamas and slide under my heavy duvet, wrapping it around me tightly like a cocoon, as if that would keep me safe from the monsters just down the hall. I would do anything to have Ryker here to hold me, to tell me it will all be okay, that we will be okay, the two of us. Instead, we're doomed to exist in this house of horrors until we can leave the deep clutches of our parents, his father and my mother holding everything we need to leave close to their non-existent hearts. Silent tears stream down my cheeks onto the silk pillow below, pain and numbness melting into one.

Knock.

Knock.

"Lyra. It's me."

Now I'm hearing things. There's no way in hell he would be outside my door so soon, not when there are still signs of life on the lower floor of the house. Our parents clink glasses, likely filled a little too much with alcohol, low sounds of conversation filtering through the floor. It's almost as if tonight never happened, as if that part of me I can never get back wasn't just torn from me.

"Come to the door and knock twice if you can hear me. Please," he urges, this time extremely clear. Still wrapped in the duvet, I pad over to the door and lightly knock two times. My breathing slows, attempting to hold in as much noise as possible—not that they could hear me from down there. I can hear my mother laughing at something, and they sound preoccupied with celebrations, but we can't risk it. Tonight is proof of that.

It stems from Ryker trying to help me, to take some of the heat off his father's attention. It works on occasion, but it always leaves him worse off. Stanton likes to keep the injuries to a minimum on areas people are likely to see, given his standing within the community. Can't have the most successful lawyer in the town found out to be an abuser. It would taint his image too much.

I still remember the look on Ryker's face when he first realized what his dear old father was doing, what he was seemingly preparing me for. They fought hard that night, with Ryker having to stay home from school and practice for the entire week. When the household had gone to sleep, he snuck into my room, picking the lock his father had installed on the outside. It was the first moment since losing my dad when I had felt safe, nestled in the arms of someone who cared about me.

"Okay, put your ear to the door and listen. In the top, left-hand drawer of your dresser, under your socks, is a small bag. Grab it, reach in, and find the window master key. Leave now. No second thoughts. There is enough cash for a taxi to take you as far as you need to go, but just go. Don't look back, Lyra. Please."

He retreats, footsteps getting fainter on the wood floor while I stand there, unmoving. Confusion floods my mind; it doesn't make sense. At all. Leaving isn't an option for me, at least not until I'm twenty-one and have access to the trust my dad left me. All my documents are in my mother's possession, and she is not going to save me when I am the reason he allows her to play trophy wife. I may as well be a fucking bank card at this point, though that would mean she cared.

His access to me gives her funds, an agreement I had no idea about when I was first brought here. My life had essentially been traded to ensure my womb donor had the lifestyle she had always dreamed of. Lavish cars, trips. The woman uses lip balm that costs more than the average person's daily wage. She's dripping in status and cash while I am here being torn apart by her husband.

The vile words he spat will haunt me till the end of my days, about how much easier it is to acquire girls this way. It's less risky than purchasing on the market, and my mother's lifestyle is cheaper than the average market price of someone like me. A gag works its way up my throat even knowing that shit like this exists, trading bodies and souls for the pleasure of wealthy dirtbags.

Making my way over to the dresser, I pull open the top drawer and sift through my socks until my hands skim across a black leather pouch with my name beautifully stitched on the front. The gold script is bumpy under my fingers as I pull the zipper open, the contents causing my jaw to drop. A wad of cash unfurls inside, revealing my passport and birth certificate alongside a singular silver key, its jagged edges pinching my fingers when I pull it out.

My heart begins to pick up, each thud defined as I think through how this would look for me, escaping these four walls and everything in it. I would have no one, starting a life completely from scratch, one without him in it—my protector, the one who catches my tears and holds my tremors. The one who whispers words of praise as I fall apart in his arms, willing for the world to open and swallow me whole. But this may be the only chance I get.

Minutes pass, and I'm frozen to the spot, holding hundred-dollar bills and everything I need to leave. Ryker has thought of everything down to the last detail, with even my father's will nestled amongst the documents. A muffled beep echoes through the room, stopping my train of thought. Having a phone isn't something I'm permitted in this house. It comes with too much access to the outside world, something Stanton has always been against when it comes to me.

My hands sift through the socks to find a black flip phone nestled just underneath the bag. The small square screen on the front glows green in the darkness, my eyes straining to read the name flashing across it.

Don't think. Just go. This number will be dead after tonight, Lyra. Go before the darkness in this house seeps too far into your veins. Leave and never look back. I need you to fucking live. Leave, or so help me God, I will stand in your place next time, and if he kills me, so be it.

Dropping the duvet, I pull on a pair of black leggings and one of Ryker's old hooded jumpers, pushing my thumbs through the worn holes in the sleeves. It's way too long, hitting just above the knee, but it's drenched in his scent, something to help ease the pain of what I'm about to attempt, a comfort to keep with me. Lacing up my boots, I feel the familiar pinch of tears brimming my eyes, waiting for their moment to flow. It's a wonder there are any left at this point, with the amount I have shed tonight alone.

My feet should be hitting the ground outside by now, sprinting for the woodland on the edge of the estate. I should be leaving and never looking back, just as he told me to, just as I've imagined countless times before tonight even happened. Many nights I have spent looking out into the woods, unable to sleep, my mind plagued with the things that happen in this house. Something is holding me back, though; maybe it's the intense ache in my chest at the sheer thought of leaving him behind.

If I leave right now, my chances of seeing Ryker again are slim. Stanton will discover what he did and will punish him for it, pushing his body to the limit, only to let him heal and do it all over again. If I stay, he might kill me slowly, but at least Ryker will get some reprieve with me sharing the load of his fathers wrath. As if sensing my hesitation, the phone vibrates in my palm with another message.

For fuck's sake, Lyra, if I don't hear that window in the next minute, I am throwing you out of it myself. Choose you for once in your goddamn life.

I run my fingers along the heart-shaped silver pendant Ryker had snuck in years ago. At the time, I played it off as a gift from my dad, something I found in the bottom of a bag when I moved in. He had it engraved with his name written in a beautiful script across the back, small enough that only I could see.

Unclasping the chain, I slide it from my neck and hide it where the bag was, under a hefty pile of socks. Though it pains me to leave something behind, I hope he finds it, something of mine to keep that means the world to me, just like he does. The bite of tears stings my eyes, emotions I'm forcing down threatening to bubble to the surface.

Quickly throwing a handful of clothes into my backpack, I put all the documents Ryker collected for me safely in the front pocket, keeping the key in my palm. The uneven edges slice into my hand, my grip punishing. Small droplets of blood pool on my skin, seeping into the sleeves of the hooded jumper.

I slide the sash window up, carefully climbing out and jumping down onto the wet grass below before I have a chance to think twice. Pain shoots up both my ankles on impact, but the sound of my drop has me bolting across the clearing. At any moment, they could look out the window and see me, so I need to be quick.

If I can get to the other side without being caught, I might make it—keyword being might. Running has never been a strength of mine; it usually ends up with me heaving and bent at the waist, my pulse ramming through every muscle, but I need to try.

My breath creates plumes of white in the crisp winter air as I run with my last reserves of energy left in my body, which is very little. After tonight, I'm completely spent, struggling through each step.

Only a few minutes pass before my limbs begin to tremble through the pain, each inhale slicing through my chest like a blade. Regardless of the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can't keep up this pace much longer, knocking into the surrounding oaks. Add those bruises to the ones already littering my skin—what's a few more in the grand scheme of things? I can hear the faint sound of cars cutting through the whooshing in my ears, pushing me forward one shaky step at a time.

Beep.

A horn screeches just as intense light blinds me from an oncoming car, stopping seconds before swerving into me. The moment the door opens, I fall to the ground, my knees hitting the sticks and mud beneath me. Each breath I attempt to suck in feels as though it's laced with glass, slicing my chest.

What if it's Stanton in the car, or my mom?

Sobs wrack through my body, my hands shooting to the ground to stop me from falling into the puddle in front of me. I barely register the approaching figure, unable to see them through the blinding light. The person looks to be a woman, and she kneels in front of me, reaching her hand to my shoulder with a lit-up phone in the other. Any attempt I make to move from her touch is useless, my body not listening to a word I say at this point.

"Oh, honey, let's get you out of the cold."