Prologue

I t was cold. It was always cold.

I'd lost the feeling in my fingers and toes hours ago, but I need to get up and keep moving. It was the only way I would stay warm and avoid death for another day, but the voice in my head kept getting louder, making me hesitate. Why bother? Why fight so hard to cling to a life most would have given up on years ago?

What would it matter if I stayed here and closed my eyes for a little while? Soon, I wouldn't feel the cold. I wouldn't feel anything. Even though part of me had always fought to live, I was exhausted, and death offered me peace.

Peace. The word felt foreign on my tongue.

What did peace feel like? I'm not sure I can remember. Maybe that's why it seems so much easier to give in today, why I so desperately want to let the snow cover me, blanketing my body in a shroud of purity it hadn't felt in years.

I haven't felt clean in so long. My body covered in the grime of the streets like a second skin, and my insides dirtied by the dregs of society. The people who looked through me when I begged for money were the same ones who made me beg while they moved inside me, tightening their hands around my neck as a reminder of who had all the power.

I didn't care as long as they paid me when they left.

I could ignore another layer of dirt if it meant putting food in my belly that I didn't have to dumpster dive for. Food that was fresh and hot and not covered in maggots… Yeah, I'd lie on my back and let my mind drift as men tossed their morals aside to fuck me.

And while they threw theirs away, I held on desperately to mine.

I didn't have many. I couldn't afford to. Morals were a currency that bought you fuck-all on the streets, but without them, I'd become as infected as the rest of this city. Sure, I might be tainted. Hell, we all were in some way, but I wasn't ready to become the monster who held my leash.

And it's that thought that has me dragging myself to my knees.

I use the wall for balance, the rough brickwork scraping my hands as I lean heavily into it.

It takes two tries to get up, my legs not wanting to work, half because of the cold and half because of the bruises that protest with every move I make. I try not to think about the bruises or why I have them. I tuck it into a small box in my head and file it away with the rest of the shit that would have me slitting my wrists if I let it consume me.

Maybe one day I would. That's the voice in my head—the one that tempts me with its promises of peace and serenity if I just give in.

But not today.

Today, I put one foot in front of the other and keep walking.

Live or die. Those are my choices. I can either lie down and die or keep letting fate use me as a human punching bag.

Both options are shitty, but the choice is still mine to make.

Tugging the torn cardigan around me, I think of where to go. Dressed the way I am and weak from being attacked, I need to find somewhere I can rest and assess any damage.

There's some. I can feel it. This isn't my first rodeo, and it probably won't be my last, but I need to know if it's something I will heal from on my own or if I need help.

Stumbling along the uneven sidewalk, I keep my head down against the bitter wind as the snowflakes swirl around me, clinging to my lashes and weaving themselves into my hair.

The neon lights of the doughnut shop ahead alert my sluggish brain to where I am a second before I remember that they have a large generator in the storage shed out back. It gives off a little heat when you stand close enough to it. It's not ideal, but beggars can't be choosers right now, and at least it's out of the elements.

I slip, my heel catching in a crack, and just as I start to go down, I find myself wrapped in a pair of strong arms.

My heart races in my chest, partly from the near fall and partly from the stranger holding me.

"Are you okay?" the stranger asks as he makes sure I'm steady on my feet.

I turn to look at my savior and find the words in my mouth dry up. This is not the kind of man you see on the streets every day, and definitely not dressed like that. Even the gang leaders and pimps don't walk around in tailored suits and dark peacoats.

"Who did this to you?"

The question snaps me out of my thoughts, and I swallow around the lump in my throat as he stares at me. I open my mouth to tell him the truth—that a man held me down and beat me until I passed out before raping me while I was unconscious because whores don't get to say no. He'd told me that when I came around, as he was zipping himself up. He called it a freebie, a way to guarantee a repeat customer. Somehow, I know that if or when the guy comes back, I won't be lucky enough to walk away from him a second time.

No, if I wasn't going to just lie down and let myself go, then something had to change because I was running out of lives.

"I don't know. I was attacked. I—" I stop, realizing that I could lie all I wanted, but the evidence of what happened was written all over me, proof of who I am. Or should I say, what I do?

I wrap my arms around myself, painfully aware of how much my ribs hurt.

"You work the streets?" he asks me softly.

Nothing good can come from me answering, so I don't.

He steps closer, lifting his hand to gently tip my head back. "Do you have somewhere safe to go? Someone to get back to who'll look after you?"

I open my mouth to lie to him, but nothing comes out. A tear slips free and runs down my cheek. It's been a long time since someone looked at me with anything other than scorn or lust in their eyes.

"Come home with me."

I freeze. I might be standing on the street in the rough part of town, but this isn't a movie, and I'm not Julia Roberts. Rich, handsome men don't just pick up whores and take them home with them out of the goodness of their hearts.

"I have to go." I step back, but his other arm slides around me, his hand between my shoulders, holding me in place.

"I've been looking for you."

Another tear slips free before I wipe it away and stand tall. So much for him being different.

"It's fifty for a blow job, one hundred for sex. No anal, and you'll wear a condom, or you can go find someone else to proposition." I keep my voice even, my tone almost bored. Inside, though, I want to scream and rage at the world. The thing is, I'm not even mad at him. I'm mad at me.

I know who I am and what I do, and I know all the reasons I do it. Years ago, I made a strange peace with myself about it.

To everyone else, I might be a whore, but to me, it's business. I'm selling the only thing I have of value, and that's my body. A body that the people who treat me like shit have no problem defiling and beating, but sure, asking for compensation makes me scum. Go figure.

It baffles me how I'm the one cast as the villain when all I'm trying to do is survive. But it's okay for everyone to turn a blind eye to the married man who calls out his daughter's name as he fucks me. Or the priest who breaks his vows once a month with me in the vestry before praying for absolution for the rest of the days leading up to our next encounter. Lying spread out before him, I often see the judgment in his eyes as he fucks me with his comfort cross, like he's Adam and I'm nothing but temptation.

I don't know why I expected something different from this man. He doesn't have kind eyes. I wasn't lured in by false promises or a handful of cash. I needed hope. Something to cling to after what just happened. I guess I just wanted him to be better.

"That's not why I'm here."

He looks down at me, the glare of the streetlights picking up the amber flecks in his eyes, making them look like they're almost glowing. It's a trick of the light, for sure, but for a split second, I wonder if I'm standing at a crossroads about to make a deal with the devil.

"I have nothing else to offer you," I tell him. It's the truth. I'm not ashamed of what I've become. Hurt, disappointed, and so fucking angry, sure, but not ashamed. I'm surviving the only way I know how, so shame can kiss my ass. "So, if you don't want my pussy or my mouth around your cock?—"

My words are cut off when his gloved hand covers my mouth. Fear floods my system, and I freeze. I know better than to let my mouth run away, but today, I'm trying to hold too many broken pieces together to stop myself from falling apart. I forgot that out here, I'll always be prey.

"Make no mistake," he says as I start to feel lightheaded. "I'd take your mouth and your pussy in a heartbeat if things were different, but you're wrong in thinking that's all you have to offer."

His gloves, I realize belatedly, as blackness edges my vision.

It's freezing out. The snow is still falling around us in a frenzied dance. It's exactly the kind of weather for gloves, but something tells me that's not why he's wearing them. A whisper of awareness runs up my spine, letting me know far too late that there's a reason a man like him would be slumming it down here, and it's not good.

He dips his head, his nose skimming over mine. "Yes, you'll be perfect," he murmurs as my legs give out underneath me.

He scoops me up into his arms like I weigh nothing and walks with me toward a dark car parked on the other side of the doughnut shop.

"Your daddy's going to love you."

I try to lift my head and scream, but instead, I feel my eyes roll into the back of my head as the scent of something metallic tugs on my senses.

My head lolls into his chest, the metallic scent stronger now that my nose is pressed against his coat.

As I lose consciousness, I realize what the scent is.

The sweet, coppery tang of blood.