Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Cinna

The moon was full, fragmenting through the spiderweb cracks in the windows, casting the room in light that made it hard to find shadows to hide in.

I slumped down the wall, the chill creeping in through the stone, seeping into my bones, making the sweat—or was it blood?—on my skin cool, dragging a shiver out of me.

My breath was coming in ragged gasps.

I couldn’t keep moving.

My lungs were on fire.

I needed a minute, just one, to bring some calm to the chaos in my body.

Even as I sucked in a greedy breath full of dust, exhaust, and the acrid scent of vomit, I heard it.

Heard them.

Footsteps.

Making their way in my direction.

Some part of me, a weak, pathetic part I thought I’d killed off years ago, simply wanted to give into the screaming in my ribs, the pain jackhammering in my skull, the throbbing ache in my arm, and the swirling exhaustion in my head, to slide all the way to the ground, let them find me, and just finish this.

My chin dipped toward my chest, eyes drifting closed, but I clawed my way back toward consciousness.

I had one singular goal here.

Survival.

I couldn’t afford to give in to the pain assaulting me with each movement, with each breath.

I had to keep moving.

Gritting my teeth against the way pain seared up my side as I stood, I turned and started to move again.

My steps were silent after kicking off my boots three rooms, two ripped socks, and two bloody soles ago.

This building, whatever it had once been, was clearly now a hangout spot for kids or junkies, the ground littered with broken beer bottles that sliced into my feet as I kept forcing my way across the room.

I tried not to think about what else might be littering the ground—used condoms, spent needles, piss, or that vomit scent that was getting stronger as I moved across the open space.

There would be time to worry about my injuries and infection later.

Right now, I had to move.

“Come out, come out, wherever you aaaare!” a sing-song voice taunted, making my stomach flip and my adrenaline surge.

There was an eerie silence outside of the building, like the city itself was holding its breath, was waiting to see what happened next.

I hated open floor plans. These big, spacious rooms with nowhere to hide, with nothing to put between you and those who meant you harm.

I crept across the room, my own breath and heartbeat so loud in my ears, I would swear they could hear it, even from a room or two away.

My hand slid instinctively toward my waist, looking for my gun.

The one they’d taken from me already.

Along with my knife.

My mace.

Everything I had to defend myself with.

Now it was just me, my instincts, and my will to survive.

Against three men who wanted me dead.

But not before they made me wish and beg for it first.

I reached outward, hand pressing into the release bar on the door, cringing as it clicked as it pushed inward, praying that my attackers didn’t hear it, didn’t come running.

As it turned out, they didn’t need to run.

Because they were on the other side of the door.

Waiting.

The blow came too swiftly to deflect, a fist straight to the jaw, whipping my head to the side, making me stagger, but not fall.

The next blow, though, landed on my already aching ribs, driving all the air from my lungs, and causing me to crash to the ground, the impact making pain slice through my head, my arm, my side.

“Look at the mighty Cinna now,” a sneering voice taunted as I tried to rise up, getting onto all fours. Before a boot connected with my side, sending me sprawling again, this time on my back. “Hold her down,” he ordered.

Rough hands grabbed me from both sides, pinning my arms and legs to the cold, hard ground, as the ringleader towered over me, the moon casting half his face in shadow, making him look like a villain from a movie.

Not someone I knew.

And that was maybe the scariest part.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, leg rearing back to kick out again, colliding with the ribs on my other side, the pain a white-hot, blinding knife.

I fought the wave of panic as he leaned down, his lips bent in a sick smirk as his hand curled into a fist, the knuckles already broken open from the dozen or so times they had already collided with my face, with my body.

“That’s it,” one of his henchmen cheered as his fist cracked into my jaw, sending my head swinging to the other side as pain ratcheted up my face to pound in my temples. “Make her scream.”

I wouldn’t scream.

They could get my blood.

Break my bones.

But I would never give them the satisfaction of hearing my pain.

“Oh, I think I might make her scream alright,” my attacker said, the wicked gleam in his eyes making my heart lurch in my chest.

This was the risk, wasn’t it?

When you were a woman in a violent, male-dominated field.

When you went out alone at night.

When you dared to have a drink at a bar.

When you trusted the wrong man.

When you were a woman… period.

That these devils in men’s clothing would grab you, hold you down, violate you.

I’d known the risks.

I’d taken my chances.

But knowing of a potential threat, and being held down on a filthy floor by three men who wanted to gang-rape you before finally killing you? It was a whole different thing.

It lit the flame of fury inside me.

Making me think past the pain, past the hopelessness.

My reflexes were quick this time as his fist flew out, turning my head at the exact right second, making it impossible to pull his punch, and sending his fist right into the cement instead of my face.

The roar that escaped him as he reeled back only fed the fire inside of me, giving me the strength to curl my lower half toward one side, striking out with the heel of my foot toward the face of one of the men holding me down, sending him crashing onto his ass.

“The fuck are you doing?” the ringleader growled, clutching his hand to his chest as the second guy struggled to hold me on his own.

They were all bigger than me, stronger, too, even if it hurt my pride to admit it, but I had the animal instinct to survive inside of me.

It allowed me to take another hit to the face without slowing me down as my own fist shot out, missing its mark of the jaw, but colliding instead with a much more tender target.

His throat.

Leaving him choking and gasping as I scrambled up onto all fours, then started to stand.

Only to have my ankles grabbed back hard, pulling them out from under me, leaving me barely enough time to throw out my hands, feeling a screaming pain shoot across my wrist and up my arm as I caught myself.

It was okay.

It was my left hand.

I could still fight.

The man I’d struck in the throat was still struggling to breathe, sitting on his ass several feet away, both hands clutching his neck, his eyes wide with panic as he couldn’t draw in a proper breath.

But there were two hands landing blows.

And, worse yet, a set of boot-clad feet.

Hitting my hip, my stomach, the side of my face.

All there was for what felt like hours, weeks, years, was pain and blood.

I fell, then crawled, clawing my way away from them each time.

The taste of blood filled my mouth as I was suddenly grabbed and whipped onto my back, my head cracking against the ground with enough force to knock my teeth together, to make my vision flash black.

“I want her first,” one of the henchmen said as he crawled toward me, his hand going to his fly.

He struggled with his zipper, giving me just the slightest opening.

“Watch—“ the ringleader tried to warn him.

But it was too late.

I yanked my leg in, then kicked out with everything in me, my foot colliding with his crotch, the pain, I had to imagine, only amplified by his sick, hard desire. He fell backward, both hands clutching his dick as he howled and hissed.

I couldn’t savor the victory as I whipped myself back over onto all fours to push myself up, needing the help of the ground with my weakened ribs, with my muscles and tendons that were starting to feel like they were more ornamental than functional at that point.

“Oh, you don’t get away that easy,” the leader said, his knees coming down on the backs of my thighs, slamming me down onto my face.

And this time, my vision didn’t just flicker.

It went out.

I woke up with my heartbeat hammering, like a hypnic jerk sending adrenaline shooting through me, some baser part of me screaming at my body to survive .

I felt the hands on me then, fingers hooked inside the waistband of my pants and panties, nails digging into skin as he struggled with the tight, uncooperative material of my leather pants.

How long was I out?

Five seconds?

Ten?

The wet, gasping sounds to the side of me said the guy I’d punched in the throat was still struggling. And the low, tortured moans suggested the other was still cradling his dick and balls.

It was just me and the man responsible for all the pain gripping my system.

“Fuck,” he growled, grabbing harder, and yanking hard, the material scratching over my skin.

My gaze scanned around, looking for the closest exit, hoping for one last Hail Mary run for freedom.

Instead, I saw something shining and sharp.

The neck of a glass beer bottle.

Severed and jagged.

Just out of reach, though.

Trying to suck in a breath, I acted like I was trying to wiggle away, a pathetic, girlish fight that had him chuckling and smacking my ass hard.

Distracting him.

So I could scoot closer, my arm stretching out little by little even as I felt cool air on the top of my ass.

His fingers scraped across my butt as he pulled my pants down further.

Now or never.

I reached out, my fingers closing around the cold glass.

Then, with every bit of strength left in me, I flung myself over onto my back, striking out with the sharp edge of the bottle.

The roar of pain let me know I struck… true enough.

I didn’t have time to wait and see.

I mustered what was left of my survival instinct, peeled myself off the ground, and ran.

Each step was agony, the pain ratcheting up my whole body as I rushed out of one door, down a hallway, then, there it was.

The front door.

Outside, the soft sounds of traffic.

Safety.

Gritting my teeth, I rushed forward, flinging open the door, and moving out onto the sidewalk of a side street.

I was disoriented, having come in a different entrance. But I kept moving, refusing to stand still on an abandoned street. When any one, or all three, of my attackers, might be right behind me.

I made my way to the corner, looking for a cab, but having no luck.

Glancing up, I looked at the cross-section signs.

It couldn’t be.

I was that close?

To backup?

To someone who could have helped me avoid the worst of the damage raking across every inch of my body?

Swallowing back the lump in my throat at even needing help, I turned and kept walking, my pace just shy of an old-school zombie trudge, but it was forward motion.

It was the best I could do.

No one ran out behind me as I closed in on it.

A simple apartment building emerging, modern and sterile-looking.

Limping up the steps, promising myself it was just a few hundred more feet, that it was almost over, I slammed the side of my fist into the buttons for the apartments, running it down all of them.

Chances were, someone was waiting on someone. A booty call. A plug. Take out.

Something dangerously close to a sob escaped me as the door clicked.

I grabbed it like the lifeline it was, moving inside and closing the door, knowing I was safe.

Safe.

The idea had my eyes stinging and I blinked back the water as I pulled myself into the elevator, and hit the button for the door.

Almost there.

Then it could be over.

I could stop being so strong.

Stop enduring.

Give into the urge that was begging me to let go, to slip toward unconsciousness. If only to escape the pain.

The chime of the car as it hit the floor felt like it was attached to a megaphone, making my shoulders pull up to my ears as the sound sliced through my skull.

Almost there.

Twenty more steps.

That was the door right there.

Number forty-four.

My favorite number.

Though I would never have told him that.

It suddenly felt even more lucky as I closed in on it.

It took actual effort to raise my arm high enough to stab my finger into the doorbell.

“Keep your panties on,” a voice called from inside. Then, “Unless you’re a gorgeous woman. In which case, feel free to slip right out of th—“

His easy-going, upbeat voice broke off as he slid the chain, then pulled open the door to see me.

There he was.

Dav.

Possibly the only man in the world I could trust with this secret.

“Cinna,” his voice hissed out of him as horror filled his stupidly handsome face as he took me in.

I had no idea what I looked like.

But if my agony was anything to go by, it was not good.

“What—“ he started, his arms reaching out toward me.

I thought, at first, it was simply because he was one of those kinds of people. The touchy-feely ones. Who were always brushing your arm, touching your lower back, picking lint off of your shirt.

I didn’t realize, until I felt myself falling into him, that he saw me teetering and was trying to catch me before I fell.

And as I collided with his frame, it happened.

A deep, soul-crushing sob escaped me.

As if this night hadn’t been humiliating enough.