Prologue

PROLOGUE

I t's almost time for the games to begin.

Alone on the shore of Isla Cara, I look up at the mansion tucked in the palm trees. The angry ocean thrashes against the sand behind me as the sun starts to kiss the horizon: purple, blue, orange, and blood red.

When the first bell rings out from the main house, the expansive beach glows as the spotlights on the roof illuminate the contestants' finish line.

It's so bright it almost feels like the middle of the day rather than the edge of dusk.

Dressed in elegant suits and gowns, the exclusive set of guests exit the mansion and make their way onto the veranda. The stone terrace they walk on juts over the sandy beach, providing unobstructed sightlines of the Caribbean.

"This is a billion-dollar view," Father said when he took ownership of Isla Cara. It became his most prized possession.

People have heard of the mysterious Isla Cara, but only a few of the elite have been here. Claimed by Sir Brigham, who came over from England on the Mayflower, Isla Cara is a small, secluded dot on the globe, southeast of the island of Dominica, not far from Martinique .

As was done from generation to generation, my grandfather bequeathed all he owned upon his death to his only son.

Everything, including this godless island.

But I guess that isn't true. There is a god here. His name is Benjamin Brigham.

The revelers on the raised stone deck wear painted faces to allude to their regality. Their blood diamonds are a good conversation piece.

At the center of the crowd is their king—their American royalty.

And I stand on the shore: his son.

"Let's have some fun, shall we?" Father's voice is clear. Even the crash of waves can't drown him out.

Joyful sounds reverberate as the guests jockey for optimal viewing.

Even from my spot below, I hear bits of their excited conversations.

"Six million on the redhead, Tucker," one voice states.

"I think you should bet on the one from Sierra Leone," adds another. "Strong thighs."

"Franklin, you know those kind can't swim."

Raucous laughter blends with the ringing of the next bell.

Far, far off in the sea, a charter boat bobs up and down past the riptide.

Then as the sun waves past the horizon, bodies hit the water one by one as they're thrown from the vessel.

Their screams echo across the water until they enter their salty grave.

One body.

Two bodies.

Three. Four.

More and more and more hit the water.

From their place of privilege on the stone perch, the betters call out their price for a life. Others groan with the sting of a bet lost .

Five. Six.

Twenty-two in all.

I watch for almost an hour as the turquoise water swallows bodies and souls and track the others who make it to shore. This is just phase one of the games.

Next they'll have to evade the hunt. The survivors will make sure they hide well with hopes they make it to morning.

That is, if they want to live another day.

Near the craggy rock cliff, a quarter mile down the shore, a dark body writhes on the pale sand.

I glance at my father, curious if he's noticed the spot on the beach. His back is to the water, and his arms glide through the air as if he were a maestro conducting the group.

My feet move, and soon the bottomless, obsidian eyes of a girl I recognize stare back at me. She has been on Isla Cara since she was six years old.

The first time I came here, I was that age too.

I, the prince of the island. She, a slave.

In the nine years since her arrival, the softness of youthful innocence has become a distant memory, stripped from her being early on with every violation and lash of the whip.

"I made it," she says, panting.

The fact that she did make it is unfortunate. Dying in the ocean would have been a merciful outcome, knowing what the rest of her short life will be like.

I don't say anything.

She rolls to her back and clutches her stomach, her skin shredded by the hidden coral that dots the reef just beyond the shore.

Her wound isn't fatal.

"Why did I fight to get back here?" she asks, looking at the bloody sand between her fingers.

I know she doesn't expect a response from me.

She laughs. It's a bright sound—almost happy, despite the raspy tenor her voice has from the seawater and her screams .

Most of the sun is behind the horizon, and the ambient glow from the spotlights gives just enough illumination to see her face.

The hum of the charter boat draws closer, heading for the dock not too far from us.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then, voices.

"Help me," she pleads.

I study her face.

"Please," she adds.

I don't move.

"You know what they'll do to me," she says. Her voice is hard. Tense and urgent.

And I do know. I know that the men coming closer, hunting her, will find her naked, bruised body.

Maybe they'll be merciful and end her life there on the shore.

But because she's unable to run, unable to hide, the more likely outcome is that she'll be passed around the massive playroom. I know they will take turns violating her.

I know because this is what happens to prey in the games.

"Help me," she whispers.

My father expects me to join the hunts.

I'm too soft, he says.

So he shreds my flesh to give me tough skin.

"Please," she says. She reaches her shaking hand toward me. "Help me," she repeats.

"I can't help you escape," I tell her.

"I know," she whispers. She tilts her head back. "This is the way."

A dozen emotions flow through me at her words, but the prevailing one? Hopelessness.

How will Father view this betrayal?

I lean down over her, getting closer. So close I could count the dark lashes on her eyelids if we had time. If only we had time.

"What is your name?" I ask her. I have to know.

"Ominira," she replies. Her face smooths out, so all that's left in her expression is the slight upturn of her lips.

"I'm sorry, Ominira," I whisper, reaching for the blade in my back pocket.

Her gaze locks with mine, assessing me. With a sharp nod, she slides her eyes closed.

One more breath. One more heartbeat.

"Thank you," she says, tension leaving her body.

I slit her throat in one sure cut.