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PROLOGUE
Ifist my tanned, scarred hands, ripping the cuts on my exposed, bruised knuckles further. The shock of pain makes my heart race, chasing away the fog and tears.
My body shivers involuntarily, my hair still dripping wet. Today is about torture techniques, and he started early, breaking my weak body over and over. He said it was to test my response to extreme pain and how quickly a child’s body could bounce back under immense stress. I didn’t please him when I failed to react to the electric shock.
It comes again, and I jerk, my teeth clenched hard so I don’t let any noise out. Doing so would either please or annoy him, so I try to distract myself and remain silent.
The sterile white room is thirty steps in each direction—I’ve counted—the ceiling has fifty-seven tiles, and the door has five locks. Counting calms my brain as the current finally passes through my body, then his distorted voice comes again as he watches me through the two-way mirror.
He’s always watching . . . observing.
“Tell me how that feels.”
I don’t speak.
“Novaleen,” he snaps, annoyed now. “You know better. You must answer for my research. How does your body feel?”
I still don’t answer. It’s a childish rebellion, but one I take pride in, especially when it breaches that cool exterior and brings anything other than cold disinterest to his voice—the voice that haunts my every waking and sleeping moment.
The shock comes again, jolting my body against the table I’m chained upon.
“Answer me!”
I don’t, so he shocks me again, barely leaving me time to recover from the last one. He asks the same question again and again, followed by recurring shocks. I still refuse to answer, so he increases the voltage until I scream. The taste of my blood fills my mouth, and my bladder lets go.
“Please, sir, please!” I beg, but it’s too late. He’s punishing me and reminding me who’s in charge. My high-pitched voice cracks and then breaks as my body heaves and twists, trying to escape the current burning through me and setting my brain and body on fire.
“Please, Daddy! Please!”
ONE
Ijerk awake, coated in a cold sweat, with the sheets twisted around my bare legs. My tank top and thong stick to my body, and my long black hair is stuck to my skin.
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
Count, Nova, count.
I begin to count the specks of light filtering through the curtain, indicating it’s sunrise, the bricks on the wall, and then the stains on the ceiling from my neighbour above watering her plants too often. I count until I can breathe again and his face and voice no longer haunt me. I realise then I can still taste blood, and with a sigh, I throw back the covers. I get up to stretch, waking my body before padding to the adjoining bathroom. Flicking on the fan and light, I lean into the counter and stare at myself in the rectangular mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and my bones stick out from my lack of appetite. I’m getting worse the closer I get to . . . there.
Shaking my head, I push back my wet hair and spit into the sink. I run the tap, watching the pink, bloody water disappear down the drain. Sticking my tongue out, I see tiny puncture wounds from my teeth. I must have bit it in my sleep.
I turn away and crank on the cheap hotel shower. I didn’t get in until late last night, and I have another day of driving before the funeral.
Funeral.
Even thinking that seems surreal. He’s actually dead. The man who I thought was unstoppable, the man who I thought was invincible, is dead. I should be celebrating, I should be fucking rejoicing, but instead all I feel is lost. For so long, he’s been the shadow following me, always one step away, and now . . . what am I running from? What should I do?
And Ana . . . What about Ana?
She’s been by his side since I disappeared. What does she think happened to me? I often wonder if she remembers me. Does she even care, or did he brainwash her and turn her into his little clone? She was always so influenced by him, so eager to please. I wonder if he hurt her like he hurt me.
No, he couldn’t have. I made sure of that.
But she will be at the funeral, so what do I say? Will she even recognise me? Will she even care?
It’s been ten fucking years of running, hiding, and being nothing but a ghost thanks to him. I was just a kid when I left, only seventeen, but she was younger still. She was only fourteen, and that’s a long time to spend with a monster like him.
