Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Ava —California, Three Years Later
My heart claws up my throat.
Something is wrong.
It’s dark as I walk out to my car after my shift at Isca—the swanky restaurant attached to the exclusive hotel, Exeter House, on the far side of Malibu.
It’s well after eleven at night, and the staff are forced to park in the backlot.
Usually, one of the security guards, David, walks me to my car, but he wasn’t at his post tonight.
So, rather than bother someone else, I made a beeline for my car.
I’m already regretting that.
Overhead lamps throw little pools of light onto the asphalt below, but not enough to push away the shadows that lurk on the outer edges of the backlot. Murky, undefined silhouettes seem to move and shift in the darkness, but…maybe I’m just being paranoid.
If I am, there’s a good reason for it.
Trauma doesn’t just go away overnight, right?
According to the internet, it takes time.
But, I don’t know. I’ve been in survival mode for so long, I’m starting to think it’s my new normal.
I always seem to be looking over my shoulder, always on high alert.
Always wondering what’s lurking in the shadows.
What Big Bad Thing is going to jump out at me next?
My heart is pounding, and I’m halfway to my car when I reach into my purse for my phone. I can’t find it. Did I grab it from my staff locker?
I pull my purse off my shoulder, then crouch so I can set my purse down on the asphalt and search more thoroughly. Wallet. Sunscreen. Sun glasses. I practically tear the inside of my purse apart, panic rising in the back of my throat. It’s not here. I must’ve left it in my locker.
“Fuck,” I breathe, piling everything back into my purse. I glance over my shoulder at the glittering twin towers of Exeter House. Should I go back and grab it? I have an early shift tomorrow—
That thought is cut off when a black SUV screeches into the parking lot. It stops directly in front of me, and a guy with a black mask pops out of the backseat. He steps toward me, and I stand up, purse clutched in my hand. My heart rate has gone from slightly panicked to DEFCON 5 in half a second.
But before I can even think, or run, or scream, I’m yanked off my feet and tossed into the backseat of the SUV. My back slams against the leather seat as the door snaps shut, and the car peels out of the parking lot.
Holy fuck.
My brain is spinning, trying to process what the fuck just happened. There are three guys in the car—one driving, one in the passenger seat, and one in the back with me—all wearing black masks that cover their faces.
“What do you want?” I ask, scrambling back into the corner, my hand feeling for the door handle. I yank on the handle, but it won’t budge. My fingers search for the lock, but pressing it does nothing. It must be child-locked.
Shit.
No one says anything. And that deafening silence is more terrifying than if they’d started yelling threats. At least then, I’d know what I was dealing with.
But this heavy silence feels…calculated. Like, I’m not just some random girl they pulled into their SUV. Somehow, I know with a sickening certainty that they’ve been watching me. They’ve planned this.
“What the fuck do you want?” I scream at the top of my lungs, which is even more amplified in the confined space. My ears ring from the piercing sound of my own voice.
But, by now, panic has been replaced with rage.
Fuck these fucking cunts.
My purse is gaping open, and I reach into it to grab my keys. Attached is a keychain in the shape of a cat’s head that’s designed for self-defense—the ears form two sharp jabby points. I thread my fingers through the eye holes and lunge at the guy next to me with everything I have.
He reaches out and catches me by the throat, stopping me before I’m even close to making contact. With a grunt, I jab the sharp cat ears into his arm as hard as I possibly can.
“Fuck,” he hisses, releasing me.
I use that small distraction to lash out again, attacking the guy, slashing at him with my cat ears. It’s a pretty sad weapon, but it’s something, at least, and fuck if I’m going to let them take me without a fight.
Somewhere in the chaos, the guy in the passenger seat hands something to the guy I’m attacking. In the darkness, I only see a flash of movement before I feel the sharp sting of a needle sink into my arm. With a gasp, I reel back.
“What was that…?” I scream, my hand pressed to my arm. But in literal seconds, my question is answered. My tongue feels thick, my mouth dry, and a wave of dizziness washes over me.
The motherfucker drugged me.
I don’t even remember passing out, but when I blink my eyes open, I’m no longer in the car. It’s that quick, that disorienting.
What the fuck?
I jolt upright. The first thing I notice is that I’m still fully clothed (thank God), lying in a large bed, and the room is dark, but I can see a sliver of light peeking out from behind the curtains. Is it daytime? Where am I?
All I can see is a nightstand next to me, the shadow of a fireplace, and an armoire several feet away. I’m in a bedroom.
Okay, now panic hits me. My heart kicks into overdrive as I try to roll off the bed, but as my body lurches forward, my arm is caught and I’m yanked back. Wait, hold up. I’m handcuffed to the bedframe.
Holy shit.
This just went from really bad to Dateline-episode-worse.
What am I going to do? Scream? Will that alert them that I’m awake, though? Maybe I can try to pry my wrist free somehow? My mind is working a mile a minute, my breathing is so fast and so shallow that I’m starting to feel dizzy.
Calm down. Ava. Think.
If I want to survive this, first I have to figure out what the fuck is happening, and fast. The only thing that makes sense is that I’ve been taken by sex traffickers.
Why else would three guys kidnap me from an empty parking lot, drug me, then chain me to some random four-poster bed?
My IUD can keep me from getting pregnant, but there’s no protection against the kind of damage this leaves behind.
A fresh wave of panic pumps through my veins, and I tug on the handcuff so hard that the entire headboard moves. If I can just break the wood somehow, then I might be able to free myself…
Out of nowhere, a deep male voice slithers through the darkness. “That headboard is solid wood. You won’t break it.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, I slam my back against said headboard. Where the fuck did he come from? I didn’t realize anyone was in here with me, and the fact that he’s been standing there, watching me, makes me feel dirty. Vulnerable.
The voice came from the foot of the bed, so that’s where I’m looking. But as much as I strain, I can’t see anything in the murky darkness, which is creepy as fuck.
“Who are you?” I ask, like he’s going to fucking tell me, but it’s a knee-jerk reaction to ask.
His answering chuckle slithers up my spine, but, of course, he doesn’t answer. Then the ceiling light clicks on, and the room is flooded with bright white light. My eyes struggle to adjust, but when they do, I’m shaken by what I see.
Jackson McKnight.
My Ex.
The devil from my nightmares.
Three years have carved away every trace of the teenager I knew, leaving behind someone almost unrecognizable. His dark hair is shorter now, styled instead of falling across his forehead. His shoulders are broader, filling out his tall, lean frame.
But it’s his face that stops me cold. He has a sharper jawline, more defined cheekbones. And those same green eyes that used to dance with mischief are now harder, darker. More dangerous.
He’s standing across from me, leaning casually against the bedpost, those vivid green eyes locked on me. “Hey, Doe-eyes.”
I suck in a breath at the endearment. Doe-eyes. It was his pet name for me for the ten months we were dating. The first time he kissed me, he said I looked like an innocent, wide-eyed doe.
That feels like a lifetime ago.
Well, now that I know who kidnapped me, I should feel relieved. I don’t. Truth be told, I’d rather have been sex trafficked. Fighting off a stranger would have been far easier than dealing with the devil I know.
“Where am I?”
“Rush House.”
The headquarters of the Burning Crown, the secret society he was practically born into.
He talked about it all the time when we were dating.
Rush House is a sprawling Victorian mansion owned by the Rush family, sitting right on the beach, the grounds pressing against the edge of Exeter University West—or ExU, for short.
“What am I doing here?”
“We need to talk—” he says casually, like he didn’t just kidnap me, drug me, and handcuff me to his bed.
I sit back, push out a breath, and try to get my panic under control. I need to be cool. Calm. Well, as calm as I can be considering I’m facing the one guy on this entire planet I’d hoped to never see again.
I narrow my eyes at him. “If you wanted to talk, then you could have just texted me like a normal-fucking-person.”
“Texts are traceable,” he says. “Besides, you blocked me.”
Yeah, I did. Not that it helped. I’m fully aware that Jackson McKnight has more money and resources than God himself. Even if I’d changed my name, gotten plastic surgery, and moved to a small village in a foreign country, he could still find me, if he wanted to.
Because once the devil marks you, there’s no escape.
And Jackson McKnight marked me years ago.
When I was almost seventeen, my dad was hired as a property manager on a sprawling estate in St. Louis, Missouri.
It belonged to Senator Davis—Jackson’s stepdad.
So my dad, my older sister, and I packed up and moved into a small guesthouse at the back of the property.
At that point, Jackson was splitting his time between California and Missouri.
He and his younger sister would show up during the summer and holiday breaks, and suddenly the quiet estate would come alive…