Stray (Rowe Ranch #1)

Prologue

OZZY

“ F uck!”

The word rips from my throat as the icy water crashes down on me, its merciless weight flattening me into the mud. They’re using the cold as a weapon—a never-ending punishment for my wrongdoing, for saving her.

The freezing water slices into my skin like a thousand tiny razors, burning through my muscles, lodging deep into my bones.

My breath is stolen before I can even gasp, my body convulsing from the shock, limbs jerking violently in protest. I curl in on myself, hands clawing at the dirt beneath me, desperate for something— anything —to ground me.

The familiar vile laughter cuts through the frigid air, filling me with a different kind of cold.

“Get your filthy ass cleaned up.” The voice is slurred from the ungodly amount of alcohol he’s consumed, but the disgust in it is clear.

It drips from his words like venom; like I’m something less than human.

Maybe I am…but this was their doing—not mine.

I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I know the sound of Hugh’s voice as well as I know pain. It’s been drilled into my skull, carved into my skin.

Something hard and solid hits the ground beside me with a dull thud, splashing into the murky water pooling beneath my body. A bar of soap. White, cheap, the kind that smells like lye and chemicals. My fingers twitch toward it, but before I can grab it, there’s a brutal yank on the chain.

I choke. Fire erupts in my throat; a fresh agony splitting through the torn, raw flesh beneath the collar.

My hands fly to my neck, fingers slipping against the rusted metal, grasping at nothing as my vision pulses at the edges.

My body collapses. Every nerve ending screams as I land hard on my knees, the impact rattling through my bones.

“Fucking useless,” Hugh mutters.

I keep my head down, forcing my trembling fingers to curl around the soap.

The water makes it slick, and I nearly drop it twice before finally managing to hold on.

My knuckles are bloody, skin peeling at the edges, nails cracked and packed with dirt.

My body is nothing but a collection of wounds, bruises layered over bruises, and torn skin that’s barely begun to heal before being ripped open again.

None of that matters, though—I don’t matter.

I grind the soap against my skin, scrubbing at the filth, the blood, the sweat, the men. It’s in my pores and hair, under my nails. Even if I scrape myself raw, even if I peel the skin from my body, I know it will still be there. It always will be.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Hugh snaps, shifting impatiently. “And clean that filthy ass of yours. I ain’t sticking my cock in there until you wash out that used-up, nasty hole.”

A twisted, bitter laugh rises in my throat. What a fucking tragedy that would be. I want to say it. God, I want to say it. But I know better. I’m too tired, too weak from their punishments recently. My body is giving up, and I don’t know if I have it in me to fight him anymore tonight.

So, I keep my mouth shut. Keep my hands moving. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Like I can erase myself. Like I can make my body something else, something other than what they’ve turned it into.

Another blast of freezing water slams into me, knocking me forward.

I scream—or rather, I try to. The sound is stolen by the cold, my throat locking up as the icy torrent pelts my skin, tearing through me like frostbite.

Every nerve ending shrieks as my body seizes violently, muscles twitching and convulsing against my will.

The water stops, but the shaking doesn’t.

My teeth chatter so hard I think they might crack. My fingers won’t work, and my knees have gone numb against the mud.

There is a sudden jerk—the chain tightens, cutting into my throat, tearing at my already-mangled flesh. My vision blurs, spots of darkness creeping in as I’m dragged forward, my knees scraping against the wooden steps of the porch.

He drags me back inside. The shack is worse than outside; if I’m honest, it’s somehow even worse than the dwelling she and I were in before I got her out.

I’ll never speak her name, I can’t. It’s our promise, our pact.

She is free from this nightmare, and we forget each other.

It’s the only way I can protect her. She’s too innocent, too caring.

She would’ve come back for me, and they would’ve killed her.

She exists now only in my dreams—I would think that’s all she ever was if it weren’t for these two punishing me for her escape.

The air is thick—stale sweat, old blood, and the pungent bite of nicotine staining every surface. The walls are yellowed and peeling, caked in grime. The floor is littered with broken glass, used needles, cigarette butts, and instruments either my captors—or the men who pay them—use on me.

It smells like suffering. Like something rotting.

Like death.

“Goddammit, Hugh!” The sharp, irritated voice comes from across the room. The accent is unmistakable—Australian. Patrick.

I brace myself. While Hugh is very much a physical punisher, Patrick likes to add a darker, more psychological approach to his abuse.

“We can’t sell her like this, mate. No one’s gonna pay to fuck a dirty whore covered in whatever this nasty shit is coming outta her neck.” I don’t react. I don’t flinch. I don’t let myself feel anything. Because I know what comes next.

Hugh shrugs, completely indifferent. “If the stupid cunt would stop running, she wouldn’t need the collar.”

Running.

My throat tightens. My pulse pounds. I did run.

I ran until my feet bled, until my legs gave out beneath me, until I had nothing left to give.

I ran even though I knew they would catch me.

Because stopping? Stopping meant accepting this.

And I will never accept this. Not as long as my heart continues to beat.

Patrick steps closer. His boots creak against the rotting floorboards. I smell him before I see him—sweat, whiskey, cigarettes, something rotten beneath it all.

He crouches in front of me, his smirk slow and calculated. The kind of smirk that makes my stomach turn.

“Not broken in yet, brumby?” His voice is a purr, taunting. His hand lashes out, slamming across my cheek. Pain explodes, bright and sharp, rattling through my skull. My ears ring as my knees buckle. Hugh yanks on the chain, keeping me upright.

Patrick chuckles, low and amused. His fingers curl around my collar, causing the correction spikes to dig into my infected flesh. I feel the warmth of fresh blood, sticky against my skin.

“You know the drill, brumby.” His breath ghosts over my face. The scent is thick with tobacco and rot. “The more you resist, the sweeter the reward.” His grip tightens. “Now bend over and stare out that window.”

I don’t move. I can’t. My body is locked up, my mind slipping, my pulse hammering against my ribs like a trapped animal.

Patrick leans in, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I want you to see just how close you are to freedom… while I fuck your filthy cunt into submission.”

The world tilts. Everything inside me fractures.

And for the first time, I feel like I’ve lost my will to fight.