Broken Promises (The Broken Trilogy #1)

Prologue

The dark had a way of loosening memories I had buried carefully, and once they surfaced, they did not come gently. They arrived in full force, heavy and relentless, dragging me back to a life that had taught me far too early that survival was not a gift but a skill I had to learn.

I had been abandoned as a baby in Dauphin, Manitoba, left without a name that truly belonged to me.

The orphanage gave me one instead, Jiya Flores, as though a name could anchor a child no one wanted.

I stayed there until I was ten, long enough to understand that affection was rationed and love was something other people received in abundance.

When the orphanage shut down, I was passed from foster home to foster home, learning quickly how to read moods, how to become small, how to exist without being noticed. Some families were indifferent, some cruel in quiet ways, but none prepared me for the last one.

The Lipsters.

Jeremy Lipster and his wife, Dorothy, were in their early fifties and childless, their house heavy with resentment that had nowhere safe to land.

Jeremy was the town sheriff, a man admired for his authority and charm, a man no one ever suspected of being a tyrant.

Inside the house, his small eyes brimmed with hatred, his presence choking the air until it felt unbreathable.

His greasy hair was always neatly parted, his uniform pressed, his smile reserved for everyone except us.

Outside, he was admired. Inside, he ruled through fear.

Dorothy was round and unattractive, but she was a wonderful cook, a talent Jeremy never appreciated. His contempt for her was constant, and her frustration with him had no outlet except me.

When they adopted me at fourteen, I believed, foolishly, that the worst was finally over.

Instead, the four years I lived with them carved wounds that never truly healed.

I was starved and beaten, my body learning hunger and pain as familiar companions.

I worked part-time jobs and hid whatever money I could, understanding instinctively that escape would one day depend on it.

When I finished high school, they forbade me from applying to university or college, as though my future belonged to them. I worked at the local grocery store and diner, coming home exhausted and silent, counting days without knowing what I was counting down to.

The day Jeremy walked into my room while I was changing, something in me shattered into a cold, brittle fear I would recognize for the rest of my life.

“What are you doing in my room?” I asked, unable to blink.

“What do you think?” he said, wiping his mouth hungrily with the back of his hand. He was inebriated, and his eyes were glazed with something vile and unmistakable—lust.

He grabbed me and started ripping off my clothes. Terror stole my breath. I screamed until my throat burned. “Get off me! Leave me! You’re hurting me! GET OFF!”

Dorothy burst into the room and pulled him away. She could endure his cruelty, but she could not endure the idea of him touching me. In her twisted sense of ownership, I became forbidden, and that only fueled him further.

Again and again he tried, and again and again she intervened, saving me not out of love, but out of jealousy and rage. She was my abuser and my protector, and I lived suspended between those contradictions.

The night she died, the world tilted on its axis.

Jeremy was drunk, as he often was, and when Dorothy dragged him out of my room, his fury exploded. He struck her so hard that she fell down the stairs, her body crumpling in a way that no longer looked human.

I stood frozen as her blood pooled at the bottom, the sight so unreal that my mind refused to accept it. My limbs grew heavy, my hands trembled, and I could not decide whether to mourn or feel relief. I had lost someone who hurt me, and someone who had kept me alive.

Jeremy threatened me into silence, and I obeyed because fear had taught me obedience well. I lied to the authorities, and no one questioned him when he called it an accident. I knew what would come after the funeral, and I knew no one would save me.

So I planned.

I gathered the money I had hidden from my jobs, along with cash Dorothy had secretly stashed away in the kitchen. When the funeral ended, I returned to the house while Jeremy went to work and packed what little I owned.

When I heard the front door open, panic sharpened my thoughts. I threw my bags out the window, went downstairs, and pretended nothing was wrong.

“What would you like for dinner tonight?” I asked as I put a pot of water to boil on the stove.

He ignored my question and gulped down three drinks in seven minutes before he came up behind me.

Startled, I pushed him away.

“No one’s gonna protect you now, little girl.”

I knew he was right. The truth solidified with chilling clarity. No one would come. No one would ever believe me.

He put his hands on me slowly, as though testing how much of me he could claim without resistance. They settled on my shoulders first, heavy and possessive, his fingers digging in just enough to remind me how easily he could hold me still.

I felt his breath at my back before his hands moved lower, deliberate and unhurried, sliding over my breasts as if my body were something he owned. My skin crawled beneath his touch, nausea rising so fast it stole my breath.

He made a sound low in his throat, wet and pleased, and I hated myself for hearing it so clearly.

His mouth was close to my ear, his lips curling as though the moment amused him.

When his hands gripped me again, more boldly this time, my mind screamed to flee while my body locked in place, trapped between terror and disbelief.

He pressed himself closer, his face buried in my neck, his mouth lingering where my pulse hammered wildly, each kiss a reminder that no one was coming, that this was happening.

That was when I felt it—hard and unmistakable against me—and the realization landed with a sickening weight.

This was desire, ugly and certain, pressed into my back as if to erase any doubt of what he intended.

My stomach twisted violently, shame and terror tangling in a way that made my vision blur.

Something inside me snapped then. The fear that had ruled me for years burned away, replaced by a heat so sharp it felt animal, feral, unstoppable.

Before he could react, I turned, grabbed the pot of boiling water from the stove, and hurled it at him with every ounce of rage I had been forced to swallow for far too long.

Then I struck him again and again until he fell, bleeding and unconscious.

I ran out of that house without looking back.

In Vancouver, I shed my old name and became Nyah Rodriguez, because survival sometimes required reinvention. Escape was never enough; you had to be ready for what followed.

Sleep never came easily after that, because some pasts do not stay buried. They wait patiently, reminding you why you learned to run and why you learned to fight.