Prologue
LEAVE ME BURNING - CARLTON HAYNES & MARTHA BEAN
EMBER - THREE YEARS AGO
“You’re hit, Langley! Kill shot!”
“You’ll never kill me, little astronaut. Hands up, and surrender before it’s too late!”
With a fake, plastic pistol clutched in my shaking hands, I have to bite my tongue to hold a peal of laughter in. If I make a sound, Warner will find me. He always beats me when we play secret agents. Just once, I’d like to win.
“Where did you go?” he calls from across the messy bedroom. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
My chest burns from the pressure of holding giggles back.
“Give it up, Em! You know I always catch you!”
“Never!”
Secretly, I quite like it when he does. Fireworks erupt where his long, nimble fingers dig into my ribcage when he tickles me. It makes my stomach do this strange flip-flop thing. It feels good. I’m not sure why. All the boys in my class at school are pretty gross, but not him. Not my Langley.
“There you are!” Warner shouts in pure triumph.
“Nooo!”
“You’re mine now, Em!”
Screaming, I bolt from behind the dresser I’d chosen for cover. A foam bullet clips the carpet next to my foot as his chuckling chases me from the room. So much happiness creaks my bones, I don’t know how I’ll hold it all in.
I hope he’ll play with me forever.
And no matter what, we’ll always be together.
Ghostly laughter bounces around the inner caverns of my ear canals. My throat tightens and burns, but tears refuse to rise. I haven’t allowed myself to cry for years. A stupid daydream of a time long past sure as hell won’t be the thing to break me now.
I’ll never be that carefree girl again.
As I stiffly roll upright on my hard mattress, bruises from my last fight flare. It wasn’t a bad fixture. I’ve fought in the underground pit hidden behind a fast-food restaurant a couple of times, but the burly European I was pitted against sure knew how to throw a punch.
My meal lays discarded on a rusted metal tray that rests on the ground. I needed to sleep when I returned, in too much pain to even consider picking at the meagre allowance. They feed me enough to keep me alive and strong, but it’s been a long time since I tasted anything with flavour.
How long have I been here?
Long enough for flame-red strands to sprout from my hairline and greedily overtake the bleach-blonde job, a final callback to my old life. There are several inches of natural auburn on display now. Yet I don’t recognise the woman looking back at me when I tend to my cuts and scrapes in the mirror.
768.
That’s all I am now. Three numbers.
A commodity.
Heavy, aggressive banging on the door that leads to my windowless room provides little warning before the lock clanks, and it slams open. I baulk at the sight of my trainer Carlos’s cruel sneer.
“Get up. You’ve been summoned.”
“Another fight already?” I wince at the thought.
“Enough questions, 768. Move.”
“I need to rest—”
“I said move! Now!”
His dead eyes refuse to lift from me as I rise from the narrow cot, gingerly toeing on my shoes then smoothing my bedhead. A familiar, cold weight nudges into my lower back when I pass him, silently urging me forward.
Yet he’d never shoot me.
I make them far too much money.
The Gael mansion is a beautiful, timeless slice of windswept architecture. Terracotta archways. Wide open verandas. Talavera tiles that splash vivid colours against a barren, sandy backdrop, far from prying eyes that would threaten his business operations.
Across the open-air courtyard, there’s a formal dining hall often frequented by Gael for business meetings or parties with his scumbag friends. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses floats outside. He’s entertaining tonight.
Roughly escorted inside, the barrel of the gun soon disappears from my lower back. Carlos loudly clears his throat. Multiple sets of heads lift from their places around Gael’s full dining table, overflowing with all manner of meat and liquor.
“The asset, sir. As requested.”
“Ah, 768.” Gael’s yellow-hued gaze twinkles with pleasure. “Do come in.”
“Senor Gael,” I recite obediently.
“A little closer now. I’ve been telling my friends here about our infamous asset. They want to take a good look at you.”
The men in suits clustered around him all wear expensive pinstripes and slick haircuts. Among them, there’s only one female. I can’t help but stare a little. She isn’t one of Gael’s pets—I know those poor girls well enough by sight.
Head lowered. Eyes averted. Lips pursed in a flat, stern line. A stunning oil spill of inky black hair is swept over her shoulder, bare beneath a thin spaghetti strap. Something tells me the fine silk and gold jewellery she wears weren’t her choice. She appears tense, uncomfortable even.
The sweet melody of rich, accented Spanish washes over me without making impact. I’m used to being discussed and dissected like a creature displayed behind bars. Gael loves to boast. My winning streak is his pride and joy.
“A demonstration, perhaps?” Gael claps his ring-clustered hands together.
Several guests make sounds of agreement.
“Excellent. Dimitri, select one of your men. 768 will easily put him to shame.”
On his immediate right, the silent woman’s captor understands his friend’s command without translation. His frosty blue orbs skate over me from underneath thick, curling black lashes. He’s handsome. Devilishly so.
“Very well.” His voice is a deep rumble.
With a click of his fingers, a shadow rises from the far-right corner. The guard had been leaning casually, watching the scene unfold, but he now fixes all his attention on me while shucking off a charcoal suit jacket.
“Senor Gael,” I rush out. “My last fight… I haven’t rested…”
“Silence, 768. Don’t let me down now.”
Swallowing my protests feels akin to gulping down a house brick. I should know better than to question him. With no other feasible options, I roll back my shoulders, flexing bruised skin and sore knuckles.
“Better,” he praises.
“Where did you find her?” Dimitri questions, running a hand over his silver-streaked hair.
“Purchased at auction, of course. Though I believe she shares a homeland with your lovely wife, Dimitri.”
“How… coincidental.”
“They do cultivate an excellent product, in my experience.”
As my feet edge back from the table, the well-dressed thug advances. He looks about as pleased to be subjected to this as I am. Tuning out the multiple hungry stares watching us, I focus on his approach, each step bringing us closer together.
There’s little warning before his cocked fist sails in my direction. He may have muscle on his side, but it slows him down. I duck the shot with ease, pivoting fast to spin before lashing out with a punch to his ribcage.
He barely reacts, clapping a firm backhand across my face that sends me reeling backwards. I blink aside the moisture in my eyes then throw myself into his orbit, twisting my body at the last moment to strike his open side.
Grunt. Impact.
He felt that one.
We parry back and forth, trading strikes, both vying for the upper hand. He’s good. Better than some overpaid skins stuffed into their fancy suits, charged with protecting their superiors. I’m almost impressed.
The cheers and catcalls of Gael’s guests form a chorus to accompany our battle. With each delivered hit, the volume around the dinner table rises. I can’t tell who is cheering for who as I sink my fist into his exposed gut.
When my next blow rocks into his jaw, causing him to stumble in a stupor, a loud roar fills the dining room. I quickly follow it up with a powerful roundhouse kick that knocks him onto his backside.
No hesitation. No mercy.
I learned those lessons the hard way.
Red droplets pour from my freshly split knuckles, splattering Gael’s waxed floor. Though he doesn’t seem to mind one bit as he smiles lasciviously, gesturing for me to finish the job. Even his friend, Dimitri, is smiling in sick fascination.
Looming over my opponent, I watch him pant for air. His face is sweat-slick. Breathing laboured. Blood leaks from a cut at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps I was wrong—he’s not so good after all.
My foot strikes out to connect with the side of his head, eliciting a delicious squeal of pain. With his limbs splayed and eyes at half-mast, it’s child’s play to strike his solar plexus and end the torture. Lights out.
I’m left barely standing, my legs badly trembling over my crimson essence, pooling on Gael’s floor. Pretty sure I have bruises on bruises now. My torso and ribcage feel like they’re being burned from the inside out.
“Excellent work, 768.” Gael stands to clap his hands together. “Just wonderful.”
Before he can get dragged into the debate unfolding between his allies, I dare to lift my stare. “May I be excused?”
“You may.”
“Thank you, Senor Gael.”
Their hungry gazes follow me from the dining room, half-walking and half-limping. Carlos escorts me without uttering a single word of praise. That would be too kind for him, I suppose. The best I can hope for is being permitted to crawl back onto my cot where I can pass out.
“Tomorrow,” he grumbles at my side. “Another fight. Be ready.”
“Tomorrow? I need more time. You’re killing me.”
“Did that sound like a question, 768?”
I know better than to argue. He’ll only threaten to remove my tongue.
“That’s what I thought.” His lip curls in disgust.
An unexpected bark echoes across the courtyard before we reach the building where Gael holds his assets, causing us both to halt. Carlos’s hand automatically moves to the gun now strapped at his hip.
Crossing the mosaic of stone tiles, one of the paid suits who’d been in the dining room escorts the woman who sat by Dimitri’s side. I can’t help but gawp a little at her—bare arms curled around herself protectively, stare furtive, her steps fast and anxious.
As Carlos confronts the guard, she trains her sights on me. I flinch at the small, tan hand she curls around my wrist to pull me in close, leaving the two men to continue bickering in their own language.
“We don’t have long,” she whispers in a clear British accent. “I have some freedom, but it’s limited. I wanted to meet you for myself.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Willow. I’m Dimitri Sanchez’s wife. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“You married that man?”
“You chose to fight for Gael?” she challenges in a hiss.
“Hell no. Not by choice.”
“Then we understand each other’s predicament.”
Shock has my brows jutting upward. “You were taken too?”
“It’s a long story, we don’t have time,” Willow says dismissively. “I can’t help you any more than I can help myself. I just… I heard rumours about you. It’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone from home.”
“How long have you been here?”
Streaks of gut-wrenching sadness crawl over her hazel irises, brimming with a desperation I know all too well. Clearly, she’s as much a prisoner in this hellscape as I am.
“Longer than you. I have a daughter, Arianna. She was born here.”
“With Sanchez?”
She nods once. My stomach rolls with nausea.
“Oh my God.”
“Mr Sanchez… he’s good friends with your master.”
“They do business together,” I confirm uneasily. “He has a lot of friends.”
“Perhaps that means we’ll see each other again. I’m not allowed to attend the fights, but I’ve heard what you can do. You’re so strong.”
“I don’t know about that.”
Short, chewed up nails dig into my skin, leaving an aching bone bruise. “Don’t give up hope. You could still make it out of here… We both might.”
Returning her tense smile hurts my soul, but I force my mouth to obey regardless. “Maybe.”
“I’ll try to come again if Mr Sanchez will bring me.”
“I’d like that.”
Our two captors having resolved their differences, their voices have dropped to low, hushed tones as their attention returns to us. Time’s up. I peel Willow’s hand from my wrist before we both get in trouble for talking.
“Good luck, Willow. For you and your daughter.”
“Wait.” The word rushes from her. “What’s your name?”
Just as Carlos clamps a strong hand around my bicep to haul me back off to my makeshift prison cell, I choke out a word I haven’t dared to vocalise in a long, long time. No doubt he’ll punish me for uttering it later.
“Ember.”
Willow begins a slow walk backwards, not quite dragged off by her escort but clearly under his jurisdiction.
“It was nice to meet you, Ember.”