Chapter One
Kat woke with a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp.
Pain came first, white-hot and immediate, lancing through her shoulders and down her arms. Her wrists were above her head, pulled taut, muscles screaming as she instinctively tried to move. The motion sent another wave of agony through her joints, and she cried out softly, breath stuttering.
Rope. No...cuffs. Rough metal biting into skin already raw, secured to something overhead. Her arms were stretched too high, forcing her onto the balls of her feet, shoulders partially wrenched from their natural position. Every breath tugged at muscles that felt overused, abused.
“Fuck,” she rasped, voice hoarse. Her head throbbed viciously. The world swam as she blinked, trying to focus. The air was cold and stale, thick with the smell of damp concrete, old oil, and something faintly metallic. Rust, maybe. Or blood. The thought made her stomach churn.
She forced her eyes open properly. The basement was small and unfinished, more like a cellar than a room meant for living. Bare concrete walls closed in on all sides, stained dark with age and moisture. Thin cracks ran like veins through the cement floor beneath her bare feet. A single exposed bulb hung from the ceiling, its weak yellow light flickering intermittently, buzzing softly like an insect trapped in glass.
Shadows clung to the corners, heavy and unmoving. There were shelves along one wall made of metal, bent slightly, holding boxes warped by damp and time. Old tools lay scattered on a workbench nearby, their shapes indistinct in the poor light. A drain sat in the center of the floor, rust-ringed and dry, as if it hadn’t been used in years.
No windows. No obvious exits. Her heart began to race. She shifted again despite herself, testing the restraints. The cuffs didn’t budge. The chain above her creaked faintly, the sound echoing too loudly in the enclosed space. Her shoulders burned, tendons protesting violently, and she bit down on a cry, chest heaving.
Calm. Think. She squeezed her eyes closed. She slowed her breathing, counting it out the way she used to when panic crept in, four in, four out, until the shaking eased just enough to let her mind move.
The memories came then, not all at once, but in fragments, like a film reel skipping and catching.
The first one was bright. Too bright. A sunny afternoon. A sidewalk café. Her hands wrapped around a paper cup, warmth seeping into her palms.
Hi there.
She’d looked up, squinting slightly.
Anyone ever tell you your skin’s the colour of honey?
She remembered laughing, actually laughing, rolling her eyes as she told him that was the cheesiest line she’d heard all week. Darren had grinned, wide and charming, completely unbothered.
Guess I’ll have to try harder then.
He’d talked her into a movie. Bought popcorn. A Sprite. She remembered thinking it tasted… off. Flat, maybe. They joked about it. She teased him for cheap soda. They’d laughed it off together. She’d relaxed. Let her guard down.
The reel jumped then. Darren’s face above her, closer than it had ever been, his features blurred around the edges, as if she were seeing him through water. His voice was calm. Reassuring.
Don’t worry, honey. You won’t remember a thing. I’m doing this for your own good.
The words echoed, heavier now than they’d ever felt then. Her body felt colder while she hung whilst another memory surfaced, heavier, harder to breathe through. Her first time. She remembered his voice first, too close, too pleased.
Fuck. They don’t even know what they’re missing.
The words had floated above her, detached, like he was speaking to someone else entirely. She’d been confused by that, by the way he said it with ownership instead of affection. Confused enough that she didn’t react. Didn’t move.
At least I get the satisfaction of saying I was here first.
Her stomach clenched at the recollection. Then came the pain. Not the fleeting, awkward discomfort she’d once been warned about, but something deeper, heavier. Overwhelming. Her body stiffening in protest while her mind scrambled to understand what was happening, why it felt so wrong when she had told herself this was supposed to mean something.
He hadn’t stopped. He hadn’t noticed.
The memory blurred there, mercifully hazy, reduced to fragments: the ceiling above her, her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms, the sound of her own breath turning shallow and fast. When it was over, he’d stood, already distant, already done. He paused only once at the doorway, looking back with a grin that made her skin crawl now.
There, honey, he’d said lightly. Now you’re not a twenty-five-year-old virgin anymore.
A wink. As if he’d given her a gift.
The memory faded, leaving behind a hollow ache, less sharp than before, but heavier. Settled deep in her chest like something that had never healed properly. Her nails bit into her palms now, even bound, as rage finally bled through the fear.
Then next memory hit. A kitchen. Her kitchen. Music playing softly. Empty glasses on the counter.
Go on, Darren had said. Just one more. Let’s loosen you up.
Her vision blurred again. The counter cold beneath her back. Rope at her wrists, symbols carved into the walls. Glowing faintly. Voices. Chanting.
Five figures stood behind him. Two of them she recognized now with horrifying clarity. Jeremiel, the angel who had approached them once at the club and...Gerrard, the dragon warrior who had never really been injured. The others were strangers then. Two women: One with horns curling elegantly from her head, unmistakably a demon. The other… the other woman stole the breath from her even in her memory. Beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Cold. Regal. Dangerous. A man stood with them, face shadowed, chanting in a language that made her skin prickle. Then Darren’s voice again.
Leave the rest to me, he’d said casually, like this was all business. They won’t be on the council for much longer. You won’t need to answer to them. Not for long.
The beautiful woman had stepped closer, her voice musical, almost kind. She must stay hidden from them, she said. They won’t be fully powerless unless their mate is out of the picture.
That sentence echoed now, loud and clear. Her breath shook. The chanting. The light. The pain that wasn’t pain but pressure, heat, something tearing and stitching at the same time.
Then...Nothing.
Kat opened her eyes. Her chest heaved, tears slipping down her temples into her hair. Her mind reeled, trying to make sense of what she had just remembered. Her mind went quiet in that eerie, unnatural way.
The first thing she noticed then, was the fabric. Soft. Too soft. She shifted slightly and felt it slide against her skin, light and weightless. Looking down, her breath caught. She was dressed in white. A flowing dress that draped loosely over her shoulders and fell all the way to her ankles. No seams biting, no structure. Just fabric meant to present.. A slow, nauseating chill crept up her spine.
This looks like a cult offering, she thought grimly. What the hell is happening?
Her hands trembled, as she noticed the low cut of the dress. She shifted her head to the left, and that was when she saw it. High up on her left shoulder. A mark. Her heart stuttered, then slammed hard against her ribs. It was unmistakable. The same symbol. A smaller, slightly more feminine version of the mark that she had seen etched into the skin of the Rothvales. The one she had traced absentmindedly with her fingers on Alastair’s chest. The one that bound them together.
“No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No, no. This doesn’t make any sense. This—”
And then it hit her. Not like the other memories. Not violent. Not forced. Quiet. Personal. Her childhood bedroom. Sunlight through thin curtains. She was small, maybe eight or nine, standing in front of the mirror with her shirt half-slipped off one shoulder, staring at the strange mark on her skin.
Why does it look like that? she remembered asking. Mara’s voice followed, younger too, teasing and curious. Maybe you’re secretly magical. Or royalty. Or both. They’d made up stories about it: fantasies spun from boredom and imagination. A birthmark shaped too deliberately to be random. Kat remembered running her fingers over it at night, wondering why it felt important. Then other memories layered over it. Doctor’s visits. Clothes changing. Showers. And suddenly...nothing. The mark was gone. Not faded. Not hidden. Gone. No memory of it disappearing. No memory of asking questions. No memory of ever having it at all. Her chest tightened as realization crawled into place, slow and horrifying. The same day she met Darren. The room seemed to tilt.
She looked at her shoulder again, seeing the raised lines of the mark, her breath coming shallow and fast. “What the hell does this mean?” she whispered. Her thoughts spiralled: Darren, the symbols, the chanting, the woman’s voice, the Rothvales. Before she could pull another breath. The sound of a door opening cut through the silence.
“Oh good,” a familiar voice said lightly. Warm. Pleasant. Wrong.
“Honey, you’re up.”
Add comment
Comments