Chapter 1: Drowning

Chapter 1: Drowning

April

              "…is that what you want? Do you want me to cut his throat?" The man calls out as he holds one of the boys suspended from the ceiling. Bile gathers in my throat, and my tiny body shudders as I see blood run down the child's battered body. Eyes wide, I let the tears run down my face and swallow my sobs as the man slides the gleaming blad across the boy's cheek. Blood trails down his cheek with every stroke. Crossing my skinny arms in front of my chest, I let my soiled tresses fold over me like a blanket. My heart beats rapidly against my flat chest as I wait for him to make the final cut.

              I know that I should close my eyes, but he won't let me. There will be consequences if I do. Don't get it twisted; I'm not worried for myself. In fact, it would be sweet relief if he killed me instead of making me suffer through the endless torture this psycho has been putting me through for months. I call him "man" because he has never told us his name. Of course, most of the children whom he has taken have not lived past the introductory stage. None of these children live past a week. Well, none except for me. No, he has reserved that hell for me. He says it's because I'm a fighter, and he takes great joy in bringing me down a couple of pegs. It has been an endless cycle that he relishes, where he locks me in with several children until I become attached. As soon as I feel that there's hope, he proceeds to torture and kills them while I'm restrained to a chair, helpless to help.

              At first, I begged and pleaded for their lives, but that only seemed to give him more pleasure. I tried running away with the children, but he'd always catch me, and the consequences were dire. Eventually, I sought an end to my suffering and tried to end my own life. Even knowing that I'm just a thirteen-year-old girl, I realized that it was the only way out. Unfortunately, he thwarted that plan too.

              As I watch the man slide the knife closer to the child's neck, a scream becomes lodged in my throat. Trickles of blood flow, and my head pound painfully.

              "It’s time.” The man says, his eyes gleaming with malice as the knife begins to cut through skin, and the little toe headed boy’s tearful face begins to lose focus.

              “Noooo…”

              I shoot up from my seat, my chest heaving as sleep clears from my eyes. I can see books strewn across the floor, and the lights are off in the library. Closing my eyes, I rub my hands across my face and wipe my tears.

              It’s the same nightmare I’ve had for the past six years. Even after Micah rescued me and the new batch of kids from that man and found me a home with his family, it has never stopped.

              Micah is a badass assassin who works for some secret assassin guild. Of course, I only know this because he was the one that rescued me from that house of horrors.

              All of the assassins he works with are gorgeous and total bad assess. Seriously, all of the men are beyond gorgeous.

              I try not to think about it too much because of him.

              Who is him, you ask? Well, he’s Connor Archer.

              I met Connor when I was fourteen, and he was eighteen. At the time, Connor was not an Assassin. He was just Declan Archer’s brother. But the moment that I met him, it was love at first sight. Or at least a puppy love. With his gleaming ebony locks, beautiful cobalt eyes, and the body of a Greek warrior, I was hooked. Unfortunately, Connor was not too keen on my crush, which makes sense, considering I was just a kid. Over the years, he made every effort to avoid me whenever we’d be in the same room. He even told me to get lost several times. Even now, the memory stings. Probably because this stupid crush has never waned. However, I eventually learned to simply observe him from afar.

              Now that I think about it, I know that it’s best to keep people at a distance. I’m damaged goods, and no one wants the baggage that I come with. With everything I experienced during that horrible time, I’d only bring down anyone that I’d get involved with.

              I barely turned nineteen, but the memory of that time is still fresh in my mind. All those needless deaths haunt me.

              Gathering my books, I stuff them into my messenger bag and head out of the school library. It’s my freshman year at NYU, and I’ve been working hard. Since my foster parents, Tate and Chelsea, left for Switzerland to partake in an experimental treatment for Chelsea’s autoimmune disease, I’ve been living on my own. Maleah, one of my foster sister’s Sophia’s friends, let me live in the apartment above her cupcake shop, Sweet Perfect.

              I look at my phone screen, shocked to find that it’s later than I thought. It’s after midnight, and it’s dark as hell outside. As I make my way to the subway station, I look around cautiously. There are still people hanging out at this time of night, but the train can get iffy.

              Reaching into my jacket pocket, I grip my trusty switchblade. My blond hair is tied up in a loose bun, leaving my neck exposed over my black jean jacket’s collar. My high rise black jeans, white tank, and black combat boots give off a don’t fuck with me vibe, but I can never be too careful. Especially when I look like a damn Barbie doll with my porcelain skin, brown eyes, and long legs. Of course, looks can be deceiving. My foster brother, Micah, taught me to fight and how to manage weapons, and I have no problem defending myself. I’ve done it before, and I’m sure I will do it again.

              I’m on the third stop on the train when they walk in. Both men are not what I would call upstanding citizens of society. Not to sound like I’m stereotyping, but they’re both wearing soiled hoodies, a large number of tattoos decorate whatever skin they’re showing, and they’re staring at me hungrily. Both are of average height. One is heavyset with a beer belly and a bald head, and the other one looks emaciated with long, stringy, blond hair.

              Bracing myself for a confrontation, I keep my expression free of emotion and stare dead ahead. Unfortunately, that does not deter the men from moving closer.

              Each man smiles and licks their stained teeth as they approach. One of them runs his fingers through his greasy long hair and beard while the other one leers. “Hey there, baby. Where are you going?” he asks as his slimy gaze sweeps across my body.

              Rolling my eyes, I grit my teeth and gruffly state. “None of your damn business.”

              The greasy one laughs at his friend’s expense and pats him on the chest before he turns to me. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. We just want to be friends.” The lech leans closer and inhales deeply, giving me a pleased smile. “Don’t you want to be my friend?”

              Looking into his eyes, I narrow mine and glare. “No, thanks. I have enough friends. Now get the fuck away from me.”

              Chest heaving, I tighten my fist around the knife as each man moves to surround me.

              The bald one, who I shall call “stupid mother fucker number one, or SMFNO for short,” moves closer and stretches his hand out to touch me. “Well, now you’ve hurt our feelings, little girl. I guess we’ll have to make you then.”

              Before he can reach me, I clamp my hand around his wrist and twist it up. His cry of pain blends with his friend’s cry of outrage.

              Take a guess what I call this one? If you said, “stupid mother fucker number two (SMFNT),” you’re right? Congrats!

              Maintaining my hold on SMFNO, I kick his friend in the stomach, making him stumble back into one of the seats. While SMFNT is rolling around in the chair, SMFNO tries to punch me, but I twist around, pull his arm back with a crack, wrap my forearm around his neck and put him in a chokehold.

              “Well, now that hurt my feelings, you grumpy gus,” I say, mimicking his own words.

              “Maybe the baby needs a nap,” I mutter in his ear with a baby voice.

              The man whizzes and sputters within my hold, but I’m stronger than I look, and he eventually passes out.

              Unfortunately, his friend was able to recover quickly and withdrew a knife. Before I take my own knife out, he swipes at me and cuts my shirt. Reeling back, I look at my ripped shirt and narrow my eyes. “Hey, that’s my favorite shirt, you douche!”

              Recovering quickly, I kick his knife hand, jump over one of the seats, twirl around the pole, and kick him in the head.

              I’m so involved that I don’t notice that the train stopped or the two police officers behind me.

              That was my first mistake.

              Unfortunately, I was in fight mode, and when one of the officers reached for me, I took his arm, twirled around, and swipe at his forearm.

              Cringing back, I look on in horror as the guy grips his bleeding arm.

              And that’s how I ended up in the police station facing charges for assault for the third time this year. Yeah, this is not the first time I’ve hurt an innocent person.

              Fuck my life.