Prologue
MELISA
NOTE: This entire chapter contains a serious trigger warning.
Nearly Five Years Ago…
“I’ll tell you what I tell all the first-timers. Run, and we’ll tie you down.”
The giant walks out of the small hut and leaves me on the icy table. Whoever arranged these godsforsaken rooms should've had the good sense to put down a bedding pad.
After Seranya died, I’d put this off as long as I could. I’d starved myself to ensure I never bled, and when drops of crimson spotted the threadbare fabric wrapped around my loins, I hid it.
Some people aren’t meant to be mothers.
It’s my mother’s voice that echoes in my mind now. She’d made two things very clear: she hated having me, and she was sure I’d do a worse job than her.
Just didn’t have the instincts.
The fur covering the hut’s entrance is pushed back. I look up to see the slave entering. The man, whom I’ve never seen before, wears a makeshift robe crafted from the same vegetable-dyed cloth that was used to make my simple shift.
Seranya once told me that the two best parts of the breeding pens were being clean and wearing fresh clothes, but I’ve thus far been underwhelmed.
Once the fur flap closes, I see the man’s face more clearly. He’s middle-aged, and deep wrinkles are etched next to his down-turned mouth. Dark, wet hair hangs in his mahogany-black eyes.
Though the reddish undertone of his brown skin is warm, his expression is anything but. He’s displeased with what he sees.
A familiar tightening in my chest starts. What could I have done in the last ten seconds that would have him so vexed?
I’m lying on the table just like the healer showed me. I’ve removed my undergarments and spread my hair around my head in a ‘pleasing manner.’ The man strides over, and his acrid sweat sours the air.
Did they just send him from the lumber yards?
“My name is Melisa,” I choke out.
He doesn’t respond as he reaches toward the bowl of oil. My cheeks burn in shame.
“Should we—” I clear my throat. “Can I at least know your name before we start?”
He unties the band at his midsection with his non-oiled fingers, still ignoring me, and the fabric falls open. Coarse, black hair is scattered along his chest and in a line from his navel all the way down to…
I swallow.
“Please. Your name?” I try again.
“Quiet.” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “You are my third today, and I’m getting tired.”
The admission hangs in the air as he begins to stroke himself. Watching causes invisible needles to prick my neck.
I look away, toward the exit, aware that they didn’t make good on the promises to tie me down. I could try to run, but it takes a surprisingly short amount of time for him to prepare.
He pushes back my simple dress, exposing me fully to the air, and inserts himself unceremoniously.
Ithurts,and I gasp.
“Fuck,” he says. “This is your first year?”
Heat crawls all across my skin as I nod.