I can’t do this.
I take the tool to my belly and slice. A sharp, searing pain rips across me, and I let out a sob.
The sound is loud enough to have one of the slaves waiting outside barge in. When she sees me, she doesn’t even look surprised.
She makes an aggravated sound and grabs the tool from my hand, restraining me. The pain is radiating up my front, and I can hardly breathe. Blood is leaking down the front of my body.
“Healer!” she calls, and then the same giant who sent me in here enters.
He frowns and shakes his head.
“I knew we should’ve tied this one down,” he grumbles, pushing me back onto the bed. The rope bites and scratches as I’m restrained.
He takes an agonizingly long amount of time inspecting the wound. Prodding at it. Stretching it back.
More tears stream down my face.
I’m never going to fucking cry again.
Then he grabs a needle and starts to sew my flesh together. I want to scream, to sob into the flat table beneath me. But something hardens and says,no.
I remain still, letting the tears crust on my cheeks.
“Will she be well enough to continue tomorrow?” another voice says—someone else who has come to watch the show.
“No. The cut is too deep,” the healer responds.
Good. Now, I can only hope I don’t get pregnant.
Part One
Chapter 1
MELISA
Present Day…
Ihide in the safety of the tightly packed trees with thirty-two women—all human slaves. A few, like me, are comfort women. The rest have been taken from the breeding pens.
It’s the night of the new Giant King’s coronation, yet we aren’t anywhere near the palace. We’ve come to escape the giant capital, Zlosa.
It’s not going well.
“What’s this?” a giant calls from the open meadow right next to the fence that keeps us all locked in. He stands with several warriors. Enormous, battle-honed conquerors, more akin to mountains than men.
They are strapped with leather armor and spears. Hair is piled high atop their head. Battle scars are on clear display across bulging chest and arm muscles.
One human is free from the cover of the trees. A queen, she calls herself, though I knew her as the High King Rholker’s prisoner.
Estela of the humans and Enduares.
She’s small, hardly coming up to my chin in height, but her shoulders are squared, and her back is straight despite the cold.
Though she is nothing more than a valley compared to the mountainous warriors, she glares up at them without fear. The hood of her cloak is blown back and curly brown hair escapes braids to billow in the night breeze.
She named herself our own personal hero.
I watch, holding my breath and expecting the worst. Many fancy themselves heroes, and most aren’t worth their weight in lumber. People who believe themselves in a certain light—good, noble—aren’t willing to do what it takes to make a difference.