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Prologue

It was cold. It was always cold.

I’d lost the feeling in my fingers and toes hours ago, but I need to get up and keep moving. It was the only way I would stay warm and avoid death for another day, but the voice in my head kept getting louder, making me hesitate. Why bother? Why fight so hard to cling to a life most would have given up on years ago?

What would it matter if I stayed here and closed my eyes for a little while? Soon, I wouldn’t feel the cold. I wouldn’t feel anything. Even though part of me had always fought to live, I was exhausted, and death offered me peace.

Peace. The word felt foreign on my tongue.

What did peace feel like? I’m not sure I can remember. Maybe that’s why it seems so much easier to give in today, why I so desperately want to let the snow cover me, blanketing my body in a shroud of purity it hadn’t felt in years.

I haven’t felt clean in so long. My body covered in the grime of the streets like a second skin, and my insides dirtied by the dregs of society. The people who looked through me when I begged for money were the same ones who made me beg while they moved inside me, tightening their hands around my neck as a reminder of who had all the power.

I didn’t care as long as they paid me when they left.

I could ignore another layer of dirt if it meant putting food in my belly that I didn’t have to dumpster dive for. Food that was fresh and hot and not covered in maggots… Yeah, I’d lie on my back and let my mind drift as men tossed their morals aside to fuck me.

And while they threw theirs away, I held on desperately to mine.

I didn’t have many. I couldn’t afford to. Morals were a currency that bought you fuck-all on the streets, but without them, I’d become as infected as the rest of this city. Sure, I might be tainted. Hell, we all were in some way, but I wasn’t ready to become the monster who held my leash.

And it’s that thought that has me dragging myself to my knees.

I use the wall for balance, the rough brickwork scraping my hands as I lean heavily into it.

It takes two tries to get up, my legs not wanting to work, half because of the cold and half because of the bruises that protest with every move I make. I try not to think about the bruises or why I have them. I tuck it into a small box in my head and file it away with the rest of the shit that would have me slitting my wrists if I let it consume me.

Maybe one day I would. That’s the voice in my head—the one that tempts me with its promises of peace and serenity if I just give in.

But not today.

Today, I put one foot in front of the other and keep walking.

Live or die. Those are my choices. I can either lie down and die or keep letting fate use me as a human punching bag.

Both options are shitty, but the choice is still mine to make.

Tugging the torn cardigan around me, I think of where to go. Dressed the way I am and weak from being attacked, I need to find somewhere I can rest and assess any damage.

There’s some. I can feel it. This isn’t my first rodeo, and it probably won’t be my last, but I need to know if it’s something I will heal from on my own or if I need help.

Stumbling along the uneven sidewalk, I keep my head down against the bitter wind as the snowflakes swirl around me, clinging to my lashes and weaving themselves into my hair.

The neon lights of the doughnut shop ahead alert my sluggish brain to where I am a second before I remember that they have a large generator in the storage shed out back. It gives off a little heat when you stand close enough to it. It’s not ideal, but beggars can’t be choosers right now, and at least it’s out of the elements.

I slip, my heel catching in a crack, and just as I start to go down, I find myself wrapped in a pair of strong arms.

My heart races in my chest, partly from the near fall and partly from the stranger holding me.

“Are you okay?” the stranger asks as he makes sure I’m steady on my feet.

I turn to look at my savior and find the words in my mouth dry up. This is not the kind of man you see on the streets every day, and definitely not dressed like that. Even the gang leaders and pimps don’t walk around in tailored suits and dark peacoats.

“Who did this to you?”

The question snaps me out of my thoughts, and I swallow around the lump in my throat as he stares at me. I open my mouth to tell him the truth—that a man held me down and beat me until I passed out before raping me while I was unconscious because whores don’t get to say no. He’d told me that when I came around, as he was zipping himself up. He called it a freebie, a way to guarantee a repeat customer. Somehow, I know that if or when the guy comes back, I won’t be lucky enough to walk away from him a second time.

No, if I wasn’t going to just lie down and let myself go, then something had to change because I was running out of lives.

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