Page 1 of Cold as Stone
PROLOGUE
KYA
Faster! Keep running!
The unexpected sleet cuts through the October air like tiny glass shards, each drop a frozen needle against my skin. My pajamas—a faded pink shirt a size too small, and long leggings with a raggedy hole in one knee—cling to my body like wet tissue paper. The thin cotton does nothing against the cold that seeps into my bones, but I don’t stop.
Can’t stop.
My lungs burn with each ragged breath, the frigid air slicing through my throat like broken glass. Every inhale is a struggle, choppy and painful, but I force myself to keep going. My stomach churns with terror, twisted into knots so tight I taste bile. The panic claws at my insides, making my hands shake and my vision blur at the edges, but the fear of what’s behind me is stronger than the fear of what’s ahead.
The cracked sidewalk bites at my bare feet with each slapping step, and I taste copper in my mouth where I’ve bitten mytongue. The street lights blur past in streaks of yellow, like fallen stars smeared across my vision. Houses huddle behind their neat little fences, windows glowing amber and gold. Here, on the richer side of town, families rest safely inside their perfect little homes.
It’s only a few miles from my own run-down trailer, and yet it’s a world away from the dank, dirty, and dangerousplace I just fled.
The image of him—reeking breath, hand tightening around my wrist—flares in my mind like a flashbang. I shove it down, deeper.
Keep moving.
My pulse stutters wildly, hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Nausea churns in my gut, bile rising to coat my mouth with a bitter burn. The memory sends ice through my veins even as my skin burns with shame and terror. I shove it down, deeper.
Don’t think. Hurry!
I take a sharp left, nearly slipping as my foot hits a slick patch of leaves. The sleet’s coming harder now, icy needles lashing my face. But I see it. Emma’s house.
My feet carry me down the frozen sidewalk, past the park where we’d swing until our legs ached and talk about all the places we’d go together when we grew up.
That was before she left and everything changed.
Tears streak down my cheeks, blending with the sleet.
Fuck. I’m still here, trapped, counting down the days until my eighteenth birthday when I can finally escape this hell. Nine months, two weeks and three days.
The porch light’s on, music thumping inside, laughter spilling out into the storm like it’s just another Friday night. Motorcycles line the driveway—big, chrome beasts that gleam even in the dim streetlight. Harley-Davidsons mostly, with a few others I don’t recognize.
This isn’t the house I remember. Emma’s house was quiet, filled with the smell of her mom’s lavender candles and the sound of classical music drifting from the piano in the front room. This house thrums with masculine energy, all leather and motor oil and something darker that makes my pulse skip.
But I don’t have anywhere else to go.
The ancient oak that Emma and I climbed a thousand times is gone. Just a stump now, surrounded by sawdust that’s turned to mud in the rain. We used to shimmy up its thick trunk to Emma’s second-story window, spending countless nights whispering secrets and planning our futures. She was going to be a prima ballerina. I was going to do anything that made me enough money to get out of this hick town. We were going to be best friends forever.
I was so stupid.
Now I stand at the front door like a stranger, my hand shaking as I touch the knob. The porch light flickers, casting dancing shadows across the worn wooden planks.
It’s a party. I’ll just slip in and hide in the crush. If I can get to Emma’s room, I’ll be safe. It’s just for the night. One night. No one will even know I’ve been here.
The music pounds through the door, and I can hear voices—deep, rough laughter that makes something in my stomach flutter with nerves. These aren’t the high school or college boys who hang around the diner where I work. These are men. Real men, with callused hands and scars and stories I probably don’t want to know.
But it’s too late to run now. I’m soaked through and shivering so hard my teeth sound like castanets. If I don’t get warm soon, I’ll collapse right here on the porch.
I go to turn the knob, but the door is already opening. Warm air rushes out to greet me, carrying the scents of beer and cigarettes and something else—leather and motor oil and soap.
I stumble, nearly face-planting into a wall of muscle.
A wall of Harley “Lee” Armstrong. Emma’s older brother.
The original bad boy blueprint.
