1. AURORA
Motherfuckers.
Mother, mother, mother.
Fuckers.
This situation is beyond fucked up. The only thing that calms me is the memory of sliding a steak knife into Thomas Crankshawe’s gut.
Disgusting creep.
My failure to kill him is a double-edged sword, and both sides are bloody.
On one edge, I’ll only be trapped in a hellhole “correctional facility” for a year, instead of for life. On the flip side, when I get out, I’ll nearly be eighteen, and that’s when Thomas Crankshawe’s marriage contract becomes a legal reality.
A life sentence of a different kind, one very much against my fucking will.
Mother, obviously, doesn’t care and won’t lift a finger to help me. Nope.
And Father is basically the reason I’m here; after all, he’s the one who sold me to the highest bidder.
So my only vague hope is that my brother, Cosmo, can do something.
If he’s not too busy with his new, awful fiancée, “Jordan-fake-ass-Singleton-Smith”.
Fuck.
I’m still wearing the stupid, babyish white dress I’d been forced into for last night’s “festivities”. Though now it’s splattered with blood and smeared with black oil from the shackles around my wrists.
I’d only been present for thirty minutes of Cosmo’s ridiculous engagement party before everything went to shit.
I don’t know Cosmo very well, but one thing Idoknow is that he didn’t step in to help me. Asshole.
He’ll go back to his cool academy life while I’m locked away in a pit.
Though, I’ve basically been a prisoner all my life, with tutors as “guards” and round-the-clock surveillance. I guess thathasconditioned me somewhat for where I’m headed: Quo Reformare Correctional Facility.
Most screw-ups of my status don’t get sent here. Daddy can write a check to the right judge and one gets “rehabilitation” at a spa in the mountains.
You only get sent to this place if your parentsreallywant you gone—or they’rereallytrying to break you.
Still, no regrets.
No regrets, no regrets, no regrets.
If I tell myself that often enough, maybe I’ll believe it.
Gods, the air in this van smells of stale sweat and exhaust fumes, and I’m bolted to the bench like an animal off to the slaughterhouse. At least they’ve turned the interior lights off now so it’s too dark for the guards to keep leering. Fucking pathetic creeps.
“I need water,” the boy sitting across the aisle says, talking of pathetic.
The guards don’t respond.
I cut a sideways glance at him. I’d heard the guards mention his name—Julian Walters. He doesn’t have the effortless, predatory glow of an Elite, so I’m guessing he’s an Ordinarii. A “middle of the road” magical.
Not a Basic witch though. They’d know better than to open their mouths in this situation. And Elites like me? We are bred to expect service. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask for a drink. Surely someone will just supply it?
Guess not.
