Page 6 of Ravaged Soul

When I continue to ignore her, Raye peers over my shoulder to see what I’m doing. She lets out a low, impressed whistle.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” I murmur back.

“But… we can’t afford his bill.”

“Then we’ll figure it out. He’s usually willing to cut a deal, and we can’t do this without him.”

My calloused thumb hovers over the call button without pressing it. Pressure builds behind my eyes, adding to the rising levels of adrenaline swamping my system.

Feeling Raye’s uneasy gaze on me, I turn to meet her stare. She gnaws on her bottom lip, brows curved in a frown as she appears to weigh her next words.

“You know… this genie doesn’t go back in its bottle once you let it out.”

Without another second of fretting, my thumb jabs the call button. Raye’s stare disappears. All I can see is the mental image of that beautifully savage fighter battling for her life, splattered with blood and bruises, toned limbs contorting in blissful violence.

Fuck. Ember Lawson is just a job.

But what I wouldn’t give to see those scarred curves up close. To trace my tongue along her pointed lines, ridged muscles and dark-purple bruises. To bathe in her violence. Her rage. Whatever inner beast has given her the strength to survive.

Perhaps I’ll meet her yet.

No—I will. I’m fucking counting on it.

As the line rings, awaiting the demon I must be crazy to call upon to answer, I smile slyly at my loyal foot soldier. She’s gaping at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“I know, Raye. That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

CHAPTER 1

EMBER

STARING AT THE SUN – TV ON THE RADIO

PRESENT DAY

Punch.

The boxing bag swings from the impact of my strike.

Punch.

Fire races over my bare, busted knuckles.

Punch.

My muscles clench, twitching in clear warning.

Punch.

Life was easier when I didn’t care. When I didn’t feel at all. When the only person’s survival I had to worry about was my own. While I wasn’t alive for those six long years, it was easier to struggle alone.

My sole priority was ensuring my next breath. Existing in a constant state of fight-or-flight for so long will do that to you. All I cared about was surviving another day.

After all, I had no option for flight; all I could do to guarantee my survival was comply. In all the violence, constant fighting, injuries, training, punishments and scars… I learned to prioritise the small things.

A successful breath. My next meal. Keeping stitches dry and wounds clean. Helping Gael’s other captives whenever possible. I could somewhat control those things.