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CHAPTER ONE

WYNTER

I t’s the sound of sniffling that wakes me. I stir before sitting up and rubbing my eyes. It’s then I realise Summer is in my bed. I frown, gently brushing my hand over her hair, causing her to jump. “What’s wrong?” I whisper.

As if I’ve disturbed her trance, she sits upright, and the moonlight from the window catches her red, puffy eyes. “Nothing. Bad dream,” she whispers back, shrugging.

“Must’ve been terrible if you’re in my bed,” I tease.

Her eyes fill with tears again, glistening in the white light. “It’s just . . . do you think I’ll be okay?”

The words I want to say clog my throat. How can I reassure her when I don’t believe the bullshit my father spouts? Instead, I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Shall we go downstairs and get a hot drink?”

“I know you don’t believe in it,” she utters.

I don’t voice my opinion. After all, in our world, we’d be struck down if we even dared to.

But I think it’s plainly obvious on my face whenever these rituals are mentioned.

My mother gave up long ago trying to warn me to keep my expression neutral.

I can’t help it—I just have that sort of face.

“But can’t you at least try and reassure me? ”

I sigh, forcing a smile. “You know I’d be lying,” I admit.

“How bad can it be?” she asks, and I know she doesn’t expect me to answer. “There’re loads of girls before me and they’re all doing great.” I nod. “It’s an honour . . . right?” I want to scoff, but I restrain myself. “And it’s my duty.”

Duty. Fuck, why do we believe that shit? Like it’s a woman’s duty to smile, a woman’s duty to care for her man and serve him. Of course, the rules are made up by men. Men like my father.

I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and stand, taking her hand. “Hot drink.”

The sun rises as I watch from my seat on the porch.

It’s cold out, but I’m past the shivering stage.

I’m still clutching my half-drunk cup of hot water, although it’s cold now.

Summer went to bed to try to get a few more hours, but I couldn’t.

Once I wake, that’s it. Besides, all I can think about is Summer’s impending ceremony.

I’ve seen other girls go through it. It’s nothing new. But I never really thought about my own sister having to go through it. She’s the youngest, by one year exactly, and it’s customary for the second daughter to be given as a gift to one of the warriors in another faction.

Warriors. The title makes me sick. Each of the four families, the creators of our village, choose a warrior who will represent them. A strong and fertile warrior means the family is very powerful. Of course, it’s all bullshit. How can one man determine the power of a family? But it’s tradition.

As part of the Sanchez family, we own exactly ten warriors. Our most powerful are pitted against the other families’ fighters to keep ‘top dog’ positions. And we’re on top, the most powerful family of the four.

To keep us there, my father finally agreed to Summer being presented to the Garcia family’s warrior, Maximus.

Apparently, it’s seen as an honour when other powerful families request your second born daughter to bear the child of strong warriors, and Summer hasn’t been short of offers.

Below the families is a village of people who came here to find shelter and protection from the outside world. We live off our land, which was purchased hundreds of years ago by the founding ancestors who had refused to follow the laws set by a government whose only purpose is pleasing itself.

The door swings open and my mother steps out onto the porch. She’s beautiful, and all the men think so. They say she has good genes. “Good morning,” I say, standing. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

“Draw Summer a bath. Let’s start the preparations.”

I give a stiff nod and go to head inside. She grabs my upper arm, her bony fingers digging into my flesh. “Today will go ahead with no hitch,” she warns. “If you so much as whimper, I’ll have you cleaning for the rest of your life.”

I pull free and head inside. I’m practically her personal slave already, so cleaning elsewhere would probably be a relief.

Upstairs, I turn on the hot tap and wait for the tub to fill a little before adding vanilla bath milk. It’s Summer’s favourite. I drop some fresh rose petals into the steaming water before adding some cold.

When I go in to wake Summer, my father is in her room. Summer has her head bowed, and I have no doubt he’s reading her the riot act. His eyes fix on me. “Summer will not need breakfast,” he says firmly.

“Won’t she need the energy?” I ask as politely as I can so as not to get a slap.

“We do not want her looking fat and bloated,” he utters, heading for the exit. “And besides, she’s terrible with pain. The last thing I need is the embarrassment of her vomiting that stodge you serve for breakfast.”

I offer Summer a weak smile. I have no doubt her nerves are through the roof, so I bite back my own thoughts and smile. “It’s going to be fine,” I reassure her. “We’ve sat through ceremonies before,” I add. “It doesn’t look that painful.”

“But never with him,” she mutters.

“How different can a warrior be?” I surmise, “They’re all the same, right?”

Once she’s comfortable in the bath, I set about washing her hair. The first daughter is the maid of the family, usually born to a warrior, while the second is the princess. I’m expected to do most things—cleaning, cooking, gardening—but I’d rather be the first than the second.

My mother enters as I’m rinsing conditioner from Summer’s hair. “We have one hour, and your father is hungry,” she snaps. “I’ll finish here.” She snatches a towel from the side, and I head downstairs, where my father is sitting expectantly at the table.

I get right to work, frying bacon fresh from our pigs that were sent to the slaughter a few days ago.

I take the bread I baked last night and slice off two pieces, adding them to toast in the pan.

“I assume you know the rules for today,” he says, his eyes burning into me, and I nod.

“Words,” he yells, slamming his hands on the table.

I turn to face him. “Of course, sir.”

He reaches for me, grabbing my wrist and hauling me closer until I’m practically lying across the table. “I don’t need your sarcasm,” he spits.

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” I rush to add.

He strikes me hard across the thigh, the handprint leaving an instant burn. “This is an honour,” he shouts, and I remain silent. He strikes me a second time, and I wince. “Say it.”

“It’s an honour,” I almost whisper.

The third strike is enough to make me cry out, and my mother enters, alarm on her usually sour face.

“Recite it,” he orders, dragging me from the table to my feet.

I stand before him, arms by my sides, the way we have been raised to stand while reciting the bullshit they had fed us from the second we could talk.

“We will honour our families. We are righteous and free. Bound to our fathers, we will serve until our last breath.” I want to point out that the entire speech is a contradiction.

I am not free. Women are not free. “Our fathers will protect and guide us along the path they have chosen, keeping us from evil.”

My mother runs a hand over my father’s shoulder.

“Let’s concentrate on Summer today,” she says gently, nodding for me to go back to tend to breakfast, which I do immediately.

“It’s her day. And yours,” she soothes. “A chance for the other families to see how amazing our daughter is and how she will bear child to a strong warrior.”

I hear the chair scrape back, which means he must be inviting her to sit with him at the table. I risk a glance to see her beside him, looking into his eyes with love and admiration. She’s got the act perfected.

“You’re right,” he says. “Summer is excited, and the match with Maximus is the best yet.”

“And think of the offers from the other families. Once she has shown she is strong enough to carry a warrior’s child, men will be lining up for her hand in marriage.”

I roll my eyes, confident no one can see.

The sons of other families will ask for Summer’s hand in marriage, and my father will choose the most suitable candidate.

It makes bonds stronger, and I know my father admires the Morales family, even though the father, Silas, is a cruel and violent man. I imagine his sons are no better.

Summer enters the kitchen as I plate up breakfast for my father. She’s naked, ready for his inspection. I lower my eyes to the floor, wondering how self-conscious she must feel with all eyes on her. I guess she needs to get used to it.

My father stands, moving closer to her, and I glance up, watching as she stiffens. He circles her then stops before her and grins. “Perfect,” he says, and her shoulders sag in relief. “You remember how to act?” he asks, and she nods. “Everyone must believe you’re having an amazing time.”

“Of course,” she says.

My father reaches for a bag on the side, holding it open for her to look inside.

She gasps, smiling as she reaches in and retrieves a pile of lace.

My father takes it, unzipping the dress and lowering before her so she can step into it.

As he pulls it up, it clings to her curves.

It exposes her skin beneath the white material but covers her breasts and lower area perfectly.

“Stunning,” he remarks, zipping it closed and placing a kiss on her cheek. “You’ll do me proud today.”

The ceremony takes place in the church. I guess this makes the men feel better about what’s about to take place, like it’s some holy tradition that God approves of. If God is real, I don’t think he’d condone this.

I shift uncomfortably in the front row. The Morales family sits on their side, and the two other families are opposite us. We’re all in our own quarters.