Page 1

Chapter 1

AIRLIE

Twelve years old

I ghost my fingertips along the sharp edges of the damp stone, framing a small gap in the cave walls—a window of sorts, though far too small for me to squeeze through. I’ve lost count of how many times I've tried. The air is chilly from the rain and seawater crashing against the rocks above, and I flush my tender cheek against the stone, still throbbing from the night before. I’m thankful for the mild relief the coldness brings. I wish there were a way to relieve the ache biting deep in the pit of my stomach, and the dull throb between my thighs.

I gaze blankly through the gap, watching the sky as the dark gray clouds float fast toward me. I count the seconds between each loud thunderclap, echoing through the cave’s hollow, rattling the black, furry spiders woven comfortably in their webs. They’re locked down here like I am, only they’re prisoners by choice, which has never made any sense to me. A smile tugs the corner of my lips with the thought that they might actually like being my friend.

Shifting my gaze, I scan the hollow behind me, squinting a little until my eyes adjust to the cave’s darkness. Father usually visits around this time, and despite last night’s rage, when he saw that I was bleeding, it didn't stop him from wanting to play games with me.

I don’t like his games.

The rules have gotten worse these past few months. The whole time, all I could think of was, is something wrong with me? Am I going to die? Is that why he was so mad the three times that I bled? Did it remind him that I was sick, and it made him sad? The questions are always on the tip of my tongue, but the second they threaten to escape my lips, he reminds me what kind of man he’s capable of being, so I keep my promise to myself and don’t speak at all. I don’t believe I’m allowed to ask questions, anyway.

Defective.

Failure.

Barren Whore.

I don’t know what any of those words mean, but I know they can’t be good. They were the last words he said to my mother before silencing her voice forever. Right here in this very cave.

It was my sixth birthday.

I decided then that if my mother couldn’t speak anymore, neither would I. My words were the only thing I had in this world that were solely my own, and with my mom no longer alive to protect me from him, I knew I had to protect myself somehow. I know that it was a long time ago, but I still miss her terribly.

Father said he had to do it.

That he and my mother had spoken about it and that if she were ever bad, she would die. I don’t remember her ever being bad, but Father, on the other hand, is bad all the time.

I close my eyes, tilting my head to the side, listening for his footsteps. I struggle to hear anything over the howling of the wild wind and the angry roar of the waves warring beyond these walls. Still, careful not to make too much noise, I slowly descend from the rocks and away from the window to wait for him. The roughness of the jagged cave stones and the rocky ground doesn't bother my hands and feet like it used to, and I find it easier to move around in a hurry and hide what I’ve been up to. Nervously, I look at the rock pool in the corner of the cave, wishing there was something big enough that I could use to hide it from him. Well, maybe not hide it. He does know about it. After all, this is his cave. It’s always been there, and it’s the only way I can clean my body after the games. I just hope he doesn’t find me out. Knowing that I can hold my breath for fifty-three seconds and reach the other side of the cave, both excites me and makes my stomach feel strange, like I’m going to be sick. There is only one thing Father hates more than secrets.

Lies.

And I fear he will sense that I am guilty of both.

I run my hands over my stained cotton dress, which is far too short for me now that I've grown a little. I don’t dare wear it while I swim, just in case he smells the sun on it. I kneel on the ground in the center of the cave, ignoring the scratchiness of the stones and sand digging into my shins and bony knees, and rest my hands gently on my bare thighs, palms skyward.

Father prefers it when I greet him this way, giving myself to him in offering.

He told me so.

As if I summoned him, the sound of chains clinking together bounces off the stone walls, piercing my eardrums. I cringe internally at what’s to come, but I am desperately hungry. It has been days since I've eaten. He says it's for my own good. That a woman always feels better when she's hungry, and now that I'm officially a woman, at least, that's what Father says I am, he feeds me less and less.