The General's Daughter (Snow and Ash #1)

by Heather Knight

  When he flings me away from him, I am crying. I have just peed my pants for him.

  As I lean against the wall, openly sobbing, he kicks the bucket so hard it cracks against the opposite wall. The door slams shut behind him.

  By the time I have to go again, my throat is raw. I’ve been screaming for hours, beating my hands against the door, but no one comes. No one cares. My hands throb where I’ve broken the skin, and they’re bleeding. I smell worse than I ever imagined I could.

  When I was little, Mom used to take me to church. The pastor would tell us we’d go to hell if we didn’t follow the Bible, if we didn’t accept Jesus Christ into our lives. I just thought it wouldn’t happen until after I died. The sad thing is, I’m pretty sure I deserve it.

  Knowing it’s a fight I’ll never win, I right the bucket and use it. My pants and underwear are clammy against my skin, and I think for a minute about taking them off. But I don’t want to be any more naked and vulnerable than I already am when Talon returns.

  When the door opens again, Talon merely dumps a new plate on the floor along with a bottle of water. He exchanges a new bucket for the old one.

  I can’t look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me, calculating, assessing.

  He leaves.

  It’s hours before the door opens again, and in all that time I haven’t moved.

  “I brought you some clothes.” Talon tosses a bundle, and it lands next to my feet. He sets down a bucket, and I hear something in it slosh against the side. “It stinks in here.”

  “No kidding,” I tell him.

  “You haven’t eaten.” His tone is neutral.

  This gets my attention, and I move my head enough that I can see the untouched plate of food. “I forgot.”

  It’s true. In fact, I haven’t eaten anything since the steak feast the night before my father left. Surprisingly enough, I’m not even hungry. I expect him to blow up at me, but he doesn’t. He merely retreats from the room.

  My eyes seem to be adjusting. The pale streak of light that seeps under the door jamb is just enough to let me see the outline of the new bucket. The bundle of clothes remains where it landed, just against my right foot. I may be depressed, but I’ll do just about anything to get out of these clothes. I feel foul. Disgusting. I peel off my jeans and panties and discover that the pail is full of hot water, and atop the pile of clothes he brought is a towel.

  This small kindness stings my eyes, and my throat pulses with unshed tears as I wet my old shirt and use it as a washcloth to scrub under my arms, then my crotch and down my legs. There is no underwear or bra in the pile, only a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. I put them on, throw the dirty stuff in the water bucket, and set it by the door.

  The door opens a few moments later, and my heart jumps. What now? I did what he asked.

  Talon sets the dirty bucket just outside the door, then comes inside. The sheer size of him makes the room seem even smaller. I press myself tight against the wall, but that’s no hiding place.

  “Sit.” He crosses his arms over his chest. The command in his voice is so strong that I feel a tug deep inside my belly. Not good. I sit, and Talon joins me.

  When he takes my hand in his and begins to wash the cuts and scrapes, I am not prepared for the rush of emotions that hit me. Anger melds with fear, leaving me tired, so tired. But grateful? I am not expecting this. When he is done cleaning me, he draws one last, smooth stroke of the sponge over my palm, and it’s almost like a kiss. I swallow back the pleasure this brings. When he pats the sores down with raw alcohol, I hiss and snatch my hands away.

  “Don’t be an idiot. I need to bandage you.”

  “You can’t fix me,” I say, and I hate how broken I sound.

  His head jerks up, but I look away.

  “I’m not trying to fix you,” he says, and I hear the revulsion in his voice. “I just need you alive long enough for your father to get here.”

  He grips my hands hard, and I cry out. But something about the pain soothes the darkness inside me.

  “How does someone like you live with being such a bitch?” The way he doesn’t look at me speaks volumes.

  “Does it matter?” I can’t change a single thing about the past or my role in it.

  “No.” That one words holds a mountain-full of condemnation, of hate. “You owe me two lives.”

  Two lives. His mother’s and his sister’s. He’s right; I do. If only someone had told me she was my sister.

  “Mom and me, we believed the lies. All of them. He made us an entire world, and we lived it. We never asked a single question.” Looking back, I can see how I missed clues. But that didn’t excuse me from being such a nasty bitch. A nasty bitch.

  He flings my hands away like they’re crawling with maggots. “She was your fucking sister.”

  This rips me open. My chest throbs from a wound that will never heal, and I can’t look up from my hands. If I could avoid looking inside myself, that would be perfect, but I can’t.

  I nod. “What I want to know is why you were the only one honest enough to tell me.”

  He continues as though I haven’t spoken. “Misty looked up to you. She just wanted to be a part of your snotty, entitled little life.”

  He’s right, but on a certain level I reject his words. I won’t be, I can’t be responsible. Even though I am. A spark ignites behind my eyes and flashes like a propane fire. “Well, I didn’t know. I wasn’t allowed to know. And if you want the truth, if you wouldn’t have told me, they’d all probably still be alive.”

  “Don’t you dare —” he begins, his voice cold as a knife.

  “Right after you left me, I went straight to Dad. I demanded the truth. He denied everything, of course, but I could tell he was lying. We had this big fight and I told him I hated him.” I snort, but it’s not even remotely funny. “I went to Erin’s house. I wasn’t going home, you know?”

  The flash of anger is gone and I hug myself, but the story is such a twist to my gut that I find no comfort. I lick my lips and flick him a glance. He’s giving me that look, the one people give when they’re both fascinated and repulsed. He has to hear it, maybe as much as I have to say it. Except it’s too raw, even after all this time.

  “Next thing I know, Dad’s picking me up. He has scratches on his face.”

  Talon winces, like I’ve just scratched him.

  “Mom had just come home from seeing her oncologist.”

  “Don’t even mention that cunt!” he snarls.

  “That’s what they called doctors who treated cancer,” I say, ignoring him. “No one told me she had cancer. Dad knew, but that didn’t stop him. The second she walked through the door, he went after her. I guess he figured she was the one who told me. The joke is, the whole thing was news to her, too.”

  He says nothing. Have I surprised him?

  “I lost everything that day.” The tears I’ve been holding back betray me, and I swipe them away.

  “My mother and my sister died because of you and your high-class bitch of a mother.”

  “High-class?” I sneer. “We were trash. Always were. I just didn’t know it.”

  The sting of his slap jerks my head to the side. Before I can react, he’s gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I wasted a lot of time over the next few years trying to forget the day I found out Misty Green was my sister. For all that Dad acted like Mom was the woman of his dreams, turns out he spent a lot of time sticking his dick where it didn’t belong. Namely, with Joanna Green. She wasn’t married or anything. She and Talon’s dad never did tie the knot, and …I don’t know, maybe she saw Dad’s good looks and money and figured he’d leave Mom for her. Maybe he fed her some line of bullshit. Hard to say. But apparently for the next thirteen years he paid support to his bastard daughter. Not one damn person bothered to tell me.

  I’ll never know what triggered Mom to act so crazy. Maybe she heard some bad news at the doctor that day. She didn’t leave a note. I get it that Dad cheat
ed on her a while back, and I could totally understand flipping out on him. On everyone. Apparently she grabbed the gun out of Dad’s dresser and drove over to the Green’s.

  Next thing I knew, a balding police officer stood in our foyer holding his hat in his hands. He said Mom was dead and so were Joanna and Misty. Mom fired all three shots.

  Why the fuck she didn’t kill her husband, I’ll never know.

  But she was my mother, and I loved her. So much. She was the absolute center of my world, and now she is gone.

  My precious father turned out to be a complete asshole, but I couldn’t blame what happened on him. Not when the person who caused all this to happen was me. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t face Talon, or my dad, or anyone else for that matter. Before they buried Mom, before they even cleaned up the bodies, I climbed out my bedroom window and walked all night till I hit the interstate. I was kind of hoping I’d never see any of those people again.

  But there’s no getting away when your past hunts you down.

  And now, here I am in this stark little room.

  I’m tired of sitting. I’m tired of staring. I’m tired of three-year-old peanut butter delivered by a four-year-old grudge. I’m just tired. I don’t care that I have no coat, or shoes, or anything to save me from the zero-degree chill. I can’t just let them keep me. They’ll kill me at some point. I’m not stupid.

  When the key rattles in the lock, this time I’m ready. As the door swings open, I hurl myself at the unsuspecting man who is easily twice my size. He swears as he stumbles. A wild mixture of elation and terror surges through me as I bolt into the hall and head…I don’t know, anywhere. I even make it as far as a derelict-looking living room.

  “No, you don’t.” A bulky guy with dark skin and hands the size of dinnerplates catches me. He laughs, but that stops when I bite him.

  “Goddamn,” he growls. He grabs my wrists, twists me around, and I’m held in a lock I cannot possibly break. Pressed back against his body, I’m immediately aware that he hasn’t worn deodorant in years. It’s not just that sweaty male smell. It’s dank. Old. It’s like he hasn’t changed his underwear in months.

  “Go to hell!” Even though I know I’ll never get away, I wrench and twist as though there’s hope.

  But my pathetic little cry is nothing against men with guns and more muscle than I could ever hope to defeat. I know that, and it shames me.

  Talon stalks into the room. The smelly one gives me a shove, and Talon grabs me by the upper arm and drags me toward the hall.

  “No! I want to go home!” I can’t go back in there. I won’t. I’m raving like a crazy person—futilely, I know, because he’s never going to listen. He’s never going to care.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Talon hisses as he drags me down the short hall. He kicks the door to my cell open and shoves me inside. He follows me in and kicks the door shut.

  The look on his face. Oh God. He pushes me to the wall and presses his body, all six foot two of muscle and fury, against mine. He’s probably trying to intimidate me.

  It’s working.

  “You seem to have forgotten,” he seethes. “You don’t get to decide. I do.”

  I thrash against his bulk. But as I twist and writhe, I feel something hard and insistent press into my belly. My struggles, they’re exciting him. Even worse, the folds between my legs thicken, and the urge to press myself to him comes out of nowhere.

  He takes my hands and pins them above my head, and the violence of his stare freezes me in place.

  “You’re mine now,” he says, his expression cold. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Moisture seeps between my legs, and I’m suddenly very aware of my breasts. What the hell is wrong with me? I am more frightened of my body’s reaction to him than I am his words. I draw in a shuddering breath, and I shake my head to clear it.

  Talon flings himself away from me. He rips the door open and shoots me one last glare. “Stay put!”

  The slam is so violent that I think the frame might actually shatter.

  “I hate you!” It’s a primal scream. I kick the door. But that’s all I have left in me, and I slide along the wood until my butt hits the floor. I hug myself as defeat pours over me like wet concrete. I’m not going anywhere.

  Not today.

  Not ever.

  That other room had windows. If we’re not in the middle of what they used to call a national forest, then we’re damn close to it. There’s nothing around for miles.

  I can’t even cry.

  At first I just throw myself a pity party. I ignore the rumble of male voices, just as I always do. But then…

  “I say just kill her and get it done.”

  I suck in a breath. Is that Talon or someone else? I press my ear to the door.

  “John’s right. We sent proof of life. We don’t need her anymore.”

  “No one hates her more than I do.”

  Talon. I know that’s him. I bite my lip as I strain to hear the rest.

  “I just don’t like the idea of killing a girl unless it’s necessary,” Talon continues.

  Oh God, please.

  “She gets to be a bigger pain in the ass, I’ll go do it myself,” a different voice throws in.

  “Jesus, people, calm the hell down!” says the big smelly one.

  But the argument seems to be over, because even though I strain, I can’t make out the rest of their words.

  At last I gaze in the direction of the window they’ve so carefully boarded over, the one I’ve tried countless times to free. I’m not trapped.

  I’m fucked.

  With only a bucket to pee in, a blanket to sleep on, and the occasional plate of food, it’s not like I have a whole lot to keep me occupied. I do a lot of sleeping. It’s been quiet for some time now, and I’m huddled in my blanket. I think about Mom and how she never even told me she was sick. Why? I mean, if she was going to lose all her hair, I’d definitely have noticed.

  The key rattles in the lock, and the door creeps open. I’m ignoring Talon right now, so I don’t move. The door closes softly, and the floor creeks. But the footsteps…they’re wrong. They’re too light, one footstep maybe a little heavier than the other. I don’t have long to process this, though, before a hand grabs my hip and flips me onto my back, before a hand clamps down over my mouth. It’s not Talon. I’ve never seen this man before. I scream. His smack whips my head to the side.

  “We’re going to do this,” he tells me. “It’s what you need, a little whore like you.”

  He releases the grip over my mouth and grabs hold of my sweatshirt. I scream again. I struggle too, but he’s big, and I’m little, and in the end he just tears it from me.

  “Go ahead and scream,” he says with a grin. “No one’s going to help you.”

  Methodically, he rips the leggings away and tosses them in the corner. His eyes glaze over when he sees I’m not wearing any underwear.

  “Talon!” I’m heaving something between a scream and a sob as he starts feeling me up.

  No one comes. No one will save me. I’m crying hard, and no one cares.

  He’s fumbling with his zipper when the door shatters. Talon crosses the room in two strides. With a roar he grabs hold of the man who is still sweating over me and flings him across the room. The violence of it shocks even me.

  My attacker rebounds with a snarl. “She’s just a slut. We’re going to kill her anyway!”

  He seems genuinely shocked by Talon’s reaction, even more so when Talon hauls back and punches him in the gut and, when the guy doubles over, lands two more punches to his face. The guy’s nose shatters, splattering me with blood.

  It’s too late, though. I’m naked, and that man touched every inch of me, pawing, sucking, squeezing. He may not have had the chance to stick me with his dick, but all I can think is, I’m dirty. I’m…less. For a moment I’m fourteen years old crying in the back of a truck as some guy with a beer gut heaves and shudders over me.

&n
bsp; I fumble around for something to cover myself, and I find the remnants of my sweatshirt. I’m not crying really. It’s a kind of keening, and I can’t stop. I curl into a ball and clutch the rag to my chest. It is the only thing that stands between me and the devil.

  As the fight continues, I grow colder and colder, and soon I’m shaking so hard it feels like my ribs will crack.

  Another spray of blood hits me, this time thicker, warmer. Arterial blood. It splashes over my face and into my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “You’re killing him!” calls another voice.

  I hear a crack and a groan and the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.

  I’m so cold. So cold. So…

  I’m out of it for a bit. I don’t think I pass out or anything. I’m just sort of not there. When I find myself wrapped in a blanket and lifted high against a wall of strength, I stare into a pair of gray eyes. Anger still lurks inside them, still dances in each twitch and blink, and I think to myself, You know what? I wish it was me she killed.

  Talon’s eyes widen and his lips part, and I realize I must have said it out loud. My head lolls to the side, and I see Dinner-Plate Hands seize my attacker and toss him over his shoulder. The guy’s eyes are wide and staring, endlessly staring, and I realize that Talon has killed him.

  I’m not glad. I don’t feel guilty either. I’m just cold. So, so cold.

  Talon sets me down on the lid of an olive-green toilet. Leaving the door propped open, he goes outside and uses a hand pump to fill several buckets, which he dumps into the stained bathtub. He’s quiet. In fact, he doesn’t even look at me, and I’m grateful for that. He starts a fire out there and heats a bunch more buckets of water. These too he dumps into the tub.

  I think about Dad. If he finds out, he’ll probably kill me himself. God forbid that his precious little puppet be anything but pure. Or rather, that it gets out that I’m not. My face is sticky, my body is raw, and I want to throw up. And then I do, all over the faux-marble linoleum.