Chapter 1 1

The last thing Kaycee Serrano knew was the scream trapped inside every nerve ending. The world was a symphony of agony, played on the strings of her own body.

It wasn't a dull ache or a throbbing pulse. It was the sharp, metallic tang of blood in her mouth, the screaming protest of her fingernails being ripped from their beds by a pair of rusty pliers, and the cold, hollow bite of a needle in her throat.

A flickering basement bulb was her only spotlight, casting long, dancing shadows on the damp concrete walls. Aldo's voice, smooth and cultured, slithered through the foul air. "Sign it, Kaycee. Just sign the transfer, and maybe I'll let you keep a finger or two."

She tried to spit at him, but only a bloody gurgle escaped her lips. Her best friend, Corrine, stepped into the light, wearing Kaycee's Chanel suit like a second skin. "Oh, honey, don't struggle. It ruins the aesthetic." Corrine held up her hand, showing off the engagement ring that was supposed to be Kaycee's.

In the corner, an old television crackled to life, the volume cranked to an unbearable level. A news anchor's serious face filled the screen.

"Breaking news... Hunter Gallagher, CEO of Gallagher-Sterling, confirmed dead in a vehicle explosion on Route 9..."

Hunter.

The name pierced through her pain. The image of a burning black sedan filled the screen, a pyre for the only man who had ever truly tried to protect her. The man she had treated like dirt.

"You see, he was coming to save you," Corrine whispered in her ear, her breath hot and smelling of champagne. "We sent him a little tip about a fake kidnapping. So heroic. And so, so stupid."

A strangled sob tore from Kaycee's throat. He had died because of her. Because she had been a blind, spoiled princess.

"Finish it," Aldo said, impatient.

Corrine produced a syringe filled with a clear, shimmering liquid. Heroin. A lethal dose.

Kaycee thrashed against the ropes binding her to the chair, a final, desperate surge of adrenaline. The needle plunged into her neck.

A burning cold shot through her veins. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm-Thump. Thump. Thump-before it began to seize.

Her vision blurred. Aldo and Corrine's faces twisted into grotesque masks. As the darkness closed in, a single, silent vow formed in the ruins of her soul: If there is another life... I will drag you to hell with me.

Then, nothing.

...

Kaycee Serrano gasped, her lungs fighting against a weight that wasn't there. Her eyes snapped open, but the darkness behind her eyelids didn't vanish immediately. It lingered, painted with the afterimages of a flickering basement bulb and the rusty metallic tang of blood.

She tried to lift her hand to her throat, expecting to feel the cold, hollow bite of a needle. Instead, her fingers brushed against soft, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton.

She froze.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, the rhythm frantic and uneven. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was too loud in the silence of the room.

She wasn't dead.

Kaycee scrambled upright, the movement sudden and violent. Her chest heaved as she clawed at her own neck, her fingernails digging into the tender skin. Smooth. Unbroken. No puncture marks. No bruising.

She looked at her hands. In the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains, she saw them. Her fingernails were long, shaped into sharp stilettos, and painted a garish, neon pink. They were intact.

A phantom sensation of pliers ripping them from their beds washed over her, making her stomach lurch. She gagged, squeezing her eyes shut, fighting down the bile rising in her throat. The memory was physical. It was in the marrow of her bones.

She reached for the phone on the nightstand, her hand trembling so violently she knocked over a glass of water. It shattered, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet night. She ignored the wetness soaking into the rug and grabbed the device.

The screen lit up, blindingly bright.

Thursday, May 20th.

The year...

It was a year ago.

Kaycee stared at the date, the numbers blurring as tears finally spilled over. They weren't tears of relief. They were tears of pure, unadulterated shock.

May 20th. The day everything ended. Or rather, the day everything began to end.

She was alive. He was alive.

The air in the room felt too thick, too perfumed. It smelled of the tuberose candles she used to love-a scent that now made her nauseous.

She stood up, her legs wobbling like a newborn foal's. She walked to the full-length mirror in the corner.

The reflection staring back wasn't the broken, bloodied woman tied to a chair. It was a girl in silk pajamas, her hair messy, her eyes wide with terror. But underneath the fear, something else was kindling. A spark.

The pain in her fingers was gone, replaced by a tingling heat. The phantom needle in her neck vanished, replaced by the pulsing beat of her own blood.

She was back.

And this time, she wasn't the prey.