Chapter 1

The smell of smoke and burning flesh still felt real on my skin.

I woke up gasping, my hands flying to my throat, expecting to feel the char and ruin.

But my skin was smooth.

I was in my own bed, in my room at the Johns family ranch. The morning sun was streaming through the window.

Weeks before the Lone Star Smoke-Off.

The fire, the humiliation, my death... it was a nightmare that felt more real than my own breathing.

I sat up, my heart pounding in my chest. I looked at my hands, turning them over and over. They were whole. Not the burned claws I remembered.

A knock came at the door.

"Jocelyn? You up yet? Big day."

It was my father, Andrew Johns. His voice was the same as it always was, deep and commanding. But now, I heard something else in it. A coldness I' d never noticed before.

"I' m up," I called out, my voice rough.

He came in without waiting for an invitation, a big man who filled the doorway. He had that public smile on his face, the one he used for the newspapers and the TV cameras.

"Good. You need to be focused. The Brisket King is almost ready. A Johns has to win the Smoke-Off. It' s our legacy."

He walked over to my desk, picking up a small photo of my mother.

"Gabrielle is entering this year, you know. Thinks she has a shot."

He chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound.

"Don' t you worry about her. She doesn' t have the talent. She' s not a real Johns."

The lie was so clear it was like a physical thing in the room. I remembered his face at the competition in my last life, how he stood beside Gabrielle while she accused me, how his eyes were full of triumph, not disappointment.

I remembered how I built "The Brisket King." I followed the secret instructions in my mother' s old recipe book, the leather-bound one she gave only to me.

The final step was a ritual. Under a full moon, I had to season the smoker's wood with my own blood. My mother wrote that it created a bond, making the smoker an extension of the pitmaster' s will.

It was supposed to be my triumph. Instead, it became my execution.

My father' s betrayal wasn' t a sudden act. It was a plan. And I had walked right into it.

This time would be different. This time, I knew the truth.

"You' re right, Dad," I said, forcing a small smile. "I won' t let you down."

He clapped me on the shoulder, a gesture that was supposed to be encouraging but felt like a brand.

"That' s my girl."

He left the room, and the friendly mask I was wearing fell away. I looked at my reflection in the window. My eyes were cold.

Vengeance wasn't just a desire. It was a promise.