Blood crusted on my split lip, and my wrists burned where the rope had rubbed my skin raw. Every step I took sent a sharp ache through my ribs—probably cracked. But the real insult was the bastard hauling me along like I was his prize catch of the day.
Rat-Breath. That's what I decided to call him. Because every time he grunted near me, his breath hit me like a wave of spoiled meat and rot. If he was trying to break my spirit, his breath was doing a better job than his fists ever could.
"Could you maybe choke on your own stench and do us both a favor?" I snapped, digging my heels into the cracked dirt.
The brute grunted and yanked me forward with a vicious tug that nearly dislocated my shoulder. I stumbled, but I stayed on my feet. Barely.
"Keep yappin', girl. See how much worse it gets when we get to the camp," he growled, his voice like gravel ground into glass.
I wiped the back of my hand across my busted lip, smearing blood across my chin. "Oh no, not the camp. What are you gonna do? Bore me to death with your halitosis?"
The other men snickered. Not Rat-Breath, though. He just tightened his grip on the rope binding my wrists and gave it a punishing twist. I hissed in pain, but I grinned through it.
Good. Let them laugh.
Men who laughed underestimated you.
Men who underestimated you got sloppy.
I could work with sloppy.
The wasteland stretched around us—an endless expanse of desolation. Blackened trees stood like skeletal sentries. Buildings reduced to skeletal husks loomed in the distance, their broken windows like hollow eyes watching the damned shuffle below. Smoke curled from somewhere far off—probably another skirmish over food, water, or someone's life.
That's what the world was now.
Everything was a trade.
Everything had a price.
The sun bled into the horizon, casting the sky in bruised hues of purple and red. Beautiful, if you ignored the ash drifting through the air and the smell of rot that seemed to cling to everything.
Ahead of us, the camp came into view.
Tents patched together from tarps and scrap metal. Makeshift watchtowers cobbled together with rusted beams. Fences wrapped in barbed wire—some parts still stained with dried blood. And guards. Plenty of them, pacing with rifles slung over their shoulders or leaning against walls with mutant dogs at their feet—dogs that had eyes like burning coals and teeth that could snap through bone.
Lovely. Another faction camp.
These places had their own rules.
And those rules always favored the ones with the biggest weapons and the smallest morals.
I'd seen what happened to women dragged into places like this. The ones who screamed the loudest at first usually went quiet the fastest.
But I wasn't them.
I wouldn't break like that.
"You're gonna wanna be quieter when you meet the boss," a younger guy muttered behind me. His rifle looked almost too big for him, and his voice carried that nervous edge of someone still getting used to all this—still pretending this life didn't make him sick to his stomach. "He doesn't like mouthy girls."
I turned slightly, flashing him a bloody grin. "Good thing I'm not here to make friends."
His lips twitched—almost a smile—but he quickly looked away.
Rookie.
Soft, compared to the others.
I filed that away. People like him were the kind you could work on later.
The gates creaked open, and Rat-Breath dragged me inside. The camp felt like stepping into a prison yard—dozens of eyes turned to assess me. Hungry eyes. Empty eyes. Men leaning against crates, sharpening knives. Women with hollow faces carrying buckets of water like ghosts. Kids—barefoot, covered in dirt—scuttling around like rats.
The strong survived here.
The weak… well, you didn't see them for long.
I straightened my spine, rolling my shoulders back even as the pain flared through me.
I'd learned young—show weakness, and you'll drown in it.
"You're gonna love it here," Rat-Breath sneered, shoving me toward a rusted shipping container that had been repurposed into an office.
"Yeah? You got a spa?" I shot back. "Maybe a juice bar?"
The men laughed again.
Good. Keep them laughing.
If they were entertained, they were less likely to get bored and decide I was worth something more.
The door creaked open, and I was pushed inside.
The stale heat hit me first—sweat and mildew. The dim lighting made everything feel smaller. But what made my stomach knot, for the first time since they caught me, was the man standing against the far wall.
Not the warlord type I expected.
Not a snarling brute with blood under his nails.
This man was still. Controlled.
He leaned against the wall like he was part of the shadows—broad shoulders, black tactical vest stretched across his chest, dark hair cropped short. A scar ran down his cheek, but his face wasn't what unsettled me.
It was his eyes.
Dark. Steady. Cold.
But not dead like the others.
No, he was calculating.
The kind of man who didn't waste words—or violence.
The kind of man who only moved when it mattered.
Dangerous.
The real kind.
Not the loud kind.
I met his gaze and forced a smirk, blood still drying on my teeth.
"You gonna untie me, or is this some weird wasteland foreplay?"
His mouth twitched—barely. But I caught it.
Interesting.
"You're Kira," he said.
Not a question. A fact. Like he already knew who I was.
That made my stomach tighten.
When someone knew your name in this world, it was never good.
"Depends," I shot back. "Who's asking?"
He pushed off the wall, moving with that slow, deliberate grace. Each step was calculated. Each movement designed to remind me he could take me apart if he wanted to.
"I'm Cain."
The name was simple.
But it carried weight.
I'd heard it before. Out there.
Stories whispered around fires.
The man who didn't miss.
The man who didn't flinch when he pulled the trigger.
The man who got the job done.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head up.
"You're mine now," he said, voice low and gravelly.
His words should have scared me.
But instead, my first thought was:
We'll see about that.