CHAPTER ONE
WYNTER
It’s the sound of sniffling that wakes me. I stir before sitting up and rubbing my eyes. It’s then I realise Summer is in my bed. I frown, gently brushing my hand over her hair, causing her to jump. “What’s wrong?” I whisper.
As if I’ve disturbed her trance, she sits upright, and the moonlight from the window catches her red, puffy eyes. “Nothing. Bad dream,” she whispers back, shrugging.
“Must’ve been terrible if you’re in my bed,” I tease.
Her eyes fill with tears again, glistening in the white light. “It’s just . . . do you think I’ll be okay?”
The words I want to say clog my throat. How can I reassure her when I don’t believe the bullshit my father spouts? Instead, I take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. “Shall we go downstairs and get a hot drink?”
“I know you don’t believe in it,” she utters. I don’t voice my opinion. After all, in our world, we’d be struck down if we even dared to. But I think it’s plainly obvious on my face whenever these rituals are mentioned. My mother gave up long ago trying to warn me to keep my expression neutral. I can’t help it—I just have that sort of face. “But can’t you at least try and reassure me?”
I sigh, forcing a smile. “You know I’d be lying,” I admit.
“How bad can it be?” she asks, and I know she doesn’t expect me to answer. “There’re loads of girls before me and they’re all doing great.” I nod. “It’s an honour . . . right?” I want to scoff, but I restrain myself. “And it’s my duty.”
Duty.Fuck, why do we believe that shit? Like it’s a woman’s duty to smile, a woman’s duty to care for her man and serve him. Of course, the rules are made up by men. Men like my father.
I swing my legs off the edge of the bed and stand, taking her hand. “Hot drink.”
The sun rises as I watch from my seat on the porch. It’s cold out, but I’m past the shivering stage. I’m still clutching my half-drunk cup of hot water, although it’s cold now. Summer went to bed to try to get a few more hours, but I couldn’t. Once I wake, that’s it. Besides, all I can think about is Summer’s impending ceremony.
I’ve seen other girls go through it. It’s nothing new. But I never really thought about my own sister having to go through it. She’s the youngest, by one year exactly, and it’s customary for the second daughter to be given as a gift to one of the warriors in another faction.
Warriors.The title makes me sick. Each of the four families, the creators of our village, choose a warrior who will represent them. A strong and fertile warrior means the family is very powerful. Of course, it’s all bullshit. How can one man determine the power of a family? But it’s tradition.
As part of the Sanchez family, we own exactly ten warriors. Our most powerful are pitted against the other families’ fightersto keep ‘top dog’ positions. And we’re on top, the most powerful family of the four.
To keep us there, my father finally agreed to Summer being presented to the Garcia family’s warrior, Maximus.
Apparently, it’s seen as an honour when other powerful families request your second born daughter to bear the child of strong warriors, and Summer hasn’t been short of offers.
Below the families is a village of people who came here to find shelter and protection from the outside world. We live off our land, which was purchased hundreds of years ago by the founding ancestors who had refused to follow the laws set by a government whose only purpose is pleasing itself.
The door swings open and my mother steps out onto the porch. She’s beautiful, and all the men think so. They say she has good genes. “Good morning,” I say, standing. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
“Draw Summer a bath. Let’s start the preparations.”
I give a stiff nod and go to head inside. She grabs my upper arm, her bony fingers digging into my flesh. “Today will go ahead with no hitch,” she warns. “If you so much as whimper, I’ll have you cleaning for the rest of your life.”
I pull free and head inside. I’m practically her personal slave already, so cleaning elsewhere would probably be a relief.
Upstairs, I turn on the hot tap and wait for the tub to fill a little before adding vanilla bath milk. It’s Summer’s favourite. I drop some fresh rose petals into the steaming water before adding some cold.
When I go in to wake Summer, my father is in her room. Summer has her head bowed, and I have no doubt he’s reading her the riot act. His eyes fix on me. “Summer will not need breakfast,” he says firmly.
“Won’t she need the energy?” I ask as politely as I can so as not to get a slap.
“We do not want her looking fat and bloated,” he utters, heading for the exit. “And besides, she’s terrible with pain. The last thing I need is the embarrassment of her vomiting that stodge you serve for breakfast.”
I offer Summer a weak smile. I have no doubt her nerves are through the roof, so I bite back my own thoughts and smile. “It’s going to be fine,” I reassure her. “We’ve sat through ceremonies before,” I add. “It doesn’t look that painful.”
“But never with him,” she mutters.
“How different can a warrior be?” I surmise, “They’re all the same, right?”
