Chapter 1

Ruby

The car rolls to a stop, causing me to look up. My new house, well, our new house. My eyes flicker to my mom and dad, who sit in the front seats. Mom is on the phone talking to a client, as usual, and now that we're parked, Dad is on his phone too.

When he finishes his message, he glares back at me. "Why are you just sitting there? Go inside," he orders. I nod and scramble out of the car.

Mom's design team moved all of our stuff last week, except for the bags currently in the trunk. I study the mansion and sigh. It's just another big house with those gaudy outdoor chandeliers and big white columns. Both of my parents are wealthy; my mother has an Interior Design business. My father is the new surgeon at Redwater Hospital in town.

From what I saw when we drove through, it's a relatively middle-sized town. Not too big or too small. No matter the size, it still passed the different areas of wealth as we drove in.

Being the snobs they are, my parents wouldn't lower themselves to live anywhere other than in a mansion. I'd prefer to live somewhere more practical and homier. Sometimes our houses are too big, and I could even describe them as empty, even though we've got a million things.

My opinion doesn't matter, though; it never does.

"I said get inside," my father barks, forcing me out of my thoughts. He glares again, and my heart skips a beat.

"Yes, sir," I mumble, rushing inside. I run up the stairs and peek into each room before finally finding mine. I enter quickly and close the door behind me, leaning my back against it, sliding down, and closing my eyes to listen for any sign of following footsteps. When I hear nothing, I force my breathing back to normal and survey my room.

The room is large- big surprise- and the walls white. The bed sits in one corner of the room, white and grey covers and pillows adorning it. String lights, already plugged in, run along the tops of the walls. Next to the window, there's also a hanging chair; imagine what it would look like if a porch swing had a baby with a hammock.

Beside my bed, my desk holds my computer, a lamp, books, and office supplies. They pushed my usual chair up to the desk with my favorite blanket draped over the back.

My eyes flicker to the other side, where my vanity sits next to my closet door. A sizable, lighted mirror tops the vanity with shelves right next to it that hold makeup, curling and flat irons, a brush, and other products I might need to get ready each day.

Standing, I walk over to the door of my closet and pull it open, revealing the most oversized walk-in closet I've ever seen. Like I said, my parents have money, and to make up for neglecting me, they buy material things; well, at least that's why my mom does it. My dad has a whole different reason for throwing his money at me.

The design team already hung all of my clothes up in the closet. Jeez. Couldn't they have let me at least organize my clothes? It's weird to think one of Mom's goons touched all my clothes. I shake my head and continue looking around the closet.

The chandelier is overkill, as is the significant white island containing jewelry and other accessories sprawled across the surface. It reminds me a bit of the closet Mia gets in Princess Diaries. Honestly, I don't use half of this stuff my parents buy me. They'd be better off not wasting their money, but they don't listen to me.

I leave the closet to check the bathroom. If it's anything like the rest of the room, I'm sure it's huge. Everything so far has been in color schemes of white and grey, and the bathroom is no different. Some walls are white, and some are grey. The counters and floor are made of white marble, I think, and tile that has grey flecks on the surface. The shower is a stand-up glass shower with a big tub next to it.

That'll be nice to soak in when I'm sore.

My parents don't like me leaving the house much, especially my dad after he's been in one of his moods, so Mom told me they added something to keep entertained while I'm inside. She said it's behind the mirror, which at first confused me, but as I open the body-sized mirror, I find a hidden door.

Curious, I step through the door and walk down a dark, narrow hallway. It takes a minute, but I walk toward the light and gasp when I enter the large room. It's a library- my own personal library. I'm talking full-on Beauty and the Beast style with what looks like hundreds of books.

I take a second to look around. All my favorite books are here, as well as a bunch I don't recognize. Not that they care if I spend money, but I won't have to buy a new book in a while; or at least that's what I tell myself because if I see a book, I'll probably get it. It's one of my guilty pleasures. However, I have enough here to last me months, maybe even a year.

The library has large windows where sunlight shines in and fills the room. There's also a white couch that stretches in an L shape along the length of three walls. Moving to the right, I climb up the black staircase that reaches upwards to the second level that looks like an indoor porch all the way around the room to make it to where I can reach the top shelves.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I immediately start searching for a book. I've read a lot of these and stop when I find the Young Adult section. I've dubbed a lot of these as my comfort books- books I could read over and over while still loving every bit of the storyline.

Looking at the spines, I find they're arranged by the author's last name and genre. This is precisely how I like them. If I want a particular book, I know almost exactly where it is. So, I grab a random book and head back down to read. I eye the white couch for a second before walking back to my room to sit in the hanging seat. It's more comfortable, and better yet, it isn't white.

White furniture makes me uncomfortable. It's too easy to get dirty.

Stepping back through the mirror, I make my way to the swing seat and kick off my converse. Holding the swing so it won't move, I sit and crack my book open, ready to lose myself in a different world.

"Anastasia!"

Sighing, I get back up. I didn't even read one sentence, and he's screaming my name. I set my book on my desk and quickly make my way out of my room. If Dad is calling my name, it can only mean one or two things.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get in the kitchen and make dinner," he growls, glaring at me from his seat on the couch. I nod silently and run into the kitchen. Exhaling deeply, I go to the large pantry, grabbing a box of pasta and setting it beside the stove while I grab a pot and fill it with water. Then, I pour the pasta into the water and put it to a boil.

Simultaneously, I grab a bag of frozen meatballs out of the freezer, pour a handful onto a pan, and slide them in the oven to cook. Once the meatballs are in, I look over to find the pasta bubbling over.

Crap!

I pull the pot off the stove and slop the noodles into the strainer, testing them to make sure they aren't overcooked. I don't have time to re-cook his meals. They're fine, not too squishy, and not rigid either. I set the pasta aside so the water will filter out just as the buzzer goes off, signaling the meatballs' finish. I pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove to cool off.

While the meatballs cool, I grab the spaghetti sauce and a plate. I scoop some pasta onto the plate, then pour the spaghetti sauce on. The sauce and pasta are cold again, so I stick the plate in the microwave for thirty seconds.

If I give Dad a plate of cold food, he won't be happy. Or should I say he won't be forgiving? He doesn't forgive much these days, even little things. I'm pretty sure his heart is a black void of nothingness.

The microwave beeps. I test the warmth, then plop five meatballs on top of the sauce-covered noodles and grab a cold water bottle from the refrigerator. Next, I grab a fork, a knife, and a napkin, finally organizing everything onto a dinner tray. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath to stop my shaking hands, I carry the food into the living room where my father waits. He doesn't look up as I stop at his side, though. He merely waves his hand at the table beside his chair. "Your food, sir." I speak softly and evenly because he doesn't like it when I raise my voice or use an attitude. Not that I ever do, but he finds problems where none exist.

Please be in a good mood. Please. I chant in my head.

He takes the plate from me and waves a hand again, dismissing me. I release the breath I was holding in and walk back to the kitchen. Thankfully, I got away without new bruises. This isn't always the case. One little thing could set him off.

Mom isn't anywhere I can see, so I only assume she left or is hunkering down in a home office somewhere. I shovel the leftover food into a plastic container and slide it onto a shelf in the fridge for her to eat later. She's always on her own schedule, eating when she wants and sometimes not eating at all. Either that, or she doesn't like what I make and orders out.

When I close the fridge door, I jump, startled by my dad standing not even a foot away. His eyes blaze, and his lips flatten into a thin, angry line—the tiny vein on his forehead bulging amid his red flushed skin.

"What is this?" He growls, throwing the plate of spaghetti and meatballs at me. I shield my face from the rain of food and glass.

"Are you trying to poison me with your horrible cooking?" He grabs my arm and swings his hand. I try to pull away, but the sharp, familiar sting slams into my cheek before I can move, making me cry out. I crumble, my shoulder ramming the counter before my body collides with the hard tile floor.

His foot flies toward me and slams into my stomach, making me groan from the loss of air. "You're pathetic," he spits before kicking again, this time in my thigh. Now, I'm not exactly meaty, so I have little cushion from the blow.

I whimper and try to curl into myself as he stops and walks away. For a minute, I merely lay on the floor, the pain circling through my body, but I finally decide I have to get up. If he comes back and I'm still on the floor, it'll begin again.

I use the countertop to hoist myself up. I lean on it to steady myself, standing still for a second before limping off to my room.

Walking to my room takes longer than it should from the aching in my leg. It isn't unfamiliar; in fact, it's a constant companion in my life. Dad doesn't keep his hands to himself enough to offer me a life free of pain.

As soon as I enter my room, I lock the door. That sinking, heavy feeling in my gut remains. I still feel unsafe. He rarely comes into my room, but it's better to be safe than sorry. If he wants in, he'll get in.

I let out a sigh, drop onto my bed, and give myself over to the darkness.

~*~

My alarm beeps, and I scramble to turn it off so my dad doesn't hear. About a year ago, I learned the hard way not to wake him unless he's ready. Tender spots on my body ache as I force myself to climb out of bed.

When I step toward my bathroom, I realize I'm still limping, and my ribs really hurt. It's sad when someone can call pain and fear a familiar counterpart in their life. It's not only sad, but it sucks.

I walk to the bathroom and quickly take a shower. I make sure to use cold water because I've found it helps with the pain and doesn't make my father angry. There was one time I used all the warm water on accident, and that didn't end well. I almost went to the hospital.

Twisting and turning, I'm careful when I wash the large, growing bruises on my body. The old ones hurt less than the ones from last night. They're not as noticeable anymore, either. They've faded a bit, turning a greenish-yellow, but the new marks are a mix of dark purples and blues. If they weren't blemishes in my life, I'd almost think/imagine the colors to be pretty.

Once I'm clean, I carefully wrap a towel around my body and hobble to my closet. I walk in and grab a bra and underwear, slipping them on before I grab a pair of skinny jeans and a loose army green sweater. This will cover any visible markings, and if I leave my hair down, the length and color will cover and distract from any bruises that may show.

Next, I sit on the edge of my bed and slip on my converse. Bending over causes pain to flare in my stomach, so I move quickly and blink furiously when tears pop up.

Just a little longer, I tell myself as I peer into the vanity mirror. A girl stares back from the mirror. Dark brown eyes hold unshed tears, and fiery, dark red hair hangs in her face and reaches to her waist. She- I look sad... worn out.

A glimpse of purple catches my attention, so I brush the long red strands aside to get a good look at the discoloration on my jaw. It's too prominent and noticeable even with my hair down.

Makeup it is, then.

I've gotten pretty good at concealing bruises with makeup. Even then, I try to use the least amount of concealer, so I don't cake my face, but some cover-up jobs need more than others. Like today.

"This is ridiculous," I grumble.

When I finish, I tilt my head in several directions to ensure that the bruise doesn't show up in different lighting or positions. Once it looks normal enough to pass inspection, I grab my bag and painstakingly open my room door. I look out in the hallway to find no one. I sneak out.

Moving stealthily through the house is something I do a lot. I don't want my dad to hear me since it'll result in another beating, and I can't deal with another so soon. Just as I reach the front door and pull it open, someone grabs me by the back of my sweater. My mother wouldn't do this, so of course, it's him.

The material digs into my neck, making me squeak in fear as he growls, "Where do you think you're going?"

I yelp again when he yanks me around to look up at him.

"S-school," I stutter quietly. He narrows his eyes, but releases me.

"Remember the rules," he grumbles, and before he can say anything else, I run out of the house. My leg causes me to hobble as I try to run, but I ignore it to get as far away from the house as I can. It'd be nice to get away. I wouldn't know where to stay or what to do independently.

Knowing my father, he'd pretend to care and go to the police, saying someone kidnapped and ran away with me. He'd probably do anything to get his favorite punching bag back. Then, I think about what he said. The rules. He grabbed me, manhandled me, just to remind me of his law. Those stupid rules he set just for an excuse to hurt me.

My father set the rules a while back, and if I break them, it results in an awful beating. One time, I snuck out of the house to go to a friend's place, and my father beat me so severely that I did have to go to the hospital that time. I had two broken ribs and a concussion. I told the nurses that I fell out of a tree and hit branches on my way down.

Dad's rules include some of the standard rules parents might inflict on their teens, or at least I thought they were. That was, until he got to the rule where he doesn't want me to talk to anyone, or the one where I'm not allowed to be alone with adults, or another that declares I'm not allowed to drive. He even told me that if my teachers wanted to talk to me alone, I'm supposed to call him on speakerphone, so he knows I'm not "speaking unkindly of him."

He continues to add other ridiculous rules to the list as he thinks them up.

Once I'm far enough away, I slow down to limp the rest of the way to school. My dad told me I'm not good enough to have a car and don't deserve such a privilege. It's more like he doesn't want me to have an escape. It doesn't matter, though, because I'm almost eighteen, and I can leave once my birthday comes around.

He can't stop me then.

A few miles later, I finally reach the school. A big sign hangs above the building that reads: Redwater High School. Sighing, I try to walk normally as I make my way inside, ignoring the curious glances of the other students. It's always the same when there's a new student- stares and whispers greet them. I walk through the school doors and spot a sign that directs me to the office to get my schedule.

I turn, and from the corner of my eye, I spot a group of guys down the hall. They're gathered together and messing around. One big guy with dark hair pushes a slightly smaller blonde guy into the lockers. The others laugh.

If I saw these guys on the street, I'd think they were older than high school students. Their sizes vary in height and breadth, but they're all muscular, which means they either work out in their spare time or do some activity that tones their muscles to look like they could be weapons.

Stop, Ana. Focus on the office.

I reach the office door but glance back at the last second. I count six of them, all wearing leather vests over their similarly colored shirts, jeans, and heavy-looking black boots.

There's something about them that's so raw and... and rough. I don't know. I notice they aren't trying to get everyone's attention like other students are. They aren't talking to anyone outside their group. But they all have this air of confidence around them. Actually, they look like people I'd want to stay away from. The word that comes to mind is trouble.

They're trouble, and I need to stay away.

"Excuse me," a voice pulls my eyes away from the group and into the office. A woman sits perched at the front desk, watching me with expectant eyes and raised eyebrows. I duck my head sheepishly, realizing I was staring like a stalker, and step into the office, only to stop in front of the desk and tap my fingers on the wood.

My nerves are shot after what happened this morning. Dad's rules fly through my mind, causing me to look around the room for someone else. He wouldn't really know if I was alone with someone, but he wouldn't care about proof, either. Any suspicion, and he acts.

Again, my fingers tap the desk anxiously as I speak. "My name is Anastasia Willows. I'm new. I came- my schedule."

The woman nods, opens a drawer, and sifts through the files. She rifles for a second before pulling one out and reading over it. Then she nods to herself and hands the paper over to me. "This is your schedule. In the top right corner, under your name, is your locker number and combination to the lock. Have a nice day," she dismisses me.

Thankfully, she didn't call someone to show me around. One of my father's rules is, "You are never to speak to anyone." And the follow-up, "You're not to have friends." I grab my papers and walk out of the office. The group of guys hanging out down the hall is gone, but so is everyone else. I don't remember hearing a bell ring, but I guess classes have begun.

I drift through the halls to read the classroom numbers while I take a quick glance down at my schedule. My first class is English in room 223. At the moment, I'm near room 114. If the school is regular, the classroom numbers will be in order, so I continue walking. Eventually, after some turns and a bit of confusion in hallway two, I find my class.

Everything will be fine, I tell myself. I have nothing to worry about because it's just school. I've been the new girl before, and this won't be the last time either.

Taking a deep breath, I let my hair create a wall in front of my face as I knock, then try the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and open the door. The room goes quiet. I show my schedule to the teacher and silently look for a seat. My eyes land on the only available chair, which is in front of one leather-clad boy from the hallway.

Actually, he seems more like a young man compared to others in the room. He has a muscular build, light brown hair, and stormy blue eyes. Eyes that look right into my soul. I turn away, feeling exposed by his gaze.

"Welcome, Anastasia. Would you like to introduce yourself?" The teacher asks as I take my seat. I shake my head and reach into my bag, pulling out a notebook before searching for a pen in the supply pocket. My hands grasp at nothing, though. How'd I forget a pen on the first day?

Just when I'm about to give up, something touches my shoulder, making me jump. I turn slowly to find the guy in the leather vest looking at me. He smiles and holds up a pen. I glance at the pen then at him. His sincere smile doesn't falter as he wiggles the pen at me.

My nerves and years of holding back keep me frozen in place as my eyes move down his muscular frame again. That's when I notice a patch on his vest that reads, Sniper.

What kind of name is Sniper?

Studying him, I realize he's better looking than most guys I've seen. His hair looks soft with a slight wave to it that tells of past curls that puberty straightened out, and his stormy eyes are a mix of blues that captivate me. His muscular form is alluring, yet frightening. My dad is older, not as firm as this guy, and Dad's hits cause plenty of damage. How much worse would Sniper's hits be?

I shake the thought from my head. Not everyone is like my dad. The ideas don't leave. They stay buried in my mind and pop up like a red flag anytime a man gets too close.

When I look back up, Sniper raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. Oh god. He saw me checking him out. Heat floods my cheeks despite the nerves, and I duck my head, letting my hair create that blessed curtain. "Thanks," I mumble, taking the pen from him before turning around. How could I let myself do that?

I silently curse myself and keep my head down while I listen as the teacher starts the lesson.