It would be never.

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CHAPTER TWO

I WAS A CREATURE OF habit.

The moment the sun rose, I was awake. Not drowsy or groggy or still half asleep. When my eyes opened, my instincts were alert, my mind sharp, my body primed for a fight. I didn’t know if that was a product of my existence or something genetic, but I’d never get answers to those questions.

I’d never know why, after eleven years of living on my own, I’d chosen to stay. I’d never know if the world had imploded or if humans still walked the streets.

Questions like that didn’t interest me. Partly because it didn’t make any difference to my life but mostly because I didn’t care.

As long as I was left alone, then I was content.

As long as I didn’t do anything stupid and got hurt, I could live a good life hidden away from others.

Climbing out of bed, I quickly fluffed my pillow and tucked the blankets into neat corners under the mattress. The single bed was too small these days, and the frame had sunk in the middle, but it was the only place I felt safe enough to permit unconsciousness to find me.

It didn’t matter that this place had twenty other bedrooms. Each one was a tomb for a devil. I’d closed the doors and did my best to forget about them. Apart from this dormitory—tucked in the back wing above the kitchen and the ten-car garage with eight empty beds identical to mine—there was nowhere else I trusted. Nowhere else I’d fortified so strongly that every window was rigged with traps and the door groaned with locks.

Occasionally, in the past few years, I’d been tempted to claim the cavernous garage below as my own. The massive space promised a much comfier existence, and the fact that it only had one window and a bank of roller doors that could be jammed shut gave it a gold star in security.

It didn’t smell of oil or engine grease because it’d never housed a single car. It was utterly pointless to this estate. Vehicle access to this place wasn’t possible.

Helicopters weren’t welcome, boats couldn’t venture, no manmade transportation of any kind could enter. The only way in was via the cave, and the only way to find the entrance was to be shown.

Satisfied my bed was neat, I slipped my naked body into the clothes I’d laid out the night before. Unfortunately, I’d outgrown my old clothes over a decade ago. Now, I was forced to wear what was left behind. Every few years, I’d raid another wardrobe, chase away the moths, and claim a new outfit.

I didn’t like expensive. I didn’t like embellished. I liked comfortable and practical, and the expensive gray slacks and silky taupe shirt had long since lost any attempt at being rich.

Now, the slacks were more three-quarter length than full because the bottoms had been dragged in mud and caught on debris in the garden, leaving tattered material and jagged edges. A few holes lined the thighs, and a pocket was torn.

The shirt was no better.

The taupe now resembled dirt, thanks to the silk material not washing so well. Three of the top onyx buttons were missing along with one on the bottom, leaving my chest mostly on display. The cuffs had been torn off completely after I’d gotten pissed with the tightness around my wrists.

Not that I cared what I looked like. I’d long since smashed the mirrors in this place. I couldn’t remember exactly why I’d attacked them but, good riddance.

After one last survey of my dorm, one last glance at the matching empty beds, I strode to the door and undid the numerous locks barricading me in. Like always, hate trickled into my heart as I stepped past the comforts of my bedroom and my bare feet padded down the rough wooden staircase.

That hate only billowed as I stalked through the servant’s corridor and followed the stone wall to the kitchen. Dawn sunlight trickled over the marble tiled floor, etching the huge bank of honey-colored cupboards, wooden bench tops, and industrial-grade ovens in gold and red light.

My eyes adjusted from the darkness, grateful that another day had found me. That I’d survived another night. Two sparrows squabbled on the windowsill, hopping through the ivy vines and bouncing in the leaves.

Cutting across to the exterior door that led to the expansive chef gardens, I unlocked the handmade deadbolt and swung it wide.

Instantly, fresh air spilled inside.

Thank God.

I closed my eyes and inhaled.

Fragrant, delicious, untainted air.

Stepping outside, I crushed daisies beneath my bare feet, and the carpet of wild grass waved in the slight breeze as I left my stone prison and did what I did each morning.

Before I’d eaten a thing; before I’d drunk from the stream or done any chores, I ran.

I needed to remind myself that I was free to run. To bolt from this place, to leave if I pleased, to return only once I was exhausted and grateful for its shelter and warmth.

I didn’t need to ask why I ran. I already knew the answer to that question. However, somehow, over the years of being alone, I’d erected a wall between my memories and my present.

I did know, somewhere deep inside me, who I was, what my name had been, and why I’d done what I did. The past could never be deleted. Always there, murky and morbid.

It waited for me in my sleep, and it slashed at me in my nightmares. And while it was dark, I belonged to those memories. I relived the past I couldn’t escape. But the moment it was light, I was free. My skills at forgetting had successfully shoved aside the shadows.

I raised my face to the sun, crisscrossed with the branch ceiling high above, blocked by leaves and secrets. I hadn’t seen the sky in its entirety in years. I hadn’t dared to venture past the cave to the wilderness beyond. Why should I? Only death and misery waited.

As long as the sun rose and my bare feet could run the familiar wooded paths, then my recollections remained painlessly blank.

I was just me.

A man who lived alone.

A man who was a stranger to himself.

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CHAPTER THREE

I DIDN’T GET THERE FOR dawn.

In fact, the seven-hour drive turned into ten hours, thanks to the winding national park roads, uncertain backtracks, and a fear that I might not find Kentucky’s Khalessi, after all.

Noon came and went as I continued slipping off main tracks and following old forest trails that’d long since grown over. My poor Jeep earned more scratches and a few dings as I eased it between low hanging branches and skirted past large boulders that looked as if they’d been dropped from the sky and pockmarked the earth around it.

At the beginning, the national park had been populated. The camping zones held laughing kids, bright tents, and flustered adults trying to figure out how to cook over a firepit for authenticity.

A few groups of guided tours had left on scripted adventures, and a couple of rangers, who’d been patrolling the more active areas of the park, had waved at me from their vehicles, nodding in appreciation of such a beautiful sunny day.

Now, I was alone.

My phone registered no internet, my GPS tracker on my Wrangler kept flicking with “location error,” and my bones were rattled from off-roading. At some point, I’d had to release some air from my tires, making them softer and better at creeping over rocks and ravines, hoping to spot a sprig of yellow ribbon in the trees—the markers left behind by whoever had found this new, untouched boulder. Whoever it was certainly had an adventurous spirit or somehow had the best luck in the world.

This place was dense. Dense and wild and entirely inhospitable at finding anything, let alone a climbing route.