Page 1 of Nemesis

PROLOGUE

Artemis

Pain echoes through me.It’s my only constant in an ever-changing landscape. It keeps me company while I sleep, when I am awake. It is the steady beat of a drum against taut, hollow skin. They may have carved me out and forgot to replace my insides.

Whoevertheyare.

The truck rumbles to a stop. There’s only a creak of warning, then the floorboards beneath me tilt. I slide, unable to stop myself, my body knocking against others and tumbling to the ground. I land on top of someone, and another’s weight presses on my legs.

I blink through the hazy aches. There’s a huge black building in front of us with an open, waiting door. I glance around, temporarily pushing aside the pain. We’re in an alley, hemmed in by a chain-link fence and another brick building at our backs, and the truck blocking our only escape.

Immediately, men with guns come forward. They untangle and haul us up, half dragging us when our legs don’t work, and into the black building.

Down a long, dimly lit hallway. They use a key to unlock a set of double doors. I check over my shoulder. One of the girls who huddled against me in the back of the truck, her chin wobbling and tears staining her cheeks. Now, she can barely keep her footing. Two guards hold her by her upper arms, pulling her along.

They’ve holstered their guns, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Just the fact that they’rethere, at their hips and probably ready to use them, sends ice down my spine.

“Here,” someone says. A woman?

Another door opens, and the brightness of the room forces my eyes closed.

I’m shoved into a chair, my wrists locked at my sides, before I can adjust.

A hand—cool, dry—grips my chin and forces my head up.

“Age?”

“Fifteen,” someone else answers the woman.

“Hmm.” She turns my head to the side, then releases me. “Strip her.”

When I fight, a fist lands in my gut. I almost throw up, but there’s nothing in my stomach to eject. I grit my teeth and double over while they cut off my clothing. All of it.

Someone grabs my hair at the base of my neck and yanks me into a straighter seated position.

“No tattoos,” the woman says. “Limited scarring. Bruising…” She tsks. “I tell them to be gentle around the face.”

“Makeup,” the man behind me suggests. “Aren’t you always saying makeup can cure anything?”

“It doesn’t hide a split lip or swollen eye,” she counters. “I give your guards an inch, they take a mile. So, no inches. These girls are more valuable when they’re pretty.”

I shudder.

“Lean her back.”

Suddenly, the whole chair tilts. I shoot upright—try to—but the man never released my hair. My scalp burns, and I arch. I cry out until they stick something in my mouth, and a heavy strap cinches across my torso just under my breasts.

There’s a click, and my legs are lifted.

Spread.

I close my eyes.

The man above me chuckles. “She’s blushing.”

The woman snaps on gloves, and suddenly she’s touchingthere. Between my legs?—

My stomach rolls.

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