Page 1 of Blazing Embers

1

TARA

Seven Months Ago

The shower water runs pink at my feet.

It’s the same every time I shower, which is around three times a day, depending on how often I work out. The ache between my legs, the dull throb in my lower back, the faint metallic scent of blood slipping free from a body still healing. It’s been a month since I gave birth, and my body refuses to let me forget. Every stretch, every step, every pulse reminds me that my baby girl is gone… and I’m not just bleeding physically, but emotionally too. I have no idea how anyone can just give up a child. It feels like I’ve had a part of me ripped out, or a phantom limb that aches all the time, and there is nothing to dull the pain.

I turn off the water, breathing heavily as I try to force thoughts of my little girl from my mind. Thoughts that make my chest feel like it’s being squashed by a giant trying to test the strength of my rib cage. My skin is flushed from the hot spray, and my limbs tremble—not from exhaustion, but from the workout I just put myself through. Three hours of sparring with Clyde in the woodsbehind the cabin, followed by weight drills in the living room and sprints up the gravel path.

Anything to keep from thinking.

Anything to keep from breaking.

I towel off and stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Wet, raven-black strands cling to my face—the auburn curls I used to love are long gone. I barely recognize the woman looking back at me. My collarbones jut out, my waist is narrower, and though I’m still healing from the birth, the high-protein, energy-loaded diet Clyde’s got me on has already started reshaping my body. The inflammation in my breasts has eased—no more burning agony from milk buildup—but they still ache when I move too fast. But the swelling from engorgement is finally easing. The fevered, burning pain that haunted me for two weeks straight is gone now. I stopped producing milk and wasn’t ready for the profound emotional effect that it had on me. I felt like a traitor somehow.

I dress in cotton panties and a long night shirt that lands just above my knees before grabbing a pair of non-slip socks and curling up on the bed, pulling my worn leather-bound journal from beneath the mattress. It’s one of the only things I brought when I left Vegas. That, and the photo I snapped of my baby girl. I smile, thinking how sweet Clyde was when he went and got it printed in a small size for me and put it in the now ever-present silver locket around my neck, which comes with the added bonus of a tracking device in it.

I still can’t believe this is my life. What the fuck happened? I grit my teeth and breathe as I feel the anger start to swell. Another set of lessons Clyde is teaching me between strenuous exercise regimes. How to control my hair-trigger anger. Yeah, that’s whatwe’re calling it now. I haven’t had my pills in nearly two weeks, and that’s the whole reason we haven’t yet moved from Boston. We’re waiting for them to arrive. Just getting them is a complex task in itself, so we have to be patient—something I find myself sorely lacking lately.

I turn my attention to my journal and flip to the first page.

The first entry was eight months ago.

I stare at the words that got me to where I am today. My handwriting is neater here, less angry.

Day 1 of my fucked up life

I feel like Captain Kirk about to write Star Date… I may as well be fucking Captain Kirk going where Tara has never gone before.

I've never journaled, but here goes.

So the doctor confirmed it—I'm pregnant.

Uncle Nik also decided to drop a truth bomb on my already-frazzled mind. Apparently, I’m not just some random girl from Vegas. I’m part of a science experiment—a legacy project from a secret Russian government agency called RMSAD. My biological mother was a geneticist who worked at the same institution. My father? A soldier forced to marry her and impregnate her.

What a fairy tale, huh?

I was treated with some experimental shit in the womb, part of a batch of eleven “gifted” kids known as the Jewel Initiative. Super smart. Hyper-reactive. Angry as fuck. If that isn’tenough, the woman who raised me, Carla Craft, is actually my mother’s sister. And she isn’t Carla Craft. No, her real name is Maria Morozov. The second daughter of Anya Novikov and General Timofey Morozov. Yeah, that Anya Novikov. Russia’s infamous “Jewel.” One of the most intelligent people in the world. I would love to think that I inherited my genius and quick wit from her, and my quick temper and fast thinking from my grandfather. But nope! I’m genetically altered like a fucking tomato!

Now let’s talk about my late father, Sol Craft. The only thing about him that wasn’t a lie is that he is my biological father. But, surprise, surprise, he isn’t Sol Craft but Leonid Zorin. Oh, Sabrina is my half-sister, that’s not a lie either, and she doesn’t know anything about this. However, she’s not Sabrina Craft either. She, like me, was born in Russia. Her real name is Sabina Zorin.

Now, this is where it gets even more fucked up. My biological mother, once she had me, divorced my father, who was in love with my aunt. They got married, and when Sabrina was born, my father and my aunt found out what my biological mother was doing to me and threatened to do to my sister, who is not a genetically modified tomato. No, she’s just naturally perfect. Sorry. Not bitter. I’m glad my sister is like she is naturally and fucking terrified for her as Uncle Nik explained what would happen if they realized how naturally gifted my sister is.

Oh shit, I digress—sorry journal. When Sabrina was a few days old, my father and aunt burned down their house in Russia and fled to America, where we became the Craft family. Who just happen to hang out with the Russian mob and speak fluent Russian. Been taught weird tactical skills, and for geniuses, me and my sister were pretty fucking dumb not to have realizedsomething was amiss now that I look back over our childhood. Honestly, if Jerry Springer were still around he’d have a fucking field day with this shit.

The worst part of the experiment shit. I’m supposedly the 2.0 model of the Jewel Initiative subjects. And here’s another shocking surprise, Carla is a geneticist as well. The reason the 2.0s couldn’t continue was that she was the lead scientist on the project and burned all the research as she fled Russia.So yay for me, I’m supposedly the new Jewel of Russia. That’s why this super scary assassin is after me. Although I’m not sure why this weird ass secret Russian sector, the RMSAD, would send an assassin after me.

This is so surreal that whenever I allow myself to think about this shithole that has become my life, I always feel like I should be laughing at the absurdity of it. Sighing, I turn the page and read:

Uncle Nik's Plan:

He’s going to put me into hiding under Sam and Clyde’s protection.

Then he will get some of his team to leave breadcrumbs to lead Ruslan to Canada and keep him off my tail.

So far, Uncle Nik’s plan has worked exceedingly well. I carry on reading.

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