Prologue
Bella
Every girl pretends to be a princess at one point in her life, no matter how little her life is actually like that. Every girl except for me, that is. I knew my reality from the day I was born. I was a gypsy girl. Some called it wanderlust. Other’s called it Roma culture; all I know at the tender age of ten years old is that I’m nothing like them.
“Bella, you forgot to clean the sink again. Get on down here, little girl.”
I ignore my mom but the yelling only grows louder until I eventually cave and run downstairs to find her standing with her hand on one hip, scowling at me.
“What do you say, Bella?”
“I’m sorry, mommy. I just hate cleaning so much. Half the things aren’t even dirty, they don’t need washing and I was just about to finish the most amazing story about an evil witch and a handsome prince who loved her so much that it made her heart turn kind.
“What have I told you about reading those stupid stories?” She sighs heavily, placing her hands on my hips and giving me a nasty stare. I don’t think she doesn’t love me; she’s always telling me she does, and she gives me plenty of cuddles. I just don’t think she likes me very much. She thinks I’m bad because I like to read and always complain when it’s my turn to clean up. But all she ever does is clean up, and it seems like such a waste of time.
As soon as I finish cleaning the sink, I beg her to let me play outside with the other kids. Not because I want to play with them, but because it gives me a good enough reason to get out of the house for a while. When she isn’t looking, I’ll slip through the fence, away from the caravans, run all the way into town, and sneak into my favorite place in the whole world: the library.
When I get there, I slip in beside a grown-up by pretending to be their kid. Once I’m inside, I run straight up the winding staircase and to the corner where brightly colored cushions are scattered across the floor. Sometimes it’s too busy and every cushion is taken, but most of the time, the other kids are all in school, so I get the pillows all to myself. I squish them up in a line, carefully choose a stack of books from the shelves, and lie across them on my tummy, reading all the stories.
I’m always late getting home which means I am always getting into trouble. It doesn’t bother me, though. It’s worth it to read so many stories for free. To me, my secrets trips to the library are like Christmas Day, and the books are special gifts for everyone to share.
“Shouldn’t you be over there in the princess section?”
I glance up from between the pages of the most gruesome part of a Goosebumps novel. I glare into the palest of green eyes, instantly disliking the boy in front of me because of his dumb comment and the fact he interrupted in the middle of a really good part. Boys are the worst.
“Shouldn’t you be over there, in the beginner’s section? Learning to read?” I say the last part as though I’m talking to the most stupid person on the planet, which I probably am.
He doesn’t say anything; he just stands there with The Two Towers tucked under his arm. I’d heard about Lord of the Rings, but I haven’t dared to read it yet. It’s supposed to be really scary. I like action and adventure stories, but anything too scary gives me nightmares. That’s because I have this weird power. No one else knows about it because I’m worried if I tell them then it will stop working or they will somehow take it away from me.
When I read a book, I don’t just read it. The words make movies in my mind, and I can see the story inside my head. I can feel it too.
Like, when Anne of Green Gables finally moves in with the Cuthberts and becomes their real daughter, I cried happy tears for almost an hour. Or when Anne Frank’s diary ended, and then I found out why, I felt like a sharp, big, dangerous knife had stabbed me straight through the heart.
“I think you’re the one who needs to learn to read. Everyone knows gypsy girls can’t.”
I sit up from my cozy position on the cushions, wanting to punch him in the face. But he’s much bigger and taller than me, so I don’t.
“You like scary books?” he asks.
I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to speak to him after what he said.
“Listen to this then.” He grins at me, and I notice it’s not a happy grin. It’s a mean grin that upsets my tummy and makes me feel a bit panicky, but I don’t know why. I should tell him to stop, or run away, or something, but I don’t. I just sit staring up at him and his narrow, weird eyes that flick through his book. He flips his head to get rid of the flop of brown hair shadowing his face.
My legs tremble as he reads, slowly and moodily, every now and again looking up from the page to check if I’m scared or not. I pretend not to be, but what he says is so nasty and gross; I can’t get the stupid image out of my head. He must know it too because he keeps grinning that wicked grin at me.
“You’re nasty! Go away and leave me alone.”
“Only if you tell me your name.”
I have no idea why he would want to know anything about me, and the even weirder thing is I wanted to know about him too. His eyes are such an unusual green color, and his face looks older, than I’m guessing, he is.
“You first,” I demand.
“Hunter.”
“Mine’s Bella,” I blurt out, without even thinking about it.
“Nice name scaredy cat,” he fires back, staring into my eyes one last time before he disappears.
I wonder about him. I wonder why he seemed so excited to scare me. Why I care, and why I’m thinking about him and his nasty grin so much. Why I’m still thinking about it when I close my eyes to go to sleep that night. I don’t have a nightmare, like I think I will. Instead, I dream of pale green eyes staring back into mine.
Chapter One
Bella
Hating him is easy. Avoiding him is where things get complicated. See, I didn’t choose my future husband, that’s not the Pavee way. At least, not in our neck of the woods. I’d been promised to a monster before I understood the meaning of the word marriage, and I’d hated him ever since I met him in the library when I was only ten years old. Back then, he was mean and I needed to avoid showing him my true feelings at all costs. He’d clearly got off on scaring the shit out of me, but even now, I don’t think he has any idea of how deep my hatred for him runs.
Usually, I avoid him as much as possible, but for appearances’ sake, we agreed to have dinner with my family. He had politely offered to drop me back off at college. Of course, I had to accept to avoid the scrutiny of both sets of parents if I had declined.
So, here we are: me riding in his backseat with not a single thing to say to each other and nothing but a world of torture hanging in the air between us. It’s petty, but I know refusing to ride upfront irritated the crap out of him, and I have to get my kicks somehow.
He breaks the hideous silence first.
“I meant what I said back there. You have a seat ringside if you ever want to come to a fight.” Our eyes meet in his rear-view mirror, and I immediately avert my gaze as though I might turn to stone if I look at him for too long.
“Thanks, but I think we both know watching you beat the shit out of someone for entertainment is really not my idea of fun.” He doesn’t respond, and another awkward silence ensues. I resist the urge to taunt him by asking if I bruised his ego. Who am I kidding? Nothing could bruise this guy, inside or out. Not that I’d ever seen him fight, but I’ve heard from my brothers that he’s more than capable of handling himself in and outside of the ring. He has earned a reputation as one of the gypsy world’s toughest cage fighters, and based on his formidable appearance and apathetic persona, I believe every rumor.