Chapter 1
The stench of rain and rust permeated the streets of the Zero Zone. It wasn’t the rust of old pipes; it was the iron of blood that the filthy sky hadn’t fully washed away. My name is Lara, and I’d been surviving alone for three years, two months, and seven days.
Barcelona was a chessboard, and the pieces were armed gangs. The pawns were us—the human debris scrounging among the ruins.
My hideout was an old library in the Eixample district, a Modernist building with shattered stained-glass windows and oak shelves that still smelled of paper and centuries of dust. Books, stacked like barricades, were my only luxury. Each night, before sleeping, I read a fragment of some poetry collection to remind myself that there had been a world where words mattered more than bullets.
That night, as I rationed my last crackers and a bit of canned meat I’d scavenged from an abandoned store, I heard the sound I dreaded most. It wasn’t the furtive footsteps of lone scavengers. It was the deep, guttural roar of a powerful engine—the kind only warlords could afford. A Beast.
I killed my lantern and held my breath, feeling my heart pound against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The library doors, reinforced with oak shelves, groaned. A dull thud, then another. Splintered wood flew across the room, and a group of men, clad in black uniforms with red patches on their shoulders, swarmed in like a pack of wolves. Adrián Vega’s followers. The Butcher of the Diagonal.
“Clear the place,” ordered a low voice—a voice that didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. It was the tone of a man who had given orders on battlefields and at summary executions. The man who entered was taller than the rest, his body sculpted by combat and survival, shoulders so broad they seemed to fill the entire door frame. His dark hair was disheveled, and a scar cut across his right brow down to his cheek, dividing his face into two halves: one of a fallen angel, the other of a demon. His eyes, the color of grey steel, swept the room as if he could see through the darkness, assessing every shadow, every potential threat.
I hid behind a shelf of nineteenth-century poetry, a kitchen knife trembling in my hand. It was useless. A gesture of desperation, not strategy. One of them found me in seconds, shoving books aside with a violent sweep and yanking my arm with brutal force that made me gasp.
“Boss, got a stray,” he said, dragging me into the center of the room, illuminated by lanterns. He threw me to the floor in front of Adrián Vega.
He examined me like an item at an auction, head tilted, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes traced my face, my gaunt body, my calloused hands.
“Small and thin,” he murmured, his voice a raspy whisper that made my skin crawl. “But the eyes... the eyes of a fighter.” He took a step closer, and his presence became overwhelming—a magnetic field of danger and... something else. The scent of leather, gunpowder, and his own clean, masculine smell hit me like a wave. Fear twisted with a spark of something forbidden—an adrenaline that wasn’t just about flight. It was recognition. He was the city’s greatest predator, and I, the prey, couldn’t help but feel a certain fascination with the perfection of his hunt.
“What do you want?” I managed, hating the tremor in my voice. I stood slowly, refusing to show complete submission. If I was going to die, I’d at least die on my feet.
“I don’t want anything that doesn’t belong to me,” he replied with terrifying calm, tilting his head. “I own this district now. That includes everything in it. And that includes you.” He paused and smiled—a cold, calculated curve of his lips. “But I don’t like easy work. I like challenges.”
He released my wrist and turned, pacing among the books as if he owned the place, trailing his fingertips along the spines. “I have a proposition for you, girl. I know you stole a complete medical kit from the Crows’ leader last week. Without it, he lost three men to infection. You’re building a reputation. You’re stealthy, you’re smart, and most importantly, you’re desperate.” He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder. “Desperation is the best fuel.”
“Your men ransacked my home. You kidnapped my best friend, Marcos. I know he’s alive, and I know he’s at the Ritz. My sources confirmed it. He knows where he hid the weapons you need for your war against the East. But he won’t give them to you. He’s loyal. Even under torture.” My voice cracked at the end, and I felt a knot form in my throat. Marcos was my only family, the only one who’d given me human warmth in this hell.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He hadn’t expected me to know that much, nor to have the courage to say it to his face. His respect grew a millimeter.
“That’s exactly why I need you,” he said, and his voice softened into a dangerously seductive purr—a velvet caress over a razor blade. “You can get to him where he can’t see it coming. You can talk to him, make him understand that if he doesn’t cooperate, not only will he die, but you will too. Guilt is a more powerful weapon than pain.”
“And why would I do that? I’d rather die than help you.”
Adrián smiled. It was a slow, devastating smile that lit up his grey eyes for an instant, but didn’t erase the coldness of his essence. He took three quick strides and cupped my face in his hands with a gentleness that contradicted his reputation. His hands were rough, covered in calluses and small scars, but his touch was surprisingly soft. His thumb brushed my cheek, tracing a line of fire that made me hold my breath.
“Because I’m not going to kill you, Lara,” he whispered, leaning so close I felt his hot breath against my ear, his stubble scratchy against my temple. “And if you say no, I’ll call my men and let them have their fun with you. And when they’re done, I’ll take you to the Ritz and put you in the same room as your friend Marcos. The two of you, watching each other, knowing the other is suffering because of your stubbornness. Do you want to carry his blood on your hands? Because I have no problem doing it.”
Horror paralyzed me. I couldn’t let that happen. I knew Adrián Vega; I knew these weren’t empty threats. He was a man who burned entire villages to send a message.
“And if you accept,” he continued, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrated against my skin, “you’ll save your friend. I’ll give you a place. A warm bed. Food. Protection. Everything you’ve lost. I just need your help to get the weapons. After that, you’re free to leave. Or... to stay, if you find the offer... interesting.”
He withdrew his hands and stepped back, watching me intently. His grey eyes probed mine, seeking my answer before my lips could move. I was trapped in a web of silk and steel. His proposal was a gilded cage. His touch was a promise of violence and... pleasure. A whirlwind of contradictory emotions swirled in my chest. Hatred burned in my stomach, but an electric current of attraction, of morbid curiosity, raced down my spine.
“I’m not your toy,” I spat, though my voice was weaker than I wanted. My fists were clenched at my sides.
“No, you’re not,” he conceded, and for an instant, his butcher’s mask cracked, revealing a tired man with deep shadows under his eyes and an ancient sadness in the depths of his gaze. “You’re my only piece on this board. My last refuge to win this war. And I am yours, to keep you from dying in the gutter. What do you say, little fighter?”
Silence stretched. Outside, the rain lashed against the broken windows, and the wind howled between the ruined buildings. His gaze was an anchor, dragging me into a sea of uncertainty. Accepting meant surrendering my soul. Refusing meant condemning Marcos to a hell worse than death.
I lifted my chin and held his stare with the fierceness of someone who had nothing left to lose.
“I have a condition,” I said, feeling fear transform into cold determination.
“Name it.”
“I want to see him. Marcos. Now. And if he’s... if he’s beyond what I can bear, I won’t help you. I’ll kill you with my own hands, or die trying.”
Adrián raised an eyebrow, and this time, a genuine spark of respect flickered in his eyes. He extended his hand, palm up, in a gesture of truce that was almost chivalrous in its brutality.
“Deal, little fighter. Come with me.”
His fingers brushed mine as he took my hand to lead me to the exit. It was a fleeting touch, a millisecond of contact, but enough to ignite a flame I wasn’t sure I could extinguish. Danger had never smelled this good, and that’s what terrified me most.
The hallways of the Ritz, once the epitome of luxury and Art Deco elegance, were now a military barracks. Persian rugs were stained with mud and blood; Murano crystal chandeliers had been replaced by bare bulbs dangling from wires. Adrián walked ahead of me, the breadth of his back, the fluid, feline confidence in his movements—it was hypnotic. I hated myself for noticing. I hated myself for watching the way the leather of his jacket conformed to his shoulders, or the way his hand rested on the gun at his hip.
He led me to a suite on the top floor. It wasn’t a dungeon, as I’d feared, but a room with an enormous four-poster bed, a panoramic window overlooking a sea of ruined buildings, and a private bathroom with a marble bathtub that must have cost a fortune. And there, sitting in a red velvet armchair, was Marcos.
His face was bruised, one eye swollen shut, a deep cut on his lip that was still bleeding slightly, but he was alive. His hands were bound to the chair’s arms with plastic zip ties. His blue eyes widened when he saw me, and I saw immense relief mixed with profound panic.
“Lara... what are you doing here?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up, but the ties held him back. “Did they hurt you? Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, Marcos,” I whispered, approaching him. I wanted to hug him, but a man in black stopped me with an arm.
Adrián made a gesture, and the guard stepped back. He came up behind me, his hand settling on the curve of my waist—a possessive gesture that made my entire body tense. “You’ve seen he’s fine. I’ll keep my end if you keep yours.” His voice was low, meant only for me. “But there’s one more detail. For this alliance to work, everyone needs to believe you’re mine. That you’re here because you want to be, not because you’re kidnapped. That means you’ll sleep in my room.”
My blood ran cold. “What?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch you unless you ask me to,” he said, his voice a whisper laced with double meanings only I could hear. His breath caressed my neck. “But in public, you’ll be my trophy. My weakness. The only way to protect you and your friend from the Crows, who are already looking for you because of that med-kit. You’re between two fires, Lara. I’m the lesser evil.”
Marcos watched us with barely contained fury. “Lara, don’t do this. I’d rather die than see you sell yourself to this monster.”
“Quiet,” Adrián ordered without looking at him. His hand on my waist tightened slightly, a reminder of who was in charge. “The decision has already been made.”
That first night was a personal hell. The suite was too big, and his presence in the dim light was too real. He undressed without shame in front of me, revealing a sculpted torso covered in scars—some old, some recent. A bullet had grazed his left side, leaving a pinkish mark. He lay down on his side of the bed, his back to me, and his breathing, deep and rhythmic, reached me from across the mattress. I stayed rigid, on the edge, as if a single movement would trigger an avalanche.
But sleep overtook me. And with it came a recurring nightmare.
I was back in the library, but it was on fire. Flames devoured the books, and through the smoke, I saw Adrián. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket, but a white tunic, like a fallen angel. His arms were open.“Come to me, Lara. I’m the only safe place.”I walked toward him, and when our fingers touched, the flames went out. But then he turned into a skeleton, and I fell into an abyss.
I woke with a strangled scream, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst from my chest. I was sitting up in bed, drenched in cold sweat, gasping.
“Lara.”
His voice was low, rough with sleep. I opened my eyes. Adrián was kneeling beside the bed, his face inches from mine. Moonlight streamed through the broken window, softening his features, making the scar seem less brutal, his grey eyes almost silver, almost human. His hand rose, hesitated for a moment, then brushed a damp strand of hair from my forehead. The gentleness of the gesture was a shock to my system.
“Nightmare,” he stated, not asked. “They’re a luxury we can’t afford in this world.” His thumb traced the line of my brow. “But you have them anyway. Like I do.”
I pulled away from his touch, but he didn’t let go. His fingers closed around my wrist—firm, but not painful. His thumb pressed against the frantic pulse point on my inner wrist.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He held my wrist a moment longer, counting my heartbeats. “That’s not the rhythm of someone who’s fine. That’s the rhythm of someone who’s terrified.”
“Maybe I’m terrified of you.”
He laughed—a low, dark sound that rumbled through the silence of the suite. “Maybe you should be. But you’re not, are you? You’re terrified of yourself. Of what you felt when I looked at you in the library. Of what you feel right now.”
He released my wrist and stood, looking down at me. Moonlight cut his silhouette, making him look like a Greek god fallen from grace. “Sleep, little fighter,” he said, returning to his side of the bed. “Tomorrow we start your training. And stay on your side. My self-control has limits, and with you, it’s closer than I’d like.”
His confession, so honest and so dangerous, left me breathless. I lay back down, turning my back to him, but I couldn’t close my eyes. Every small movement he made in the darkness made me hold my breath. I knew I was playing with fire. But fire, in such a cold world, was the only thing that made me feel alive.
