Shattered Face, Unending Revenge

My ten-year-old brother was dying from a bee sting, his breath catching in his throat. I was terrified, but relief washed over me when the ambulance arrived. Help was here.

But the paramedic wasn't looking at my brother. She was staring at the watch on my wrist, a gift from my fiancé, Graham. When I told her his name, her professional mask shattered.

"Graham is my man," she snarled. She was his psychotic ex-girlfriend.

She kicked her medical bag shut and let my brother die on the grass, calling him a "bastard." Then she and her brother beat me unconscious.

I woke up strapped to an operating table. With a scalpel in her hand, she whispered, "After I'm done, do you think he'll still want to look at this face?"

She carved up my face and then, with chilling satisfaction, destroyed my ability to ever have children, ensuring I could never give Graham the family she believed was hers alone.

She took everything from me-my brother, my face, my future-all because of a delusion.

When Graham finally burst in, he didn't recognize the bloody mess on the table until he saw a tiny scar by my eye. The man I loved vanished, replaced by something cold and merciless. He looked at me, then at her, and I knew the law would never be enough. Our revenge would be absolute.

Chapter 1

Holly Stevenson's POV:

The last time I saw my brother smile, a bee was buzzing lazily around the dandelions at his feet. He was ten years old, all knobby knees and a gap-toothed grin, and he thought chasing it was the greatest adventure in the world. I told him to be careful, the way I always did, the words a constant, loving hum beneath the surface of our lives ever since our parents were gone. He just laughed, that bright, bell-like sound that was the entire soundtrack of my world.

Then he screamed.

It wasn't a playful shriek. It was a sound of pure, sudden pain that sliced through the warm afternoon air. I was on my feet before my mind even caught up, Graham's heavy, custom-engraved watch bumping against my wrist. He was supposed to be here with us, but a last-minute deposition had chained him to his desk downtown.

I ran. Joel was on the ground, clutching his small hand, his face already starting to puff up, turning a blotchy, alarming red. The bee, its life's work done, lay on the grass beside him.

"It hurts, Holly," he wheezed, and the sound of his breath, thin and tight, sent a spike of pure ice through my heart. Anaphylaxis. The doctor had warned us after he' d had a reaction to a wasp sting years ago. It was severe. Life-threatening.

My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone, my fingers slipping on the screen as I dialed 911. The dispatcher's voice was a calm drone in my ear, a stark contrast to the frantic hammering of my own pulse.

They were here in minutes that felt like centuries. The ambulance screamed to a halt on the access road, and two paramedics jumped out. A man I barely registered, and a woman. She was tall, with sharp features and blonde hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to stretch the skin over her cheekbones. She had an air of brisk competence that made my shoulders sag with relief.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice clipped and professional as she knelt beside Joel.

"A bee sting," I gasped, pushing my tangled hair out of my face. "He's severely allergic. Anaphylaxis. He needs epinephrine, right now."

She nodded, her eyes scanning Joel's small, struggling form. "We've got it. Just stay calm." She started to open her medical bag, her movements efficient and sure. For a single, fleeting second, I allowed myself to breathe. He was going to be okay. Help was here.

Then she paused. Her gaze wasn't on Joel anymore. It was on my wrist. On my watch.

It was a beautiful timepiece, a matching one to Graham's, a gift from him on our one-year anniversary. His initials were engraved on the back, intertwined with mine. It was my most treasured possession.

Her eyes, a pale, washed-out blue, flickered from the watch to my face. The professional mask she wore cracked, just for a second, and something cold and ugly peered out.

"Who gave you that watch?" she asked.

The question was so bizarre, so out of place, that I just stared at her. Joel was gasping for air beside her, his skin taking on a bluish tint, and she was asking about my watch.

"My fiancé," I stammered, confused. "Please, my brother isn't breathing."

"Your fiancé," she repeated, the words slow, deliberate. "What's his name?"

"Graham Shields," I said, my voice rising with panic. "Please, you have to help him! He's dying!"

Her hand, which had been reaching for the EpiPen, froze. Her head snapped up, and she stared at me, really stared at me, for the first time. The recognition that dawned in her eyes was not friendly. It was a dark, possessive fire.

"Graham Shields," she breathed, and the name sounded like a curse on her lips.

Without warning, she stood up and kicked the medical bag shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet park.

"Get away from him," she snarled, her voice a low, vicious thing.

"What?" I cried, my mind reeling.

"I said get away from him!" she shrieked, and she shoved me, hard. I stumbled backwards, tripping over a root and landing painfully on the ground. My hip screamed in protest.

She stood over me, a terrifying silhouette against the bright sun. "Graham is my man. He always has been."

The world tilted. I knew who she was then. Janna. Janna Warner. The obsessive college girlfriend Graham had mentioned once, the one who couldn't let go, the one he' d described as "unstable." He'd broken up with her years ago.

"I'm Holly," I tried, scrambling to my knees, my voice cracking. "I'm his fiancée."

She laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You're nothing." She kicked me again, this time in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me. I curled into a ball, gasping.

"You're just some pathetic little slut he's screwing until he comes back to me," she spat. Her eyes dropped to Joel, who was now terrifyingly still. "And what's this? Did you pop out a bastard for him too? He looks a little like him around the eyes."

My blood ran cold. He did look like Graham. Everyone said so. The same dark hair, the same strong jawline. But he was my brother. My blood.

"He's my brother," I sobbed, the words muffled against the grass. "Please, Janna, you're a paramedic. You took an oath."

"An oath?" She sneered. "I'm not wasting a single drop of medicine on his bastard get. Let the little parasite die."

She turned and signaled to her partner. "He's gone into cardiac arrest. Time of death, 2:14 PM. Let's pack it up."

Horror, pure and absolute, clawed its way up my throat. She was leaving him. She was just going to let him die.

I fumbled for my phone again, my hands slick with sweat. I had to call Graham. He had to stop this. The screen was cracked from the fall. It wouldn't turn on. Dead.

"Fuck," I whispered, the curse a desperate prayer.

Janna, halfway to the ambulance, stopped. She turned around slowly, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "What did you say to me?"

She strode back, her boots crunching on the dry grass. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look at her. Pain exploded across my scalp.

"You think you're worthy of him?" she hissed, her face inches from mine. "I'm the one he's going to marry. We're getting married next spring." She thrust her left hand in my face. A simple, elegant diamond ring sat on her finger. "He gave me this. A promise. He told me he'd leave you."

Her fist tightened in my hair, and as she shook my head, my mother's locket, tucked under my shirt, swung free. It was a simple gold heart, a family heirloom.

Her eyes zeroed in on it. The smile vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.

"Where," she seethed, her voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "did you get that?"