Our W.I.C.K.E.D Fate (The W.I.C.K.E.D Girl sequel)

P R O L O G U E

❝They lived . . .
but did their love too?❞

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Dedicated to everyone who believes they're not good enough and yet persists.

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It started out as nothing. Everything was lost. Everything had stopped making sense, and numbness was taking over, claiming memories, wrapping them in darkness. When the pain came, she'd given up on the pretence of sanity.

The pain was ruthless, and it scorched every inch of her body, unable to move. She couldn't scream, couldn't scream, couldn't scream, even though her mind was aflame. Everything was out of place, blurry images and sounds swirling through her brain. She wasn't in control anymore, and there was nothing to be felt save for the excruciating pain that made her wish for death, the ultimate release. But the end refused to arrive. Time passed, so slow. Each second shattered something new in her.

Then she realized she couldn't remember anything. Everything from before was a blur, fading with each fleeting moment. Trying to get past the foggy shield keeping her from the past hurt like electric current singing in her veins.

The only thing she could vividly recall was someone assuring her there'd be no pain—liar, liar, liar. She didn't even know what had gotten her in that condition; had she done something? Did she deserve it? Was undergoing the excruciating pain the only way to keep her from harming others?

There were images in her mind, behind her closed eyelids, floating heads with no faces nor bodies, distant voices ringing in her ears. There was this boy, she guessed, and, like the others, he didn't have a face, yet she remembered more about him than she did about the others. He'd had hair the shade of sand in winter, warm eyes, and the ability to start fires inside of her. The memory of him somehow dulled the pain, and that was enough to let her know he'd been different. There was something coiled in her chest, like a blooming sun threatening to burst and fill her veins with whatever the feeling bubbling inside of her was. It spoke of summers and being alive.

She wanted to tear the wall between her tired mind and her past and see him, shatter what was keeping them away. She tried, reached out for him, tried recalling more about him—but she slipped, falling through the fog of unclear memories. She screamed after them, extending her hands to catch something intangible. The past was the only thing keeping her sane.

Rage burned through her, set her skin on fire. It didn't come with the pleasant warmth that the boy brought upon her—this . . . this started a fire inside of her that could put out everything and everyone standing in her way.

But the abyss could not be held back. She fell and fell and fell and there was only darkness once more.

* * *

A cold breeze made her hairs stand on end. She'd started to feel her chest rise and fall with each breath, feel the thumping of her own heart, the rush of blood in her eardrums, the chill of the air as it entered through her nose.

She opened her eyes, but the blinding light pouring from the ceiling made her shut them again. But she'd had enough of the dark to make her sit up, head spinning, hand shielding her eyes. It seemed unnatural to think, to feel her own body, but she was compelled to adjust, staring at her own naked feet. The room she was in was almost empty, save for the glass of water on the white nightstand next to her hospital bed and the mirror hanging on the wall in front of her.

She blinked, eyes watering at the sudden flood of light. She wiped them with the back of her hand, forced herself to blink over and over until she could remove the hand covering her eyes. She spotted the glass next to her and gulped down its contents within seconds, not even bothering to consider what the liquid could be. Her mouth had been dry, and her lips were cracked when she bit them.

She peeked at the mirror. She was slouching, and her dark brown hair was a curtain around her ghastly face, her green eyes dull. There were purple blotches underneath them, stark against her pale skin. Her cheekbones were too sharp. She raised her hand and touched her cheek with a swift movement.

A strange feeling reared its head in along with a sharp arrow of pain shooting through her skull. When she opened her eyes again, she'd gathered two precious pieces of information.

Her name was Emily Paige, and her mission was to kill the remaining Subjects of Group A.