The year is 1831 and our country is over-run by filth, greed, crime and poverty. The monarch and her court are running our beloved country into the ground as industry takes hold. It’s here Jacqueline thrives with her makeshift family while fighting memories of her old. It’s here in the city that Jackie hunts. Where she is paid to kill. It’s here Evalyn is unseen, an escaped slave, she lives in the dank and grisly corners of our city. Living day to day in fear of capture. Now Jackie has introduced Evalyn to a life of crime, an exchange for family and home. Sisterhood and family don’t always mean blood.

Claudia, with black tasteless hair and a face full of the blue veins of nightmares and shadows, lives as something like a pet to her lively and pink-cheeked sister, only seconds older. Her father, the blood-stained tyrant, has little patience nor compassion for the youngest sister who stole away his wife. The little ruins of love that he still possesses is reserved only for the living picture of his blonde-haired wife, Ingrid, the cherished sister. Per contra to the idealistic family contained in the squaviling hole of riches and pride, a revolution is coming, all due to a curious little boy with an eye for beauty. Years of blood and revenge have passed, and now in exchange for her life and sanity, Claudia must become the woman that was least expected of her. After a life-time of death, betrayl and pitch-forks, Claudia finds herself having to cause friction with the omnipotent figure that had cast herself upon her for years, her sister.

“Stop the car, Lela,” he begs as tears blur my vision. “No!” Reversing back an alpha growl rips through his chest as he continues to bash against the thick glass. “Stop the car baby, stop the car. Lela,” I see the pain in his eyes and I force myself to look over my shoulder, to hit the gas and reverse, “I love you, it didn’t mean anything. Please just stop the car.” I cast one last look at Blaze. His black hair, mussed and green eyes filled with sadness, regret. With guilt. While his jeans hang low on his hips still unbuttoned from his quick dressing. I shake my head. “No, I hate you,” I state anger overriding all else, “I hate you.” ... My name is Lela Morgan or at least it was until the day I died and since police kind of notice when you use a dead gal’s ID, I am no longer, now for better or worse I’m Faith Dawson. Faith Dawson. It’s the name whispered in panic from rogue lips. Lela Morgan. It’s a name that has been engraved on a tombstone for four years. Who are they? One in the same. Lela once was mated. Once was happy. That is until the day it all came crashing down. The day she died.