Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84913 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | The Rise of Ferryn (Legacy #1) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Jessica Gadziala |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
She left a broken girl. Damaged in a way no one should ever be. But determined to make a difference in the world. She stayed away. Training. Learning. Hardening. Bending and breaking herself into what she needed to become to fulfill her mission in life. Something righteous, but wicked in its own way. She returned a warrior. There were promises left unfulfilled. Questions left unanswered. Hearts to be unbroken. Maybe most especially her own. ** This book can be read as a standalone but is the first in the Legacy series to the Henchmen MC ** | |
| Books in Series: | Legacy Series by Jessica Gadziala |
| Books by Author: | Jessica Gadziala Books |
One
Ferryn - Present Day
I could feel the little bones cracking in my hand.
Distal phalanx.
Middle phalanx.
Proximal phalanx.
There should have been pain.
Once upon a time, there had been. The searing, throbbing pain telling me one part of me was no longer attached to what it once had been connected to.
I remembered that sensation all too well. The way I would cradle my hand to my chest, my uninjured hand holding the wrist, trying to keep it still to prevent hurting it more.
Leaving my face open, unprotected. Inviting more pain.
The zygomatic.
Mandible.
Temporal.
I quickly learned to fight through it, to keep my guards up.
And my body slowly did what bodies do.
Hardened.
Strengthened.
Built a tolerance.
So that, eventually, the telltale crunch of my distal phalanx—fingertip—was met only with a twinge followed by welcome numbness.
I was going to be cripplingly arthritic by the time I hit forty. But there were some things in life worth doing, regardless of the consequence.
"Stop worrying about your goddamn manicure, and fight back."
Those were familiar words, old taunts, meant to strip away the girl I had once been. They no longer had the bite they once did. For years, my nails had been kept military short, prone to splitting, breaking, haloed over by often bloody cuticles thanks to a newfound bad habit of chewing them in tense moments alone.
Well, let's face it, all moments alone were tense moments. Silence was filled with the swirling abyss inside my head.
Nothing, nothing could drown out the screaming.
Or the memories.
I shook my hand once, throwing off the sting, before curling my fingers into a fist and lunging once again.
Manicures were something I left in the past.
In another time.
Another life.
Along with family, friends, a comfortable bed, bones that didn't crack, and muscles that didn't scream first thing in the morning.
Birthdays.
Christmases.
Love.
Light.
Warmth.
This world was one of inky darkness, an atmospheric gloom reminiscent of gothic fiction, something you would never think could exist in modern times.
Exist it did, though. And it was the place I had learned to call, if not home, then some sort of headquarters. A place I could find a small bit of comfort in, where I could rest my head, train my body, steel my mind, and slough off all the layers of the girl I used to be—someone I no longer recognized, a too-soft soul that could never survive in this environment.
That said, not much could or did.
Survive here.
The two of us did, but just barely.
Hidden away deep in the woods under trees half-heartedly holding onto their lives, gray bark and leafless limbs, maybe losing their will to grow where there was no sun to feel warming their appendages, no wind to feel blowing through them.
Everything was dark. The sun dared not shine here for too long, always chased away by storm clouds and violent rains. The kind that made small lakes all around, that sank in through your layers of clothes if you had to walk out in it for more than a moment or two, that made the walls and floors and fabrics inside constantly feel damp. I swear I hadn't felt utterly dry in eight years. I was sure I no longer fully grasped the concept.
It wasn't even all that far from where I had grown up—just an eight-hour drive—one state away, really.
It may as well have been on another planet.
This land was foreign to me, so different than the populated area I had been raised in, full of familiar places, comforting sights, bright sun, oppressively cheerful summers, and moody only for a few weeks in the fall.
But it was okay.
I only missed it in a nostalgic sort of way, knowing it was a place for the old Ferryn—young and rebellious, a little self-centered, a little vain, a lot more naive than she really should have been. Made that way, thanks to being raised in the protective embrace of a biker gang and all the badass men and women who flocked around it.
It wasn't, though, a place where I could picture this newer version of myself. Many times, I tried. There were more nights than I cared to think of where grief and defeat and hopelessness wrapped me up in their spindly arms, squeezing a bit too tight, making almost everything within me beg to flee, to get away from it all, to say fuck it to my plans, to my mission. To run, go back to that old life, those old people, fall at their feet, beg them to forgive me for what I had done to them. All for nothing.
It would be for nothing if I gave up.
Even when what was left of my soul cried desperately to head back there, I simply couldn't picture it. This version of me—older, harder, colder—walking down the streets of Navesink Bank, a black cloud following me around.. yeah, no. I couldn't see it. Even though I always knew it was going to happen.