DAXTON

I woke up screaming. My lungs burned like I'd swallowed fire, and my chest...hell, my chest felt like it had split open again. I pressed my hand to it, gasping and trembling.

But there was no blade or blood. My fingers drifted down my abdomen, tracing invisible lines across the tattoos I'd had inked over the scars. Intricate black swirls stretched over my neck, my chest and my torso, to hide the carnage.

It's been three years. Three years since I awoke from ...