Chapter 1 There

There was a saying in Logris that Hell was the pinnacle of pain. Whoever penned that phrase was full of bullshit. Sure, Hell was bad. It was loud and hot and filled with endless torment, and I wasn’t talking about the demons who supervised the Punishment Pits. The most torturous part of being in Hell was watching painful memories on an endless cycle of repeat. I sat in my three-foot-wide cell within Tower Thirteen- Thirteen, one of the many mega-stalagmites that made up Pit 666. The rough stone wall raked across my back, even though I was no longer in possession of a body. There was just about enough standing room in my cell to straighten my spine and stretch my legs, but that would mean bending my neck at an uncomfortable angle. When the imps weren’t taking us out for torture, this shit hole was a constant barrage of petty discomfort. Floors that grated against the skin like steel wool, a ceiling of sharp stalactites that crumbled dust in the eyes. The sticky kind that took an eternity to leave. The gritty specks that stuck to

the fingers, so rubbing the eyes made the  situation  a thousand times worse. But none of that compared to the worst part of Hell. I stared out through the  entrance-hole.  Out  into  the ghetto of tall structures that stretched up  into  an  endless void of black. Whoever had designed this place made it so one could just about see the other condemned souls staring out, trying to distract themselves from the torment. It wouldn’t be Hell if they allowed us the comfort of seeing them. They taunted us with the knowledge that they were there, but we were condemned to endure our eternal punishments alone… always alone. One of the rock spikes on the wall dug into my spine. That was another annoying thing about this cell. It never remained the same shape. That’s because it had an intelligence of its own and pushed me toward the confined space’s only smooth surface: The memory wall. The memory wall played out the exact reason a person was condemned to the Punishment  Pits.  From  the bittersweet beginning to the excruciating end. Another sharp stone lodged in my right ass cheek, making me shift to the left. Then rock dust streamed down in  a  convenient  draft that forced me to turn my head in the same direction. I clenched my teeth. The only way to get some physical comfort was by facing my mistakes. Maybe they wanted me to admit that I was wrong, to repent, to cry, to wail for forgiveness, but I’d be buggered if I excused the actions of that mangy wolf.

The floor shifted, and a tiny stalagmite rose from beneath me and pushed against my asshole. “Shit.” I shifted in my cell, faced the wall, and watched my most painful sequence of memories. Franklin Gri ths, the most beautiful wolf-shifter  who ever lived. He was more handsome than Burt Reynolds, cooler than the Fonz, and danced better than John Travolta. He was my mate. Yet he had deceived me and broken my heart. The screen played the day we’d met. Griff’s long, black hair swept  backward  as  though caressed by the wind. Streams of sunlight  hit  its  ends, turning them a vibrant mahogany. On other men, the style might look like the less glamorous one in Charlie’s Angels, but on Griff, the style was a perfect frame for his  masculine beauty. Perhaps it was the sideburns that ended at his high cheekbones that made him look so manly. They  drew  the gaze to a pair of kissable, plump lips. The bastard even had a sexy chin dimple. My breath quickened, and my gaze flicked up to his eyes. They were liquid gold encased in amber. At the time, I wondered if his wolf would look the same. I had no idea how many years had passed since my arrest, but I’d spent several months in jail before my execution in 1978. Yet watching this memory on the wall made every butterfly in my stomach take flight with a rush of infatuation. It was impossible to describe  the  man’s  animal magnetism in words or even scents. He was the sort of wolf a bitch would be wise to avoid… if she had any sense. The sort

to admire from afar, only to dwell upon when under  the covers with a dildo. I placed a hand on my heart and whimpered. On the wall, Griff walked to the beat of “Stayin’ Alive,” catching the attention of everyone. Women wanted him, kids thought he was the disco equivalent of Superman, and men wanted to wring his neck because no female with a pulse could resist his allure. At the time, I was nineteen—two years from becoming eligible to take over the pack. Dad had been our alpha, but he had died, leaving Mum and my  little  sister  devastated  and me as his heir. There hadn’t been any  time  for  grief.  Our beta, Gerrison, had spent every day training me on how to become the strong alpha to lead our pack into the 1980s. In the memory, Griff swaggered up to me and grinned, revealing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Most wolves wore jeans and leather jackets, but not Griff. He was always impeccably dressed. On that day, he wore a black, three-piece suit with a sky-blue polyester  shirt  that was unbuttoned to the waistcoat, giving more than a tantalizing glimpse of the luxuriant hair of  his  prominent pecs. He wore a gold chain with a runic medallion that indicated he worshipped Fenrir, the Norse god of wolves. At that moment, the world tilted on its axis, and so did the cell. Even though I knew it was a memory replayed to maximize my misery. Even though I knew exactly how things would end, it still didn’t stop me from parting my lips to release a moan. “Cathwulf Aibek?” said a small voice.

My heart somersaulted to the back of  my  throat,  and every molecule of my transparent body tightened with terror. There was only one reason a demon visited  our  cells,  and that was to take us out for exercise. And by exercise, I meant torture. I squeezed my eyes shut, scratching their surfaces with lids encrusted with grit. “But I already had my punishment.” I tried not to let my voice shake, but the effort was futile. “Check your clipboard.” The punishments were another shitty part about Hell. If they were consistent, like a whipping every Friday, a girl might get used to it. Tune out the pain or do something else to become immune. But it was never the same with those red-skinned fuckers. Sometimes, they would pull out the fingernails. Other times, it was a cat-o-nine-tails. No, not the whip. An actual, honest-to-Hades feline with a grin that stretched beyond its demonic face and ten bony appendages with spikes that shredded the spirit. When I commented on the false advertising, the demons only said the tenth tail was a bonus. “Cathwulf Aibek.” The voice sliced against my back, making me flinch. “Yes?” I whispered. “Someone wants you.” I turned around, finally meeting crimson eyes that burned with the flames of wrath.