Unstoppable (Pretty Liars Book 1), page 1
UNSTOPPABLE
PRETTY LIAR BOOK ONE
K.A. KNIGHT
Unstoppable (Pretty Liar Book One).
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events or real people are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 K.A. Knight, all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Written by K.A. Knight
Edited By Jess from Elemental Editing and Proofreading.
Proofreading by Norma’s Nook.
Formatted by Mallory Kent.
Cover by Opulent Designs.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Continue the adventure…
About K.A. Knight
Also by K.A. Knight
For my sister, my best friend.
PROLOGUE
I fist my tanned, scarred hands, ripping the cuts on my exposed, bruised knuckles further. The shock of pain makes my heart race, chasing away the fog and tears.
My body shivers involuntarily, my hair still dripping wet. Today is about torture techniques, and he started early, breaking my weak body over and over. He said it was to test my response to extreme pain and how quickly a child’s body could bounce back under immense stress. I didn’t please him when I failed to react to the electric shock.
It comes again, and I jerk, my teeth clenched hard so I don’t let any noise out. Doing so would either please or annoy him, so I try to distract myself and remain silent.
The sterile white room is thirty steps in each direction—I’ve counted—the ceiling has fifty-seven tiles, and the door has five locks. Counting calms my brain as the current finally passes through my body, then his distorted voice comes again as he watches me through the two-way mirror.
He’s always watching . . . observing.
“Tell me how that feels.”
I don’t speak.
“Novaleen,” he snaps, annoyed now. “You know better. You must answer for my research. How does your body feel?”
I still don’t answer. It’s a childish rebellion, but one I take pride in, especially when it breaches that cool exterior and brings anything other than cold disinterest to his voice—the voice that haunts my every waking and sleeping moment.
The shock comes again, jolting my body against the table I’m chained upon.
“Answer me!”
I don’t, so he shocks me again, barely leaving me time to recover from the last one. He asks the same question again and again, followed by recurring shocks. I still refuse to answer, so he increases the voltage until I scream. The taste of my blood fills my mouth, and my bladder lets go.
“Please, sir, please!” I beg, but it’s too late. He’s punishing me and reminding me who’s in charge. My high-pitched voice cracks and then breaks as my body heaves and twists, trying to escape the current burning through me and setting my brain and body on fire.
“Please, Daddy! Please!”
ONE
I jerk awake, coated in a cold sweat, with the sheets twisted around my bare legs. My tank top and thong stick to my body, and my long black hair is stuck to my skin.
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
Count, Nova, count.
I begin to count the specks of light filtering through the curtain, indicating it’s sunrise, the bricks on the wall, and then the stains on the ceiling from my neighbour above watering her plants too often. I count until I can breathe again and his face and voice no longer haunt me. I realise then I can still taste blood, and with a sigh, I throw back the covers. I get up to stretch, waking my body before padding to the adjoining bathroom. Flicking on the fan and light, I lean into the counter and stare at myself in the rectangular mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and my bones stick out from my lack of appetite. I’m getting worse the closer I get to . . . there.
Shaking my head, I push back my wet hair and spit into the sink. I run the tap, watching the pink, bloody water disappear down the drain. Sticking my tongue out, I see tiny puncture wounds from my teeth. I must have bit it in my sleep.
I turn away and crank on the cheap hotel shower. I didn’t get in until late last night, and I have another day of driving before the funeral.
Funeral.
Even thinking that seems surreal. He’s actually dead. The man who I thought was unstoppable, the man who I thought was invincible, is dead. I should be celebrating, I should be fucking rejoicing, but instead all I feel is lost. For so long, he’s been the shadow following me, always one step away, and now . . . what am I running from? What should I do?
And Ana . . . What about Ana?
She’s been by his side since I disappeared. What does she think happened to me? I often wonder if she remembers me. Does she even care, or did he brainwash her and turn her into his little clone? She was always so influenced by him, so eager to please. I wonder if he hurt her like he hurt me.
No, he couldn’t have. I made sure of that.
But she will be at the funeral, so what do I say? Will she even recognise me? Will she even care?
It’s been ten fucking years of running, hiding, and being nothing but a ghost thanks to him. I was just a kid when I left, only seventeen, but she was younger still. She was only fourteen, and that’s a long time to spend with a monster like him.
My turbulent thoughts and worries won’t help. He taught me not to jump to conclusions and that the only certain thing in life is reality, not the worries in my brain. The only accurate things are what you can taste, see, feel, and explain.
Facts.
Why jump to conclusions? Why worry about what you can’t control? Focus on what you can. What can you analyse from the situation? Do better, notice more, and react without emotion.
The command floats into my mind unbidden, like it often does since I heard the news. I had gotten good at pushing the memories away and unlearning everything he taught me, even when it was an impossible task. I settled and even lived a normal-ish life, even if no one ever truly knew me. But then he died, and it was like opening a floodgate. All that fear and pain came back, drilling into my body until I couldn’t even slouch without his annoyed command filling my ears like he was actually here.
I duck my head under the spray and crank the temperature higher, hoping the shock of the burn will wash away everything but the present. Grabbing the cheap soap, I lather it up and methodically wash my body, noting every raised scar—some of which have been dissolved thanks to his miracle serum.
Can’t have a perfect being with scars, after all.
Everything had to be perfect and in its place. Everything was carefully controlled based on his whims, and I was designed to appeal to whatever he needed at the time—make me older, younger, more sophisticated, or a street kid.
My first rebellion when I ran away was to dye my once boring blonde, shoulder-length hair midnight black. Now it reaches my hips thanks to him not keeping it trimmed to his desired length. His opinion was that long hair was unkempt, and as I push it back, I see the shimmer of dark blue woven in the curly locks.
Continuing to wash, I run my hand over my defined abs. I could never escape the need for rhythmic exercises, cardio, and weights he trained into me, not to mention survival training and weapons expertise. Jujitsu and every other martial art still live inside my head like a routine I can’t escape. At first, I hated the fact that I would wake up at 6 AM and need to run and work out. It was like I’d not escaped him, but now I revel in my strength, in the bliss and nothingness I find when pushing my body to its limits.
Reaching my tattoos, I hesitate. He would hate them and say they make me stand out when I need to blend in. It’s the very reason I got my first one at just seventeen, the month after I left. Since then, I’ve covered my en
I’m real, right down to the chipped, black nail varnish on my toes, my nipple piercings, and the new, unhealed scar running diagonally across my foot from my new bike.
I’m not the same scared Novaleen who huddled before the man who was supposed to protect and love her.
I’m Nova, the badass bitch he created down in those torture chambers, one he could never contain.
I’m his biggest mistake, his loudest enemy, and, if he had lived, his death.
After conditioning my hair, I rinse it away before climbing out and wrapping a cheap, tiny towel around my waist. Swiping my hand through the condensation on the mirror, I stare at myself. I seem more determined and . . . free.
Is that the feeling?
Is that the glint in my emerald-green eyes?
Pursing my thick pink lips, I tilt my head as I analyse myself. I’m tall, like him, at nearly six feet. I used to be lanky as a child, but as I grew, I gained muscle and some curves, with a tight waist, flared hips, and double D boobs. I have long, lean legs, strong arms, and toned abs. Ana was always smaller, and I wonder if she still is.
Stop.
Focus.
Ignoring my invading worries and thoughts, I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and plait it back before putting on a bra and my tight black workout shorts. Moving into the other room, I push the double bed aside to create room, and then, like every morning, I conduct my warm-up routine to fully energise my body and get my adrenaline pumping.
I stretch first before doing cardio with running, jumping, and burpees. Next, I do my sit-ups, Russian twists, and push-ups. Once my workout is done, I stretch out my muscles, feeling the strength running through me as I cool down. I slowly work through some jujitsu, mixing it with Krav Maga and traditional karate. I can never be too prepared, and the moves are second nature as I work through all of my training, highlighting hold, attack, and defending movements.
Once I’m done, I take a moment to meditate and control my breathing. When my eyes open again, I feel better, and I remember why I am doing this—for her, always for her.
Removing my workout gear, I change into tight black leather trousers and don my steel-toed military boots with knives in each one. I add a somewhat appropriate plain black shirt, which is loose to hide my holsters with small handguns, and as always, I slip my long, handmade necklace over my head then conceal it beneath my shirt—a habit from when I hid it from him so he wouldn’t take it, crush it, or use it against me. It is a constant reminder of why I survived.
Of why I still fight.
Grabbing my tight leather jacket, I pack the rest of my duffle, and with one more look to check that I didn’t forget anything, I head out of the cheap hotel room. I check out under a false name and a false credit card before heading outside to the one joy in this world I allow myself—my bike.
My Suzuki GSX-R750 is finished in black and fades to red. Riding is the closest I’ll ever get to feeling happiness as I race through the world.
There is nothing like it.
Grabbing my helmet, I pull it over my head and crank up the volume of my rock playlist. Everyone else might be sad and mourning . . . but me?
I’m fucking celebrating. I just have to make sure the old bastard is really dead first.
TWO
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Dimitri asks for the hundredth time.
Nico, who sits in the passenger seat of the big 4X4, just sighs and rolls his eyes. Turning in the driver’s seat, I meet Isaac’s, Dimitri’s, and Jonas’s eyes. They are all crammed in the back. Luckily, Nico was too big to fit back there, but those three aren’t exactly small. In fact, Jonas is squashed up against the window looking uncomfortable. Nico faces them also, and when he sees them shiver, he turns away, his fists clenching on his thighs. I check him over to ensure he isn’t going to flip out at the thought that it could have been him being touched, being near people, but he seems to have it under control at the moment.
“We have to,” I remind them.
“What if she doesn’t even turn up?” Isaac queries, always the logical one. His slight French accent is still fading after years of living there.
“She will,” Nico confirms, and those two strong words are all he has to say on the matter.
“I wouldn’t.” Jonas snorts. “I’d be sunning myself somewhere with some hot girls and drinking to celebrate.”
“She isn’t like you.” I grin, but it soon fades as I remember everything I read and saw on her. “She needs to be sure. She has to know it’s true, that he’s really dead.”
“Not to mention her sister,” Dimitri points out. “She will want to see her.”
“Do you think she’ll make contact?” I question. I might be the leader of this ragtag band of assholes, but I know when to trust their instincts and intellect. Isaac has a way of seeing people and getting emotional with them, but Dimitri? He can read them, know their thoughts and actions, and put himself into their shoes.
“I’m not sure. It depends on how safe she feels.”
“But if you were her?” I press.
“If I were her?” He meets my eyes then, his expression stern. “I’d make contact. Ten years is a long time to be alone and on the run.”
Jonas swears, knowing he’s right. We all know the effects of extended isolation, anger, and hopelessness associated with being alone for so long. It affects your mental capacity, the way you think, and the actions you take. You become reckless, which he knows better than anyone after spending the most time locked up out of all of us.
“Then it’s settled. We go. We keep a low profile and remember our mission.”
“Her.” Jonas nods, his gaze focusing on the still quiet church we are parked near. It won’t be quiet for long. “The bastard who did this to his daughter,” he snarls, looking back at us.
“She is like us,” Nico states in his low growl.
Jonas nods but grinds his teeth before looking away. Any reminder of the man who changed us sours his mood and makes him unpredictable. His emotions are the very reason he was deemed a failure, after all.
In particular, his hatred towards the man currently awaiting burial in that church.
“She’s not the enemy. We need her to finish this once and for all,” I remind them, searching their eyes.
THREE
The drive to the church located on the outskirts of the small city only takes another hour. It’s about thirty minutes from the manor I grew up in, and it’s also the church where I was baptised, against my father’s beliefs. He didn’t believe in God or any deity, only in what he could see, but having unbaptised children made him stand out in such a tight-knit community, and he wanted to blend in. Thus, we were forced to have it done, and now he’s forced to have a service and be buried in the very same hallowed grounds he disparaged.
My bike rumbles loudly as I pull into the uneven attached car park, and I make sure to choose a spot near the exit out of habit. Taking off my helmet, I see some older ladies and gentlemen in full military dress staring at me—probably due to the bike’s engine—before they turn to greet the vicar waiting at the open double doors. The bells are silent, and huge stained-glass windows allow light to stream into what I know is a vast one-room church with big arched ceilings, old stone pillars with dates and names etched into them, and hard, uncomfortable wooden pews with colourful kneeling cushions tied to them.
