Chapter 1

After fifteen years apart, the first thing Dad said when he brought me back to the military base was, "There's a girl here, the daughter of one of my old comrades. You need to go easy on her."

As soon as I stepped inside, the fake heiress called me a hillbilly and shoved me down the steps. My face was bloodied from the fall. Dad didn't even bother to help me. He went straight over to comfort her instead.

Everyone in the compound said my brother was the most ruthless officer around, but he treated that fake heiress as if she were real. I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the worst, thinking he'd kick me to death.

His boot came crashing down. But it was the fake heiress who was sent flying. "You mess with my real sister, and you're out of here, today!"

The army-green jeep rattled over the dirt road all day, and by the end, I felt like my butt was about to split in half. When the jeep finally pulled up to the compound gate, I got out, lugging a faded woven bag.

My rough palm was left with a deep red mark from gripping the bag so tightly.

Bradley walked ahead, his posture straight as a rifle. He was my real dad, the deputy chief of staff of the military region.

I was trafficked to the countryside for fifteen years, and he spent every single one of those years searching for me. But before we even stepped inside, he stopped in his tracks.

"Danielle, let's talk for a sec," he said. He turned around, his face tight and serious. "There's a girl living with us named Moriah Herring. She's the orphan of an old comrade of mine," he explained.

"Her dad took a bullet for me on the battlefield. His remains never made it home," he added. "Moriah grew up without a father. She's pretty delicate and easily scared, so try to cut her some slack."

He paused, giving me a once-over. "And don't bring those rough habits you picked up in the countryside back here. Don't go scaring her," he added.

I kept my head down, staring at my battered canvas shoes, full of holes. I didn't say a word.

This was the father I'd waited fifteen years for. He never once asked if I'd had enough to eat out in the countryside, if anyone had beaten me, or if I'd ever cried out for him in the middle of the night.

His very first words to me were to put a stranger ahead of his own daughter.

I pushed open the gate to the yard. The courtyard was laid with smooth flagstones. A girl in a white dress patterned with red flowers was lounging in a wicker chair in the shade, her legs crossed as she popped grapes into her mouth.

I recognized that fabric right away. It was the priciest materials one could get at the local store; top-shelf stuff. Even the village chief wouldn't shell out for it when his son got married.

Moriah heard the commotion and glanced up at me. Her gaze swept from my face down to my feet, pausing for a couple of seconds on my battered canvas shoes.

Then she spat the grape skin right in front of me, and she asked, "Mr. Porter, who's this? She reeks. Is she here to pick up the leftovers or what?"

To my surprise, Dad actually smiled. It was the kind of warm, coaxing smile one'd use to soothe a kid.

"Moriah, this is Danielle. I just brought her back. You two will be sharing the place from now on, so be nice to each other," he said.

He called her affectionately, but for me, it was different. One sounded affectionate; the other was cold and formal, like he was just ticking names off a roster.

I watched as Dad turned and headed inside. Moriah's face darkened in a heartbeat. She jumped up from the wicker chair, marched over, grabbed my woven bag, and slammed it hard on the ground.

The bag came open. A few faded, threadbare clothes and a pair of worn-out cloth shoes spilled out onto the ground.

"Danielle? Who's that? The Porter family only has one daughter, and that's me!" Moriah snapped. "What hillbilly dares to show up here?" she sneered while she slapped her hand on my shoulder.

After days and nights crammed into those rock-hard train seats, barely eating and feeling half-faint, my foot snagged on the threshold. I crashed down onto the flagstones, landing with a heavy thud.

My hand scraped across the stone, ripping off a chunk of skin. Blood started seeping from my palm, the pain sharp and piercing.

I looked up and caught sight of Dad. He was standing just three steps away from me, but he didn't bother to help. Instead, his hand went straight to Moriah's arm.

"Moriah, calm down, don't let yourself get worked up. Your heart can't take it..." he said, his voice gentle and full of concern.

Sprawled on the ground, blood trickled from my fingers, each drop falling onto the flagstones.

Suddenly, I couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Fifteen years. I spent fifteen years crying by the pigsty under the moonlight, hoping that one day Dad would come and bring me home.

And now I was finally back. His hand reached out; not for me, but for her.

Just then, a sharp screech of brakes pierced the air outside the gate.

Someone kicked the car door open. A man in a military uniform stepped out of the jeep and marched straight into the yard. Each step of his boots landed with a heavy thud on the flagstones.

Emory, my blood brother. He was the youngest battalion commander in the field army.

Before I got here, the neighbors had warned me, "Your brother's got a hell of a temper. Nobody in the compound dares cross him. But he treats Moriah like his own sister, doting on her all the time."

I watched as he walked up to me, one step at a time. He gave off a sharp, dangerous vibe. Without thinking, I shut my eyes tight, and I bit my lip until it bled.

Alright, do your worst. Go ahead, scold me, hit me; after everything, what was one more?

The footsteps stopped right in front of me. I waited a couple seconds, but the slap never landed on my face.

I felt a rush of air sweep over my head. And then, a heavy thud.

I shot my eyes open. Emory kicked Moriah right in the stomach, quick and ruthless, without a second thought.

Moriah was sent flying. Her back crashed into the water tank in the corner, splitting it open with a loud crack.

She was curled up on the ground, clutching her stomach, her face beet red, mouth open as she struggled to breathe.

Emory stood right where he was, looking down at her, his voice cold enough to freeze her. "Touch my sister, will you?" Emory said, his tone sharp as a blade. "Get out of this house. Right now."