Bent not Broken

Bent Not Broken

Sixteen-year-old Hannah Trevelyan has survived the unimaginable. Betrayed by her family, punished for defending herself, and now serving time in juvenile detention for fighting back against her rapists, Hannah lives by three unshakable rules: win, seek justice, and trust no one.

She plans to ride out her sentence in silence—under the radar, untouched. But her new roommate, Shelby, disrupts that plan. Bruised and secretive, Shelby claims she's being hunted by a killer inside the facility. The stories don’t add up, but the danger feels real. Against her instincts, Hannah agrees to help.

What starts as reluctant protection quickly spirals into something darker. Lies multiply. Motives twist. And as Hannah uncovers a chilling truth, she must decide how far she’s willing to go—and who she’s willing to become—to protect herself and uncover what Shelby is really hiding.

Bent Not Broken is a taut, unflinching psychological thriller that explores trauma, power, and the fragile line between survivor and predator.

Read Bent Not Broken—a story of survival, justice, and the danger of trusting the wrong person.

Excerpt from the book

“Throw me to the wolves and I will return leading the pack.”

- Seneca Herb Brooks

I like my sleep. It was hard enough to get any in here with screaming, moaning and clanging coming from outside my cell, without my cellmate sobbing and howling day and night inside it. They kept telling me it’s not a cell, it’s a room. I am sick of being surrounded by people who know the truth but tell you you’re wrong when you tell it. It’s a cell.

And this is one of the very few two-person cells. Double rooms, they call them. Not much bigger than the singles but with bunks. Two for the price of one. I’d been as comfortable as you could expect in my single cell, then two days ago, with no explanation, I was moved to this one and saddled with Miss Whine and Howl. I reckon my saying “why me” was fair enough.

I hated cellmates. I accepted I had to stay in that hole of a place, but torture is a crime and sharing with this dumb bitch was torture. To be fair, the occasional yell or even scream because of bad dreams is okay. I woke myself up doing that sometimes, but two days and nights of this was a deal-breaker.

Obviously, complaining to the screws wasn’t an option. Anything more than a request for constipation relief was the limit. As far as I was concerned, I was a prisoner of war. No fraternising. Name, rank and serial number was all they were getting from me. That night, after another hour of this stupid kid’s whimpering escalating into downright howling, I’d had enough. I swung down from my bunk and stood in front of her.

`Okay, what’s the fucking problem?’

She got such a shock that she stopped immediately. Her eyes bugged and her jaw dropped onto her skinny chest. That’s when I noticed for the first time that she was a mess. Her face was wet with tears and she had two black eyes. That was just the bruises. The whites of them were red. I stared at her. You don’t get eyes that red just from crying. Even for two days. Around the edges maybe, but not the whites. I’d been around long enough to know that someone must have given her a hiding. A bad one.

She hiccupped and wiped her face with her arm. `You wouldn’t understand,’ she muttered, another sob escaping.

She was right, but I’d do anything to stop the noise. Try me, and if you start that howling again, I’ll deck you.’ The sobbing started again. I told you. Stop that and tell me what’s going on.’ I didn’t really want to know, but I couldn’t put up with the crap anymore. `Well?’

`I think I’m going to die.’

`What? Don’t be stupid. How old are you anyway?’

She was one of the younger girls, around thirteen at a guess.

`Fifteen. Why?’ I shrugged. So, a baby face and playing it. I’d keep that in mind because she wasn’t that much younger than me.