Wrath of an Exile: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (The River Styx Heathens Book 1)

Phi

December 6

Loner

Where are you?

Me

House, why?

Loner

Meet me at Tilly’s We gotta talk.

How many times is too many times to read a text message? Asking for a friend.Original content from NôvelDrama.Org.

I’ve been standing in Tilly’s parking lot for twenty minutes now, just staring at my phone. My mind is a mess, spinning through a thousand scenarios. For a brief moment, I thought maybe someone had found out about us—that the bomb had finally dropped. But the house had been calm when I left, no chaos, no whispers.

So, this had to be about us.

And somehow, that’s even worse.

I shift from one foot to the other, biting the inside of my cheek, running through every possibility. What if he’s tired of keeping this a secret? What if he’s bored of me? What if he doesn’t love me?

“I fucking hate him,” I mutter into the wind, leaning back against my driver’s-side door.

I hate him for asking me the other night if I’d ever been in love. I hate that I lied and said no. Even as I felt it clawing at my chest. I knew, right there in that moment, that I was in love with him.

And now, here I am, standing in the cold, waiting for a guy who’s probably about to break my heart.

Just fucking great.

People say being star-crossed is romantic. They say it’s poetic, tragic in all the right ways. But with the way my heart tightens at the thought of losing him, I know there’s nothing romantic about loving someone you can’t fully have.

Nothing beautiful about this pain. Not the one poets write about that is sweetened by metaphors and softened by time. It’s raw, brutal, the kind that keeps you up at night with questions that have no answers.

It’s staring at the ceiling at three a.m., wondering if it’s better to walk away and save yourself or to stay and let the ache bleed you dry because you can’t bear the thought of leaving them behind.

I’m so fucking consumed with the thoughts of Jude, with the thought of losing a future that I knew was never mine to fully have, that I don’t hear a car door shutting.

My mind is racing with how I’m gonna explain to him that I love him in the middle of him possibly breaking up with me without letting my anger or pride get in the way. It’s so loud in my brain that I don’t hear footsteps.

I’m so focused on Jude that I don’t know I’m in trouble until I feel the cold weight of a gun at my back and the sound of Oakley’s voice in my ear.

“Don’t make a scene. You’re gonna walk that pretty ass right to my car and get in without a peep. You got that, Cherry?”

When I was a little girl, my father always told me that fire feels no fear.

He’d kneel down to my level, his gaze intense but tender, and remind me that if fear ever tried to slither inside my chest, I was to remember one thing: I was Seraphina Van Doren.

The burning one. The fire child. A Van Doren.

If I ever wavered, if the darkness ever pressed too close, if the monsters in my closet got too real, he’d always be there to chase them away.

“Where there is smoke, there is fire, sweet Phi. I’m with you, always.”

But there is no smoke. There is no fire.

In this abandoned warehouse where the air hangs heavy with damp rot and rust, all that remains is me, a massive fucking headache, and a piece of shit I should’ve killed a long fucking time ago.

The warehouse looms like a cavern of broken promises—empty, cold, and soaked in regret. I think we might be somewhere in West Trinity Falls? But I can’t remember the drive, the blood leaking down from my temple a reminder of being knocked out cold after I’d tried wrecking his car on the drive here.

My jaw clenches, neck cracking as I tilt my head, trying to ignore the water dripping from a rusted pipe in the far corner. A sinister metronome.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Oakley leans back against the metal chair in front of me, his eyes darker than the filthy concrete beneath us.

“This isn’t how I wanted things to shake down, Cherry.” His voice is slurred, the heroin I’d watched him shoot earlier seeping into his system. “It didn’t have to be like this. If you would’ve been a good little girl and ran back to Daddy, I wouldn’t have to take such crazy measures to make sure Rook Van Doren gets what he deserves.”

“We can sit here all night, shit stain. I don’t give a fuck. You wanna kill me? Fine,” I bite. “But you better do it quick, and you better run fast, Oakley. My family won’t rest until your head is on our goddamn mantle.”

I pull against the ropes, feeling the coarse fibers bite deeper into my wrists. The rough, frayed edges chafe my skin raw, sending a fresh jolt of pain up my arms. My shoulders ache, stretched beyond comfort, but pain is familiar, a friend that has carved itself into my bones over the years.

The taste of blood blooms on my tongue, warm and metallic, as I drag it over my cracked bottom lip—a final reminder that, for all Oakley’s threats, I’m still very much alive.

Alive.

If death is coming for me, then I’ll welcome it with bared teeth.

But I won’t greet it with fear. I won’t die afraid.

This dude can rip my flesh open, can break every bone, but he’ll never get the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. Not now, not ever. Never again does he get to see me weak.

Oakley stands, swaying slightly like he’s one step away from falling apart himself. The warehouse air is thick with dampness and the faint stench of mold, but beneath it, I can still smell the reek of sweat and stale cigarettes clinging to him. The gun at his waistband clicks against his belt buckle as he takes a few staggering steps toward me.

His hand snakes out and grips my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck strains, muscles stretching to their limit. I feel his filthy nails scrape against my scalp before his hand jerks tighter, the sharp burn making my eyes water.

I brace myself, body rigid, just as his palm cracks across my cheek with the force of a sledgehammer.

Pain explodes like fireworks behind my eyes, my vision blurring from the impact. My jaw shifts sideways, a dull, throbbing ache setting in, and the faint ringing in my ears grows louder, as if the air itself is vibrating with violence.

“You don’t get it, do you, bitch?” Oakley’s voice is a low, guttural rasp, raw from years of chain-smoking and rage. “I’m already dead. You’re just the fun before I get there.”

I gather the blood pooling in my mouth, thick and metallic, before spitting it directly into his face. The spit lands with a wet smack, crimson streaks staining his skin.

“You hit like a bitch, you fucking crackhead.”

Oakley’s dazed eyes crackle with anger. For a moment, he’s still, and then his grip tightens viciously, pulling so hard that I feel a searing pain as strands of hair rip free from my scalp. My vision blurs with tears, but I bite down hard on my tongue, so hard that I taste fresh blood, just to keep from making a sound.

“When I’m done with your broken little body, I’m going after your boyfriend.” His lips twist into a grin that’s all malice, a baring of yellowed teeth. “I’m gonna make Jude stare at all the pictures of your bloody and ruined corpse while I take his ungrateful life.”

My jaw tightens at the mere whisper of his name, my body trembling as I sway in the chair, the metal legs scraping harshly against the cold concrete floor.

Jude. Jude. Jude.

The image of him forced to watch me like this—beaten, bleeding, helpless—sends a wave of desperation crashing over me. My body jolts violently, the chair scraping against the concrete as I thrash against the ropes. My wrists scream with pain, the ropes digging in so deep I know they’re cutting me open, but I don’t care.

I can’t leave him.

I can’t be just another ghost in his life, another name etched into the long list of people who abandoned him.

“Good luck,” I mutter, keeping my tone as casual as I can manage, even with my jaw throbbing like a bitch. “Jude’s gonna string you up with your own guts for touching me.”

Oakley’s grip loosens, his eyes darkening with a wild, untamed fury. Without a second thought, his fist swings forward, crashing into my face with brutal force. Pain erupts behind my eyes like a violent storm, the sound of breaking bone echoing through the empty warehouse, sharp and final like a gunshot in the stillness.

For a fleeting moment, everything fades to black, and Jude’s voice softly resonates in the depths of my mind.

“Three a.m. is for lovers and broken hearts.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he grins, the veins in his throat like tiny roots from trees cording upward. “Which one are you?”

I take another bite of my ice cream, slipping the spoon between my lips.

“Neither,” I mutter honestly as the spoon leaves my lips. “I’ve never been in love.”

Smoothly, so calm I barely notice it, I feel the rough skin of his palms slide across the outside of my thighs. Purposeful fingers curl around the back of my legs just beneath the hem of my frayed shorts.

“Do you want to be?” he murmurs, his voice like silk and smoke. Soft, yet heavy, like every word is a threat.

Jude urges the first flap of a butterfly’s wing in my lower belly, right in time with my heart. I feel the tiny cocoons of silk existing between the spaces of my ribs begin to transition.

I’ve never felt like this.

“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously. The tips of his fingers dig into me, catching beneath my fishnet leggings, tethering his hands to my body.

I let him lure me closer into the apex of his spread legs.

“Avoiding the wind.” He smirks like it’s obvious.

My chest tightens when a stream of air rushes against my stomach. He tosses my baggy T-shirt upward, tucking his head beneath the thin material. A gasp skates from my lips as that golden hair tickles my skin.

“Jude—”

His nose brushes against my belly button, making me gasp. He’s tracing the fire swirling in my gut like he can see it, or maybe the flame is following his lead. Strong hands slide further up my thighs, sitting right beneath my ass as he hauls me closer, my waist hitting his.

I hate cigarettes.

I’ve always despised the stench that clings to the air. It reminds me of that one night when I accidentally took a swig from a red Solo cup at a party, convinced it was mine.

Instead, I was greeted by the fucking rank cocktail of stale water and crushed cigarette ashes. It sent me to the bathroom, retching for hours, and it wasn’t just the UV Blue sloshing around in my stomach that did it.

Yet, here I am at the Graveyard where anyone could see us, and all I can think about is wanting a hit.

No, I want my mouth on his throat.

I want to taste the nicotine-soaked skin, feel the pulse beneath it—every time we fuck, I’m left with that infamous buzz smokers rave about. It lingers, intoxicating and addictive, like I’ve inhaled the very essence of him.

I’m hooked. So hopelessly fucking addicted that I might as well be a chain-smoker, devouring a pack a day, twice a day. Any chance we get, any hidden corner we find, our hands are discovering each other’s bodies, ripping at clothes, tearing at skin.

And it still doesn’t feel like enough.

My teeth take hold of my bottom lip when his hands join his head under my shirt, the graphic tee acting as a hood, a cloak from the roaring wind around us. Right here, he’s hidden from the world.

No one knows he’s here. No one but me.

I chance a peek down the neckline of my stretched shirt, looking past my lacy purple bra to his face. With the cigarette perched on his lips, he carefully flicks the wheel on the lighter. I feel the heat of the flame on my skin, watching the smoke waft up toward me.

My eyes are watery when he pulls away, pinching the cigarette between two fingers. Lazily inhaling, he’s unfazed, as if what had just happened was a figment of my imagination. The smoke billows out of his mouth, drifting up, up, and away into the night.

“You didn’t answer me, Geeks. Do you wanna be?”

Tears blur my vision as the memory settles over me, a bittersweet ache that pierces through the physical pain. Oakley is high, unsteady, and that makes the hit bearable. But my nose is definitely broken. Hot blood spills over my lips, metallic and bitter, trickling toward my mouth as my head spins.

A shiver climbs up my spine, prickling the skin beneath my shirt, and I clench my teeth, curling my fingers around my left thumb. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, copper flooding my mouth, trapping the scream that threatens to rip from my throat.

You can’t die here.

You have to get back to Jude.

You have to get back to your family.

Don’t wreck the people you love by letting this bastard kill you. Don’t be a little bitch⁠—

I fake a cough, the sound ragged and wet, as I force my thumb from the socket. The snap is sickening, a jolt of lightning that bolts through my arm.

Tears spill down my cheeks, mixing with the blood dripping from my nose, but I barely register them. I just focus on the fiery rush of pain, each beat of it like a twisted prayer.

Last year, breaking my hand felt like the end of the world. Now, it feels like salvation.

The rope loosens, its fibers scraping over torn skin as I twist. I force myself to stay calm and collected as I work my broken hand free. The pain is excruciating, but I push through it, focusing on my breathing.

In and out. Steady.

Oakley paces erratically, muttering threats under his breath, oblivious to my newfound freedom. His movements are jerky, eyes glassy, the heroin pumping through his veins dulling his senses. I’ve never been more grateful for drugs than I am now, watching him unravel before me.

“Ruined my life…ruined everything!” he screams, voice cracking, raw with rage. His hands claw at his hair, and his face flushes with the same fury that burned the night my world shattered.

“Shut the hell up,” I bite out.

Oakley freezes, head snapping toward me. His eyes blaze with disbelief, then morph into hatred. “What did you say, you fucking cunt?”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

He lunges at me with a guttural roar, hands clawing for my throat. I swing my leg out sharply, catching him in the knee. The kick is brutal, a hard, precise hit that sends him stumbling.

Oakley howls in pain, the impact catching him off guard just enough for me to stumble from the chair. My hands are raw and shaking but steady enough to seize the cold metal frame he’d tied me to.

It’s heavy, solid, and it hums with the promise of retribution.

I don’t give him time to steady himself. I lift the metal chair, every muscle screaming in protest, but the weight feels like hope in my hands—cold, brutal, and unyielding.

It’s the kind of hope that doesn’t save you; it’s the kind that fights back.

The first swing connects with his shoulder, a brutal collision of metal against flesh. The impact reverberates through the warehouse, the sickening crunch slicing through the suffocating silence. His scream pierces the air—raw, jagged, like the sound of something breaking that was never meant to be fixed.

But I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

I swing again, harder this time, the chair colliding with his ribs. I feel the crack echo in my bones, a deep, guttural vibration that rattles my very core. His body convulses beneath the assault, the sound of his wheezing breaths clawing at the stale, cold air around us. The metal is slick in my hands, wet with sweat and blood, a cruel testament to the violence pouring out of me.

I swing for the girl who trusted him, her innocence shredded by the lies he wrapped in tenderness.

The chair comes down again, and Oakley’s face twists into a distorted mask of agony, the flesh of his forehead splitting beneath the force of my rage. Blood sprays upward in dark, wet streaks, dotting my face, warm and sticky. His mouth is open, gasping, but no words come—just guttural cries, barely human.

I swing for the innocence he stole, the fragile, delicate parts of me he shattered just to watch them crumble.

The next blow connects with his head, the impact brutal, primal. There’s a sick, crunching sound as tender flesh splits open, exposing raw, broken skin. Crimson pours from the wound, the bright red of it shocking against the dingy concrete floor.

Blood, bone, skin.

No longer a monster.

Only a broken, beaten man.

I let my pain out of its cage, unleashing it like a starving animal. It’s been trapped for too long, festering inside me, and now it’s feeding on Oakley’s choked sobs, his pitiful cries for mercy that bounce off the walls and fall back empty.

“God, please⁠—”

“God isn’t listening. God doesn’t exist. The only god here is me.”

The world narrows to the rattling in my chest, to the wet, labored gasps I force through bloodied lips. I drop the chair, the metal clattering to the ground, a hollow sound that rings in the stillness.

I’m covered in his blood. It coats my hands, sticky and warm, the proof of his last moments seeping into my skin like a mark that will never wash away.

My body trembles violently, limbs sluggish and weak, as I look down at Oakley’s broken form. He’s barely conscious, blood pooling beneath him, twitching as he clings desperately to the final, fraying thread of life.

I’m the hands of fate tonight. The scissors are mine.

I’m not leaving until that thread is severed clean in two.

Forcing my aching legs to move, each step sending a sharp jolt of pain up my body, I limp toward the canister of gasoline tucked beside Oakley’s chair.

Fuel. Oxygen. Heat.

A deadly holy trinity.

Oakley Wixx will never touch me again.