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

Jude

August 27

Being told no one is hiring in West Trinity Falls is far more pleasant than applying for jobs in the Springs.

At least in the Falls, I’m treated like a human.

“Yeah, not gonna happen. Get lost, punk.”

The owner of Viva Coffee, a failed indie rock wannabe with breath that could strip paint, shoves a stack of papers into my chest. His greasy hair falls in front of his face as he jerks his head toward the exit. I watch as he turns to one of the nervous high school employees behind the counter.

“Trey, go get me a quinoa salad at Garden Front down the street. No onion. Are you competent enough for that today?”

I watch him pull out a crumpled wad of cash and toss it toward the kid. Trey’s eyes dart around, his face flushed as he scrambles to comply.

Eight.

That’s how many doors I’ve knocked on today in Ponderosa Springs. Eight rejections.

It’s no surprise, but the sting is ever-present. Public humiliation and degradation are the toll I pay to avoid living under a bridge.

I’d even stooped so low as to apply here. A coffee shop desperately trying to be a place for the artistic and the outcast but instead feels like a local joint for locals who fit the mold.

All day, I’ve kept my head down, trying to somehow shrink myself into something invisible, ignoring how people huddle together when I pass, their snarky rumors and theories swimming around my brain.

“Did you know his grandfather ran a sex ring?”

Step-grandfather.

“Oh my gosh, my mom told me his father killed, like, thirty people.”

Nope. Only himself.

“I heard from my friend Stephanie that he’s a drug dealer.”

Retired drug dealer.

All day, different versions of these words have followed me. They’re a shadow I’ve had attached to my toe my entire life. The moment I cross town lines, their whispers are roars in my ears. They’re an echo in the hollow pit that was once my heart.

It’ll never end, even if I claw myself out of here. The rumors will only grow over time, and I’ll be more myth than I ever was human. A spooky story parents will tell their children beneath a blanket of a dark sky and the glow of a campfire.

Clones of clones. All the same. Sheep with no minds of their own.

“You want my advice?” Jack, the owner, returns his eyes to me.

I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to keep my mouth shut because I know all the patrons on the old leather couches and wooden tables are watching, their ears straining to hear every word spoken. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was recording.

So now, I have to stand here and listen to this dude give me life advice, with no reaction.

“I’d leave town if I were you.” He grabs my shoulder, giving it a squeeze that feels anything but reassuring. “No reason to stay in a place that doesn’t want you now that your dad’s dead. Eighteen, no family ties. The world is your oyster, big guy.”

Big guy. Kid. Son. Sin.

None of them ever use my name.

The sharp hiss of the espresso machine rings in my ears as rage crackles in me. A fire that refuses to be put out. Believe me, I’ve fucking tried, but it’s always there.

This town, these people, they just keep stoking the dying embers. Turning me into an open flame and expecting me not to torch them with it.

“Hello? Anyone home in there, mute?” Failed Jim Morrison snaps his fingers in my face.

I think I black out because one second, I’m biting my tongue, and the next, I’ve slammed Jack’s face onto the counter. His cheek slams into the surface with a thump, paired nicely with the gasps that ricochet around the coffee shop.

Now, I think he’s bitching when I flip the section of the counter used for staff to pass through, moaning and whining about how I’ll pay for this while I drag him by the collar of his shirt toward the shiny espresso machine.

That I’ll never see the light of day again after the police show up when I tell the barista in the middle of brewing a fresh shot of espresso to move. But I can’t really hear him over the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

I can’t bring myself to care as the blood in my veins warms and I feed that broken child in me a plate of long-overdue compensation. Whoever said revenge tastes better cold never swallowed it hot.

My hand shoves Jack’s running fucking mouth beneath the stream of steaming espresso. The dark brown liquid drowns out the sound of his screams as it blisters the soft tissue of his throat.

A grin folds across my face, even as I hear police officers bust through the front door of Viva Coffee.

“You want my advice?” I tighten my grip on the oily strands of Jack’s hair, hissing through clenched teeth, “Shut the fuck up.”

I release my hold on him the moment someone’s hands grab my shoulders. Even when the cold metal of the cuffs bites into my wrists, I don’t regret it. Not when I watch Jack curl into a ball on the floor, a stream of espresso swirled with crimson spilling across my shoes as he clutches his burning throat.

Monsters aren’t born. They’re built.

Not in sterile, bright laboratories with syringes of vile thoughts or bitter goals. No. They’re made in dark, crumbling homes where hope rots beneath the weight of silence. Where the walls echo with the cruel words of gossip and the scorn of those too cowardly to confront their own sins.

Monsters start as children. Wide-eyed and defenseless, too small to understand why the world is always sharper to them. They are sculpted by hands that never knew how to hold them gently, by the shame pressed into their skin like fingerprints. The kind of shame that leaves eternal bruises.

These children, they grow. First in silence, then in anger. They learn not to cry but to sharpen their smiles into something cruel, something that cuts. They don’t cry for help anymore—they grow teeth.

Teeth made for tearing through the world that fed them nothing but lies.

And when they bite back, the world gasps, clutches its pearls, quickly blaming faulty genetics or some cursed bloodline. No one wants to see their reflection in those broken children, to admit that they are responsible for stitching that monster together, piece by jagged piece.

They made me this way.

Easton Sinclair made me this way.

I was not born to be this person.

I was never meant to become this. This person with teeth bared and hands trembling with rage. But here I am, the creation of their careless cruelty, and I am everything they feared.

And nothing they could ever control.

Jail might not be too bad.

As long as I’m kept in solitary confinement, I might actually enjoy it.

I drop my head against the wall behind me, the bare concrete caging me in as I watch the lightbulb overhead flicker, casting long, wavering shadows. There’s a dull ache in my shoulder from being tossed around, the road rash there irritated and swollen if I had to guess.

I wanted to be pissed at Phi for wrecking me the other night, but the competitor in me, the one who enjoys the chaos the Graveyard brings, respected her for it. If the roles had been reversed, I would’ve done the same thing.

Just fucking blows that it was her.

Hey, if I’m in prison, I never have to deal with Phi Van Doren again.

It’s the little things that make shitty situations better.

The holding cell is sparse, just two benches, a toilet in the corner, and a small window high up on the wall that lets in a sliver of daylight.

The adrenaline from earlier? Gone, replaced by a heavy, gnawing emptiness. But I can’t deny the ease in my shoulders, can’t bring myself to feel an ounce of regret.

It’s quiet, save for the occasional clatter of footsteps and muffled voices from outside. It’s just me and my thoughts, the only witness to the fury and pain that has simmered inside me for so long.

I enjoy being alone.

In silence, I can be whoever I want.

I’m both the creator and observer, the architect of my own thoughts. It’s a refuge where I can breathe freely and exist without the weight of the world pressing down on me.

It’s the only time I find peace.

The screech of metal grinding against metal rips me out of it. My eyes snap to the cell door, and I think, You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I’m starting to wonder if life’s ever going to stop screwing me over. It’s getting to be a bit much at this point.

“Espresso machine? Clever. I’ll give you that.”

Sage Van Doren stands there, a bright splash of color in this gray, forgotten space. Her light blue pantsuit is too neat, too clean for a place like this. Her red hair cascades in perfect waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place, like she’s completely unbothered by the chaos she’s walked into.

“Come to schedule my court date with your husband?” I arch a brow, rubbing my raw wrists, soothing the ache from the cuffs I’d worn earlier.

“No need. Jack Jensen chose to turn the other cheek, thought pressing charges was unnecessary.” Sage reaches into the bag over her shoulder, pulling out a few papers. “Your bail paperwork.”

I flex my fingers, clenching my jaw as I think about Sage doling out money from her Prada bag to sweep my tantrum under the rug.

Did I want to go to prison for aggravated assault? No.

Would I rather go to prison than accept help from the Van Dorens? Fuck yes.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“Don’t tell me you’re still holding your breath,” I mutter, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“Turning blue.”

It’s said with a smirk, but pity lives in her coldly observant eyes. It lingers in the downturn of her lips, betraying her amusement with a hint of sadness, as if I’m some tragic figure in a play she never wanted tickets to.

Sage feels sorry for me.

Poor, pathetic, lonely Jude. All alone, trapped in a cell. Her chance to play savior to the broken boy, unaware that I’d grown up my entire life knowing she was the villain.

She doesn’t get to be the hero in my story.

“I’m not some goddamn stray animal that you can adopt and turn into a loving house pet.” My voice shakes with irritation, frustration creeping under my skin like fire ants. “Donate to another fucking charity for your tax write-offs. I’m not interested.”

My hands ball into fists at my sides as I lean back against the cold cement wall. Why she keeps reaching out, I’ll never understand. I snapped my teeth at their outstretched fingers enough at the will reading. By now, it’s just stupid for her to continue.

I’d much prefer her to treat me like her husband does, like I don’t exist. One confrontation was enough for him to know there would be no bridging the gap between his history with my father and our fucked-up present.

Her heels click against the concrete floor—expensive, designer, I’m sure—as she releases a deep sigh, finally breaking the silence.

“There are worse things than accepting my help.”

I watch her take a seat on the bench to my left, folding her hands together in front of her. Those perfect red nails gleam under the harsh overhead lights. The look in her eyes makes me squirm, like she’s trying to see past the walls I’ve built, like if she stares long enough, I’ll crack.

“You give yourself too much credit.”

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, her gaze softens just a little, and it makes me sick to my fucking stomach.

“My family, especially my husband, are far from perfect, I’m not claiming we are. We know mistakes were made, Jude. But we are offering you something no one has. We can give you⁠—”

“Trauma?” I cut her off with a bitter laugh. “Already got that, lady.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. “A chance. A fighting chance. To be better. To prove them wrong. To be whatever you want in this life, Jude. That’s it.”

My skin prickles at her words, and I feel the familiar anger building in my chest. My voice is quick, harsh, like a whip cracking against bare skin. “Because you never gave my father one?”

I expect her to recoil, to stand up and leave, tail tucked between her legs. This isn’t a conversation she wants to have with me. It’ll leave her bruised and remembering a past she ran so far from she probably forgot it existed.

But she doesn’t budge.

Instead, she stays rooted to the spot, blue eyes narrowing into slits as one perfectly manicured eyebrow arches in defiance. “You think being an asshole is gonna scare me off? Sweetheart, I invented petty.”

I’d heard rumors, whispers about how brutal Sage Van Doren could be back in the day. I guess Phi had to get her silver tongue from somewhere.

“You’re not this stupid. Your mother graduated valedictorian, one of the smartest people I knew, and Easton was an asshole, but he wasn’t dumb. So I know for a fact you’re not stupid.” She pauses, letting the words settle in the air. “Which means you’re deliberately pissing away your potential for what? Your ego?”

“What is your deal, lady? Why won’t you drop this shit?”

“Your father and I were friends. Before everything, Easton was my friend.” Her voice softens, just a fraction. “I’d like to do this for the friend I once knew, for you. You deserve more than what Ponderosa Springs is offering you.”

Her friend. Her fucking friend?

Sage’s name is a chant that accompanied many of my beatings. A brutal song for a vicious dance I begged to stop swaying to.

Sage. Sage. Sage. Sage.

That’s what I heard over and over as the booze and drugs took my father to a place far from this earth and submerged him in a past consumed with the woman in front of me. The woman he’d loved and lost.

“You took her from me!”

He’d once screamed, face the color of freshly bloomed roses, before he shoved me down our stairs. It broke my collarbone in two different places, and the screws holding it together still fucking ache when I hear her name.

Even when he was sober, mind clear and rooted in the present, he’d spout endless monologue about his former fiancée, written pages and pages of her disguised as fictional characters in spiral-bound notebooks.

“Guilt?” I scoff, leaning forward as my balled fists shake. “Whatever guilt you’ve got, you’re free of it. I release you, Sage. Let it go and leave me the fuck alone.”

They were able to escape their past.

I am still shackled to it.

And the shittiest thing? I wasn’t even alive to witness it.

“What if I told you I could guarantee your acceptance into Stanford next fall?”

I freeze.

The words hang in the air, and for a second, I forget to breathe.

“How—”

“There is little I don’t know and can’t find out, Jude.” She tilts her head, watching me closely. “You want Stanford? Rook is an alumni. You’re at Hollow Heights for one year. Let us help you for one year.”

It’s rare for dreams to exist in my world.

This is the only one I’ve ever clung to, fragile and elusive, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.

The chance to rip myself free, leave this godforsaken town behind, and finally live on my terms. No shadows of the past. No ghosts whispering in my ear.

Just me and the life I know I was meant to have.

Stanford University is my ticket out. A means to an end. The Stegner Fellowship for writers they offer? That’s what I really want.

Ten spots. Only ten. And if I get one, I’d have two years. Two uninterrupted years to pour myself into the only thing that’s never left my side.

Writing.

When my father’s fists left me split open, my pen was there to catch the blood, and I used it as ink. When that retaliation fire gutted my house and left me sleeping in a filthy room at Whispering Pines Motel for weeks, words kept me company.

Through every bruise, every scare, every goddamn inch of pain I swallowed, writing stayed. It never wavered. Words filled the cracks in my soul, and the pages gave me my voice back after the world had stolen it.

The only dream I’ve ever had, and I want it so much it feels like it’s eating me alive from the inside.

It’s the only thing that’s loved me back.

“I’m staying on campus. I don’t need your help,” I lie, my jaw tightening.

My eyes clash with hers, and I know she can see it. I know I can’t hide it.

That hope in me—hope of capturing a dream—and she’s dangling it in front of me like a fucking carrot.

“My best friend is the dean. I already know you missed the deadline for dorm applications,” she challenges.

I hadn’t bothered applying to Stanford while Dad was alive. Didn’t even entertain the thought. I was resigned to Hollow Heights, chained to this place because he needed me. Because leaving meant letting him rot alone in that house.

Then he died.

He died, and when the ambulance came to haul his body away, I felt something like relief crawl under my skin, sharp and bitter. I was glad that he was dead. For a fleeting moment, I breathed clean air. No more suffocating in the fog of his anger. I could no longer feel his hands around my throat.

His death cracked open the cage I’d been trapped in for years, broke the chains I thought I’d die wearing.

I was free.

But it came too late. The deadlines had passed, and I was stuck here for another year, suffocating in this hellhole. One more year before I could claw my way out. One more year before I could even think about leaving it all behind.

And I had no idea how I was going to survive that long.

I grind my teeth, still fighting, still not wanting them to win. They’d taken so much, and now they wouldn’t even let me keep my pride?

“You wanna help? Do what you’re good at.” I jerk my chin, feel the words rub against my raw throat. “Throw me some cash and call it a day.”

“You don’t need money,” Sage mutters, standing slowly, pulling her purse higher on her shoulder. “What you need is family.”

I look up at her, brows furrowed as she walks toward me, shoulders back, spine straight, and looking like she’s won. Knowing she has me trapped in a corner with no place to go.

Family?

She wants me to come play house with them? Sit down for family dinners, pass the mashed potatoes, pretend like I didn’t screw her middle child out of pure spite? Like the very mention of Phi doesn’t make my blood boil, doesn’t make me want to put my fist through the nearest wall?

She actually expects me to join their perfect little setup, act like I belong there, when every damn second of being around them is like sitting on a lit fuse? Pretend that I’m not carrying the weight of every bad decision they’ve made, all of which seem to orbit around me?

She’s delusional if she thinks I’m just going to slot into their family like none of it happened.

A manic laugh spills from my lips, head shaking as I clutch my stomach. “You’ve lost your mind. I’ve got no desire to be a part of that fucked-up Brady Bunch.”

“Tough. It’s the only family you’ve got.”

Her sentence is punctuated by the sound of my bail paperwork hitting the metal of my bench.

I don’t want to move into that house. I don’t wanna play house with them.

I want to fight this, to be bitter and tell her to fuck off.

But she’s holding my dream in her palm. Right in front of me.

It’s right there waiting for me to take it, and I don’t have the guts to say no to it. I can’t. Not when it’s the only thing I’ve ever allowed myself to want in this life.

This secret, passionate thing that’s no one else’s, just mine, and I could have it. All I have to do is swallow my pride and move in with people who ruined my life.

Piece of cake.

My teeth bite into the flesh of my cheek, nostrils flaring as I meet her eyes.

“This is going to end terribly. You know that, right?”

Sage’s lips tilt up at the edges, giving a little shrug of her shoulder, “Please, Jude. I’ve survived much worse. An unruly teenager’s just a Tuesday.”