Ruin (The Rhodes Book 1)

by Rina Kent

  Until now.

  Do I really want the blueness of her eyes to fade away?

  “What do you want from me?”

  Although trepidation creeps in her features, she neither trembles, stutters nor swallows. Her voice is smoother than the room’s silence.

  I glare at her and she stares back, unwavering. Straightening, her breathing evens out and her gaze shines with determination as if telling me she won’t back down. That she’s different. Challenging me. Taunting my demons.

  Did she figure that I thrive on fear? Is that why she hides it?

  My left eye twitches. So many complications over a nobody. Who the fuck is this girl to alter my clear courses of action?

  With firm composed steps, I stride towards her. She doesn’t cower away. Instead, her chest bumps forward, pressing her breasts against the thin material of her more-sinful-than-sin dress.

  I stand a few inches from the bed and lower my head until I breathe tequila and a hint of citrus.

  Her eyes meet mine. Then it clicks.

  I don’t know if it’s because of something she sees in my face, but her short-lived courage abandons her as fast as it came. Her shoulders hunch, and she wraps her arms around her waist.

  I smirk when the familiar shivering takes hold of her body.

  That’s it. Fear. The more I collect, the better I experience the thrill.

  Who says blood is the joy of it all?

  Mae may be the next level of entertainment. After all, there is no limit to the amount of sadistic deeds my demons can offer.

  First thought: paint those blue eyes black.

  Chapter Six

  Mae

  He’s anything but what I imagined him to be.

  I fell prey to stereotype and expected a monster in the form of a man. Mean looks, and perhaps some scars marring his face.

  Yet, the stranger is... aristocratic.

  He holds himself with an effortless gentleman’s posture. His jet black hair is pulled back with style, in striking contrast against his fair skin. His facial features are well-defined as if a veteran painter spent aeons putting every detail in the perfect place. If I met him in one of Dad’s parties, I would stop and stare at the outstanding creation. Then, after one look into his lifeless eyes, I would run. The soulless pools of ink overshadow his beauty. There’s nothing in there. Nothing.

  Despite his noble demeanour, everything about him screams danger. As if he would shred me apart. To my horror, his gaze looms over me probably considering how to rip me to pieces.

  My head throbs with the effort to wrap logic around my current situation.

  I’ve been kidnapped. My stalker, turned into my captor, hovers a few inches away from where I sit.

  A scream forms at the back of my throat. My mouth opens but no sound escapes.

  Articles about butchered dead girls cross my mind. I have to master all my effort to shoo them away. I won’t stumble into hysteria.

  Think, Mae! Think!

  “My father has money!” I blurt. The stranger’s nearness causes my hands to tremble like a train losing track. “He’ll give you anything you want.”

  His lips curve into something similar to a smile, only nothing reaches his eyes. “Do you actually think I am doing this for money?” His voice sounds deep and composed, as intimidating as his appearance.

  No, I don’t. But a tiny part hoped for it.

  The seriousness of my situation slams at the walls of my psyche like multiple car crashes. I wrap my arms around my waist.

  Oh, God. He’s going to kill me. Or maybe rape me. He’ll rape me then kill me. Then throw me in the forest in some plastic bag like useless rubbish. I’ll be another victim. A statistic.

  Tears well in my eyes at the thought of my parents and friends receiving the news. It’ll kill them.

  Stop. Just stop. Don’t go there.

  I take a deep breath, preventing the tears from flowing. Crying won’t help. I won’t fall down that easily. Even if they find me dead, my family will know I fought and didn’t die like a coward.

  My eyes roam around the windowless room, looking for a possible escape. The space is like minimalistic art. The old-fashioned dusty lamp, hanging from the ceiling, provides dim light. Its poor efforts only heighten the darkness of the grey walls. The stone keeping them together is old. It’s as if this room time-travelled from the medieval period and someone renovated it. Beside the bed I sit on, the only other objects are two metallic doors, one straight ahead and the other on my right.

  My mind rushes, calculating the distance and which door can serve as my exit. I may be underground for all I know, but I’ll take the risk instead of submitting to the alternative.

  When I jump up, the cold ground sucks heat from my bare feet. Dizziness assaults my head, almost knocking me back into unconsciousness.

  I throw a glance over my shoulders as I struggle with each step. The stranger is still standing by the bed, seeming unfazed. Ripping my gaze from him, I inch to the door. To my surprise, there is no handle. I plant two shaky palms on the door and push with the little strength I have. The material is steel against my fingers. I step back then rush forward and slam my shoulder into it. The impact stings. Badly. The bones to tick in response, but I try again, and again.

  “Are you done yet?” Hot breaths brush against the back of my neck. I jump, cowering away.

  When in the hell did he come up behind me? Was I that preoccupied with my task to not have heard his footsteps?

  I plaster myself against the wall, trying to blend with it and disappear once and for all.

  The stranger stands a few metres away, one hand in his trousers’ pocket and the other resting by his side, as if posing for a formal wear photo shoot.

  Damn him.

  How dare he take my freedom and act nonchalant about it? What right does he have to make me go through this?

  My fists clench, and I push away from the wall. Fury destroys my panic, sweeping my body like a raging volcano.

  “I’m not done!” I yell, my voice translating the lava coursing through me. “I’ll fight until the last breath, you bastard! If you think I’ll let you hurt me while I beg and cry like a little girl then you’d better think twice. I won’t stop fighting until you kill me!”

  Heat creeps to my neck and cheeks. My heart pounds in a thunderous rhythm, almost popping out of my chest. My hands resume shaking as adrenaline rushes out.

  What have I done?

  I provoked a serial killer. He’s going to butcher me before he kills me.

  My gaze trails his way, but he says nothing. He remains in the same position as when I started my outburst. No reaction. Just a long irritating silence.

  Exasperation takes over. It almost beats fear. Almost.

  I hate it when people ignore me.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” To my surprise, my voice comes out squeaky and high pitched. The kind of annoyance I rarely let others hear.

  He reacts then. I wish he didn’t.

  For the first time since I met him, his eyes shine. Not in amusement or mischief. It’s more like in an intent as dark as their colour. He stalks towards me. Every step he takes adds an unwelcome heaviness to my chest. My heart pounds at a frightening speed, and the weight intensifies. Suffocating. Draining. Terrorising.

  What was I thinking going against him?

  He’s twice my size. Without my heels, I hardly reach his wide shoulders. His dress shirt does a poor job of concealing his honed muscles. If this becomes physical, I’m doomed.

  My back hits something
cold and solid. I’ve been walking backwards the entire time.

  He corners me between his broad frame and the wall. I glance around for an object to hit him with. Nothing. Dammit.

  Focus, Mae. Don’t move. He hasn’t hurt you yet.

  If he does, I will fight. To hell with consequences.

  His deep monotonic voice drags me from my thoughts. “What makes you think I will kill you?”

  I study his features in search of an expression. There are only undecipherable lines.

  “You won’t?” I ask, my words tentative.

  “No, I won’t.” He pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. “At least, not yet.”

  The stranger’s voice is composed. Polite. Posh even. As if we’re discussing horses and weather over a tea party instead of kidnapping and murder in a hideous basement.

  “W-what will you do to me, then?” My heartbeat drums in my ears.

  He leans close. Too close. Until his mint breath brushes against the side of my neck. A head-turning masculine scent of cedar and leather envelops me as his hand reaches for my head. I swallow when he lifts a thick blond strand to his face and takes a long inhale, seeming to record its smell to memory.

  My eyes widen. My muscles freeze. All coherent thoughts evaporate.

  What the hell is he doing?

  When I’m about to freak out for real, he releases my hair and locks his dispassionate gaze with my baffled one. “That’s yet to be determined.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to figure that out before you kidnap me or something?”

  Oh. My. God.

  Who the hell said that? That may be my voice, but that isn’t me. I don’t sass. Ever. Why would I experiment on someone who may kill me? Seriously. What’s wrong with me?

  That’s it. I’m royally going nuts.

  The stranger moves his hand and I close my eyes, expecting a blow. Instead, warmth erupts in my wrist as he wraps his palm around it, his fingers caressing the pulse point in a soft touch.

  Wait... he’s not hurting me.

  I peek from under my eyelashes, my heartbeat calming a little.

  Big mistake.

  “This is the only piece of advice I will provide, so listen well.” His gentleman’s tone takes a darker turn. “Do not test my patience.”

  “Or what?” I’m ashamed at my small defeated voice.

  Sharp pain bursts in my wrist when his fingers press against the skin, in an obvious attempt to break it. “Do you really wish to know that?”

  Tears spring to my eyes. I shake my head in a frenzy.

  He releases me with a gentle gesture and backs away. My hand flies to the assaulted wrist, massaging the burning ache.

  His warning is clear. He’s not the type of man I should play games with. If I give him a reason, I’ll meet my end sooner rather than later.

  The stranger’s gaze drops to my now-red wrist. “You do bruise from a snap of a finger.”

  He says it with such wonder. As if he considered the option before.

  His lips widen in a smile. It reaches the inky pools of his eyes, causing them to glint. Fascinated, I stop rubbing my wrists and stare at him.

  The stranger’s smile is the most terrifyingly beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  How is that even possible?

  The momentary change slips away as fast as it came, and his eyes go back to their punishing darkness. He gives me a knowing look before he turns and heads to the door.

  “What’s your name?” I whisper, almost afraid he will hear.

  He stops in front of the exit but doesn’t turn. “Aaron.”

  The door clicks shut behind him. After that, silence. There’s no sound of his steps down the corridor, if there is one. Only the rhythm of my frantic breathing.

  “Aaron...” His name rolls out of my mouth in a haunted murmur.

  Asking for his name is equal to signing a death certificate. Now that I know my captor’s name and face, there’s no way he will let me go. Not that he would any way.

  My muscles unbuckle. My legs give out unable to hold my weight any longer. I slide into a sitting position, my eyes filling with tears.

  He’ll kill me. It’s as obvious as a horror film’s ending.

  Why me? What about my family? My friends? My art?

  A tear threatens to escape my lids, and I sniff, forbidding its escape.

  Whatever happens to you, remember that perseverance can get you anywhere.

  Despite my chaotic state, I smile at Dad’s words, driving all negative self-loathing thoughts away. I’m daddy’s girl. My story won’t end here.

  Endurance. It’s in my blood. Nothing can ever stop me when I set my mind to accomplish something.

  Not even a psycho in a noble’s clothing.

  Sticking around for his sick entertainment is not an option. I’ll find a way to leave.

  My eyes dart around the basement. Two metallic doors and a bed are all the tools I get. There’s the dusty lamp too, with no switch in sight.

  I glance down and grimace at the freckled dress. Not the best choice of fashion to be kidnapped in. It provides no warmth. No advantage whatsoever. As a matter of fact, it’s slutty and provocative. Not something anyone would want to wear for their potential rapist.

  The thought sends a shudder down my spine, and I wrap my arms around my waist.

  Snap out of it, Mae. Don’t go there. Your escape is more important.

  My inner logic pulls me from the heinous images. I stand, stance wide.

  Successful people draw their own fates.

  I’ll be damned if I leave mine at the mercy of a heartless monster.

  Chapter Seven

  Aaron

  “I know you killed my father!” Hampton’s son hisses and glances left then right. Probably afraid one of the community’s guests would hear him making a fool out of himself.

  His dull eyes are sunken, seeming to be sucked by the banquet hall’s energy. The bright chandeliers highlight the murderous shadow on his stubbed face. His frame is slim, unnoticeable, forbidding him to stand out amongst other guests. A constant tremble travels his fingers like a drug addict on withdrawal.

  What an entertaining disintegration. Should I spike it a bit?

  I smile. “Why would I do such a terrible thing?”

  He narrows his eyes to slits. What was his name anyway? Sam, or something unimportant. His face reddens as he spits each word in a hiss. “I’ll get you, Rhodes! Don’t ever think that your power will stop me from digging up the truth! I’ll make you pay!”

  I stifle a yawn at his cheesiness. The pig’s not even worth killing. And that says something. Not only I’m forced to come to this closed Noble Community banquet for the family’s name, but I also have to talk to the likes of him.

  Slipping one hand in my pocket, I lean close, and whisper, “When you were begging me to renew the contract, someone was being cleaned out.” My smile grows when his lips part. “Do you wish to know how your father spat his last breaths? It was—”

  “Aaron.” A low reprimanding voice calls from my side. I sway back to take the flute of champagne thrust in my face.

  Fucking Dylan.

  He’s about my height and built – though he likes to think he weighs more than me ever since we were in The Pit. His eyes appear kind, the rare case of central heterochromia makes them swim in both green and dark grey. Probably the only distinctive feature about his dull existence.

  “I am sorry for interrupting you, gentlemen.” Dylan offers Sam-or-something his signature diplomatic
smile. “I need to discuss a few things with my partner. I’m sure you understand that business matters can’t wait.”

  “I’m well aware that you’re involved in the murder with them, Hart!” Hampton’s pig son points a finger at Dylan. “You can’t fool me.”

  The radiant smile never leaves Dylan’s face. “Those are dangerous accusations, Lord Hampton. I will pretend I didn’t hear them considering your turbulent state and our families’ history.” He nods. “If you shall excuse us.”

  The pig blocks our way. “I’m not done—”

  My champagne flute spills on Sam-or-something’s waistcoat and dress shirt. The expensive material soaks in yellowish stains. I needed the prick to shut up. No matter how much I want to, I can’t punch him in the face in a place like this.

  Face reddening, his jaw tightens and his fists clench by his side.

  “Do it.” I mouth. “Hit. Me.”

  Although he proved to be a failure of a noble, let’s see if he can at least control his reactions in public.

  Dylan elbows me. Hard. His Olecranon a sharp stick to my side muscles.

  Fucker.

  “Miss,” Dylan calls the nearest waitress. “Please help Lord Hampton.”

  I inch closer to Hampton’s son, pretending to offer him a napkin. “Your father betrayed us. See that you learn from his mistakes.”

  His eyes almost bulge out, like he’s seeing his father’s ghost. He opens his mouth, but closes it again when the waitress scurries over with a tray of cleaning supplies. Dylan and I seize the chance to leave him.

  We make our way through the reception hall. High-quality carpets spill under our feet like clotted blood. Chatter reduces as the veteran mini-orchestra plays Tchaikovsky’s third symphony in D major. I smile. Uncle Alexander’s favourite.

  “Your recklessness is crossing the lines, Aaron.” Dylan maintains his show-time smile, his voice detached. “Why would you risk telling Hampton everything? We’re powerful but not invincible.”