Ruin (The Rhodes Book 1)

by Rina Kent

  “I’ve been isolated.” My mind wanders back to those days in the dungeon. “I’ve been kept in the dark and that triggered my trauma, resulting to continuous panic attacks. Then... then someone attempted to rape me.” Sydney’s hold on my hand tightens and Mum gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. I offer her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Mum. I was strong. I survived.”

  “How did those experiences make you feel, Miss Wilson?” Dr Howard asks.

  “They were painful. Very much so.” I take a deep inhale, expanding my lungs. “But survival instinct kicked every time. All I wanted was to stay alive.”

  The doctor scribbles something before making eye contact. “How about cutting your wrist? What was the reason?”

  A tear escapes my lids, trickling down the side of my neck. “All doors closed in my face. That was the only way out.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mae

  Life went on. Or maybe it didn’t. I have no idea. I only try to live day to day, hanging out with my friends, spending time with my parents, going back to college. Normal life.

  I had to laugh and pretend I was doing well for everyone to stop acting like I’m a ceramic doll that would break any second. I don’t want to explain. Can’t. They would think me insane for falling in love with my captor. I went to therapy – still do, but none of my feelings for him vanished. It doesn’t matter how much the shrink repeated the mantra that my feelings for Aaron was wrong. All I can think about ever since I returned was him.

  It’s not that I’m broken to be fixed. I was just changing, evolving, accepting that I’m not normal. That I love a serial killer. No matter how tortured he is.

  The police and the media didn’t leave me alone for a very long time. I had to repeat the same version over and over. I didn’t know where my captor is, because, in all honesty, I don’t.

  My room is the only place where I can remove the mask of fake happiness and embrace the new me. The me who could be going crazy with over-thinking.

  I throw my handbag somewhere on the ground and slump on the bed. The pink curtains cast a glowing shadow in my room, highlighting the scattered clothes across the floor and the documents on the chair. A small laugh leaves my lips. So unlike Aaron’s OCD room. The laugh soon turns into trembling lips. My fists clench and I push my hair back.

  I won’t cry. Not today.

  No matter how much I reprimand myself, I can’t control it. Time heals everything my butt. It’s been six months and my state is getting worse by the day.

  A knock on the door brings me to reality.

  “Come in.”

  “Honey.” Mum walks inside, a tray of chocolate cake in hand.

  I smile, swallowing the memories of Aaron and his chocolate cakes. “Thanks, Mum.”

  She sits beside me as I nibble at a piece. “Are you going to accept the exhibition’s request? They were fascinated with your work.”

  I stop chewing then resume. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready to reveal this collection.”

  Mum’s eyes glint. “I’m sure you will do well no matter what you choose.” She smiles, seeming drowned in another world. “You’re like your father that way. He always worked hard to get what he wants.”

  I put the half-eaten piece of chocolate cake back on to the plate. “Mum, how did you know Dad was the one? You’re dissimilar. You’re an artist, he’s analytical. There are hardly any hobbies you share.”

  She releases a small breath, her gaze reminiscent. “I looked into his eyes and decided I wanted to wake up to them for the rest of my life. It’s our differences that taught us how to sacrifice.” She pauses, expression morphing to suspicion. “Why are you asking? Did you meet someone?”

  “Maybe.” I chew on my bottom lip. “Actually, I know he’s the one, but I don’t know if we will ever work.” I sniff back tears. “It’s another case of loving someone enough to let them go.”

  Mum’s hands wrap around my shoulders. “Oh, honey.” She rubs my skin, her voice soft. “Don’t force it. Everything is better in its own time.”

  Wiping my eyes, I nod and offer her a reassuring smile.

  When Mum leaves, I open my laptop. Google stares at me and I stare back. I always wanted to do this and never had the courage.

  Ugh. Okay here we go.

  Since I don’t know his last name, I first search Aaron. There are many Aarons. When I add Tristan and aristocracy, articles flow. Aaron Rhodes. He’s a Rhodes? I know that name. They’re one of the biggest business companies in the country. I learnt that from attending Dad’s conferences.

  Aaron holds the title of an earl. Tristan is a duke.

  Their long-term partner is Dylan Hart who holds the title of a Marquis.

  They really are part of the British aristocracy.

  There aren’t many pictures of Aaron, though. The ones that exist are a documentation of aristocratic families. Others are professional takes of him in dashing suits. I linger on one of them, my pulse thumping loud.

  Ever since I left the estate, my heart was dormant, this the first time it leaps back to life. As if looking at Aaron through a motionless photo will make him real.

  Although with effort, I stop reminiscing about Aaron and dig out information about Arthur and Eva’s death and the massacre Tristan talked about.

  An article states that Arthur and Eva Rhodes died in a car accident. They even mention that their son will be adopted by his uncle Alexander.

  The family’s massacre isn’t mentioned in any paper. Instead, there’s an article about a fire that killed most of The Rhodes’ estate nobles as well as their attendants. The Harts were there too. Only Tristan, Aaron, and Dylan survived. They were sent to a boarding school financed by the noble community their families belong to.

  I huff. Boarding school for killing.

  I read all information available on Aaron, which isn’t much. He and Tristan don’t seem to like the media. The journalists keep harassing them nonetheless. It must be tiring to live such a life.

  The available images about the Rhodes’ estate are impressive, but not as beautiful as in real life. And I’ve only lived in one wing out of four.

  With a heartfelt sigh, I close the laptop. There’s no information about how Aaron is doing these days. Only stupid speculations by gossipping reporters who didn’t get an interview with him.

  What am I doing? It’s like the constant ache in my heart is spreading and infecting my brain. I can’t function straight anymore. Pretending to be all right is only delaying my imminent breakdown.

  I need to do something about this.

  . . . . .

  Looking up at the imposing architecture, my heart almost drops to my feet.

  I did it. I came back.

  I whirl to my car. No, I won’t do this. What sane person comes back to their prison willingly?

  Perhaps I’m not sane anymore.

  My feet turn towards the huge gate, my heels clink against the asphalt, heightening my erratic pulse. How long am I going to delay the inevitable? I wanted to see Aaron ever since I woke up in the hospital. His letter was all I read every night before I cried myself to sleep.

  I can do this.

  The clinks of my heels falter, and I spin to my car again. I have nothing to say. I won’t beg him to keep me. He already rejected me when I did that. He clearly didn’t want me in his life anymore. God, I’m such an idiot.

  “Miss Wilson?”

  I freeze, slowly turning to Kane. He stands in front of the gate, a spotless black suit in check.

  “Hi, Kane.” I offer him a smile, hoping it doesn’t come out awk
ward.

  Silence falls between us. He must think I’m nuts for returning. I gauge his expression but it’s only the usual neutral features.

  I open my mouth to ask him how he’s been, but he cuts me off. “Please, come in.”

  The large gate opens with haunting metal clanks.

  The wisest thing to say is, “No, thanks.” But I seem to have lost that part of me, too, since I follow Kane inside without a word.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. Why am I both scared and excited to see Aaron again?

  Kane guides me to a golf cart and drives us through long streets decorated with trees and tall lamps. Soon after, I lose track of how many twists and turns we take. This place is like a freaking maze.

  When we stop, it isn’t in front of Aaron’s quarters. The outside is similar, with a large double golden door and beige abstract patterns. The stony pavement is a rare shade of blue, similar to Aegean, a lot wider than what I remember. And the knight and jaguar statue is in front of the door. This isn’t where I used to stay.

  Kane leads me inside a hall akin to the lavish one in Aaron’s quarters, but this one is showier. There are a lot more statues of jaguars, knights, and horses. Large paintings of men in medieval time.

  Before I get the chance to ask him about what’s going on, Kane nods and retreats. My neck cranes to the stairs. They’re bigger, less carpeted, more marbled. I frown. Did Aaron move quarters?

  The door clicks open and I straighten, running a sweaty hand over my hair. I wipe the invisible dust off my short summer dress. I wore the teal blue one, my favourite and the best I have. Was I thinking too much about this? Oh, dear. This is a lot harder than I predicted.

  “Mae, how do you do?”

  My stomach sinks at the different voice even before my gaze connects with Tristan’s. He walks with confident strides. His umber suit accentuates his well-built body.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I mutter, looking behind him.

  “Aaron isn’t here,” Tristan says as if reading my mind. He unbuttons his jacket and sits across from me. “Would you like to drink something?”

  My nerves reach the edge of a breakdown. When I speak, my voice is weak. “What do you mean he’s not here? Where is he?”

  Tristan stares at me for several long seconds, unblinking, building an uneasy weight in my chest. “He didn’t say. Asked not to search for him until he comes back on his own.”

  The uncomfortable weight tears through my heart. It takes everything to keep my tears at bay. I shout. “How can you not search for him? What if those killers come after him? What if his mental state gets worse? What if—”

  “Easy, Mae.” Tristan cuts me off in a firm tone, his eyes soft. As soft as Tristan can get.

  I pant, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I won’t break down. I won’t break down—

  “He let you go.” Tristan eyebrows furrow. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  No.

  “I don’t know what I want,” I say instead, gauging Tristan’s expression. “Please tell me he’s not alone. You care about him, right? You wouldn’t leave him to battle those demons on his own, right?”

  Tristan smiles. “He’s an adult. He can take care of himself.”

  “Where is he, Tristan?” My voice is brittle, nearing the edge. “Please tell me.”

  He shakes his head and releases a long breath. “I can’t do that, but I can assure you that he’s taking a promising path. We discussed his options and I trust what he will do with his life.”

  A wave of relief passes through me, but it doesn’t last long. Aaron is still not here. “When is he coming back?”

  “I’m not even sure if he will come back.” Tristan leans on his knees. “You’re free, Mae. Make use of it. Don’t waste your youth and potential on someone like Aaron.”

  I stop listening to him, pick up my handbag, and leave. Kane drives me back to the front. I ask him for the answers Tristan didn’t provide me but he says nothing, shutting me out completely.

  Tears overflow my eyes when I drive back.

  Idiots. All of them.

  No one understands me. Why can’t anyone see that I’m not really free? My heart, body, and soul don’t belong to me anymore. Aaron took them with him and left me in this vacant body. One that functions out of necessity and the overwhelming need to think about him.

  I push the door to my art studio. My gaze flickers between the dozen of paintings I drew after returning. When thinking of Aaron became too much and I couldn’t sleep at night, I came here and poured my feelings to canvas. Sometimes it’s his smile, others it’s the intense look in his eyes, his tattoo, or even the small arch of his eyebrow. It’s always him. Everything I paint revolves around him. I can’t possibly exhibit this even when my professors try to talk me into it. They only saw a sample of undefined features and keep insisting on showing it to the world.

  My fingers trace Aaron’s painted strong jawline. I close my eyes. Tears soak my cheeks, and I have no energy to wipe them anymore.

  “I miss you, bastard.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Aaron

  Deep breath.

  The smell of astringent hand sanitiser calms my nerves.

  Another deep breath.

  A stronger dose of over-cleaned floor soothes my chest.

  I can do this.

  A cart with an unconscious patient rolls towards me with the rest of the emergency team. Blood drips from his chest wound. My gaze fixates on the red. My mind goes black. The white hospital walls blur to nothingness. My senses reach the point of shutting down. There’s no bleaching smell anymore. The nurses and the paramedics are talking, but I hear nothing.

  Faint digging starts at the back of my head, tame, scarcely recognisable, but if I focus on it, I’ll be dragged back to what I’ve fought so hard to annihilate. I take a deeper breath. Inhale. That’s not blood. That’s a patient. Exhale. You don’t get to kill him, Aaron. Inhale. You’re to act as a responsible resident and apply procedure. Nothing more. Exhale.

  With a fresh breath in my lungs, detergent saturates my nostrils. Then comes the squeaking of the metallic cart, the shuffling of running feet, mine with them. The paramedics’ rushed report reaches my ears loud and clear. “Male. Early forties. Trauma to the chest. Sucking wound. First aids were applied. Pulse 80. Lost a lot of blood on site.”

  I smile. Yes, I did it. I fought the enchantment of blood.

  “Dr Rhodes?” Nurse Brea asks, her steady fingers squeezing the oxygen mask.

  “Operation room three!” I shout. “Keep pumping the oxygen.”

  The surgery goes well. I do well. I had to fight the compulsion to squeeze his heart out instead of reviving it only once. A considerable improvement compared to the times I fought the urge a hundred times during a surgery. I’m getting better. I no longer give in to the voices. Although I still hear them now and then, they’re distant, almost inaudible.

  I remove the gloves and wash my hands. The image that greets me in the mirror is... me. Is this really me? Do I want to be a trauma surgeon? Probably yes. It’s definitely better than sitting in the office all day, taking care of business I don’t give a damn about. The excitement of the emergency room is much better. But I’m not doing this for people. It’s only myself that I’m concerned about. I refuse to let a trace of a voice dictate my life. I refuse to be repulsive, impulsive, and mindless. More than anything, I needed to regain the control I barely owned. To do that, the voices and the blood lust had to go. That’s why I picked up my residency where I left it off. Trauma cases are the only way I’ve found around my blood lust. The best solution to fight off blood is to exi
st around it every day.

  Not that I haven’t tried other things. From psychotherapy to electroshocks. Although they helped with the voices, they didn’t with the urge to kill every human my eyes fell on. I also couldn’t stand psychotherapists. At one point or the other, they took Dr Linton’s image and I always ended up worse. On a rampage, I almost killed one of them with his own pen. Tristan had to interfere and clean my tracks.

  Traditional methods lasted less than a month before I found myself here, in a faraway town in Australia, playing a saviour’s role. How ironic.

  “Dr Rhodes.” The emergency room’s chief stands at the door, two mugs of coffee in hand. “Thought you would need this. You’ve been here for fourty-three hours.”

  I accept it with a smile. “Thank you, Chief.”

  He leans against the wall and crosses his ankles, looking at me with sharp wrinkled eyes.

  When I take a sip, the clogged taste of coffee constricts my throat. The hospital cafeteria is abhorrent. I take another swig. I need caffeine no matter what’s the taste.

  “You have to rest, Rhodes.” The chief’s white hair is hardly distinguishable from the walls. “It’s been only a year since you joined us and you’re already making everyone look bad with your dedication.”

  It’s just that need this place, old man. I’m better not left to my thoughts. “I don’t need rest,” I say instead. “Being of help is more important.”

  “My offer still stands. Once your residency is over in a month, I’d like to recruit you here.” He nods and turns to leave. “And your shift is over. That’s an order,” he says over his shoulders.

  Screw you, old man. I don’t take orders.

  If only there was a way where I can tend to trauma cases with no one forcing me to go home.

  I sneak back into the emergency hall in search of one last case before I go back to my house.