More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
A feeling I believed long gone pools in my gut. Desire. Desire to hear her say my name again. Gasp it. Moan it. Scream it.
Hands that have done vicious things should not be allowed to touch things so delicate.
Running from me, unaware that the chase is one of my favorite parts.
“If my soon-to-be husband held me the way you did at Vervain, I’d kill him. This place tells stories. Stories of the evil you’ve done and the wicked traits you carry, Silas Hawthorne.” Her words catch the night wind, drifting like the tendrils of smoke. “Disloyal isn’t one of them.”
“You don’t want to be attached to someone like me. This is me returning another favor. If you believe anything this town tells you, believe that I’m cursed.”
Alistair Caldwell leads the line, as always; he knows nothing but first. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark fucking heart. If he ever had a problem, he was notorious for solving it with his fists. It was odd for someone who hated this town as much as he did to own so much of it.
In step behind him, fucking with his leather jacket until Alistair shrugs him off, Rook Van Doren. He radiates rebellion with a single match resting between his teeth, paired with a boyish grin. The whites of his eyes are stained red from weed. I’m sure his munchies are the reason they’re here this late. I wonder when he’ll quit, before or after he follows the men of his family by becoming a judge.
Thatcher doesn’t walk; he glides, floating on his massive ego. His history is everyone’s favorite scary story, being not only a founding family legacy but the son of Ponderosa Springs’s one and only serial killer. He wears fear on his pale complexion almost as well he wears his freshly pressed suit. Lilac’s laugh grabs the attention of the last member of their group. As if I needed another encounter with Silas Hawthorne. The quiet mystery that clings to his person like a shadow casts across our table as he slides into the booth beside Rook.
My eyes trace his face. Artists who paint faces or sculpt bodies are always looking for the perfect balance of symmetry. Portions of excellence, without flaw. Silas, without knowing, is probably the world’s greatest reference for this exact dilemma. It’s striking how balanced it all is. Sharp, well-defined cheekbones, creating subtle shadows that play across his face, accentuating his strong jawline that is currently taut. A rugged, hardened beauty that makes it impossible not to notice him in a room.
I’m sure he’ll be able to find someone nice. Pretty, more suited for what he’s looking for. It won’t be hard—he’s handsome and has more money than God. That’s best for the both of us. Better for him, if I’m honest. Men can’t get close to me and make it out unscathed. Dead men tell no tales.
It’s not the power of the weapon that lured me in or the damage of the bullet that keeps me married to it. It’s the smell. A plume of smoke spirals up from the barrel, carrying a scent of controlled chaos. It’s a sharp tang, burnt chemicals mingling with the metallic undertone of heated gunpowder. As it fades, it leaves behind a fleeting trace of burnt carbon, an earthiness, the raw power of the weapon. The scent is proof of all the beauty found in violence.
The two sentences engraved on the sides of the metal are what I’ve kept with me. Every gun I own, even the one at my hip, read the same thing. Non timebo mala on the left. Vallis tua umbra on the right.
The hatred that has ebbed and flowed between us and the only son of Stephen Sinclair goes far beyond Rook stealing his girlfriend years ago. No, our last names have clashed since before our births. Our rivalry is built into the foundation of Ponderosa Springs. Hatred-filled blood scattered beneath the soil. The Halo was once started as revenge, the binding together of Sinclair men who kidnapped, beat, raped the daughters and sisters of Ponderosa Springs’s founding families. Caldwell. Van Doren. Pierson. Hawthorne. The women of our legacy were a stepping-stone to what became the larger
...more
“Suck my dick, Van Doren.” He seethes, pressing the tip of the bottle to his lips and guzzling down a mouthful of liquid before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Get out, or the police can make you. Your choice.” “You’re not my type, man.” Rook shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’ve got a real hard-on for redheads. Maybe try some hair dye and we can circle back to this?”
Despite all of that, one thing I know for certain? Easton Sinclair doesn’t love Sage. Maybe in his mind with his skewed view of love, it’s real to him. Or maybe it’s the power he had over her and her life that he craves. But he doesn’t love her. Not the way Rook does. There is a stark difference between the two. One would risk the girl for power. The other would give it all up for her. Rook is my best friend, but if it meant killing me or saving Sage? I’d be dead.
“If I help you,” his breath comes out shaky, “then I want something out of it.” I can feel the corner of my mouth begin to twitch, forming a rare expression: a smirk. I raise my eyebrows, sneering down at him with contempt. “How about you give me your fucking IP address and I don’t splatter your fucking brains on the wall?”
In my darkest moments, when panic claws at my chest and threatens to consume me, it has been his voice, the memory of it, that has pulled me back from the edge time and time again. And I have no idea why. There is something in it, a note or a hum, something that soothes. It sings lullabies to my racing heart until it returns to a normal beat.
Silas Hawthorne is the keeper of secrets. The unstoppable force and immovable object. Silent water, with unknown depths filled with mysteries he will take to his grave.
He is a stoic statue, meant to be admired but never truly understood. Silas embodies the idea that a person’s presence can speak volumes without a single word needed.
Silas is the quiet type of handsome. It is not shouted. It’s whispers in your ear in the dark. He’s the sound goosebumps make when they appear along my arms, an allure mirrored only by cold air skating across warm skin.
There will be a price for this arranged marriage, and my heart will be paying it. The worst part is he won’t be the one to break it. It’ll be me. I’m the only villain in this story.
“No deal,” he grunts, the sound sending a tingle down my spine. “No one will believe that I’m unfaithful to my wife. They all know what happens when someone touches what belongs to me.” “I am not yours to own.” I seethe, my jaw tightening in anger. Heat and irritation swirl inside of me, a flame burning. “Right now, you aren’t.” His sharp teeth grip his lower lip making my body twitch as his eyes rake over my body, “In private, you can call all the shots. But to the rest of the world? You’re fucking mine, and I don’t share.”
The town may call this man a villain, but inside, he’s a lover boy. It gives off a smell. Good intentions and romance. His tender heart bleeds all over the ones he cares for. It’s easy to get a read on him, written on every inch of his being—someone who would give absolutely everything for those he loves. I’m far too wicked to deserve that sort of devotion. “No, Silas. I’m not afraid of love,” I say firmly. “But you should be afraid of me. I hurt people who try to care about me, Hawthorne. Don’t let yourself becomes one more victim of my wretched heart.”
She took with her a piece of me that no one will ever have again. It’s hers to keep—I’d never take it away from her.
With pain comes remembrance. The throb and ache of loss is a constant reminder of the person who no longer exists. When you hurt, you remember everything so clearly because the pain forces you to. When you stop hurting, you forget.
Coraline makes me want to talk. Break myself open just so I can have her. Tug on the strings that she has wound so tightly around herself so I can see what’s underneath as she unravels for me.
We’re about to be bound for at least two years, and she can’t resist me that long. Especially if I apply a little pressure. I’ve barely tried. She’s going to break for me. I’m not afraid of a curse, especially when they look like Coraline Whittaker.
“Regina, I put up with you for Lilac’s sake.” I step closer to her, hands tightening into small fists. “I play nice. I listen to your never-ending bitching and whining.” I watch her shrink a little into my father’s arms, but that doesn’t stop her mouth from trying to run. “How dare you speak to me—” “But if you say another word about Silas, if you think a negative thought about him, I’ll make sure you’re out on your ass with nothing but your sparkling personality when I take my piece of Elite.” I sneer down at her as I lean forward. “Poor has a smell, and you won’t like when I leave you
...more
“Whatever you need to know, ask me.” His voice is steady. “Ask me. Let me talk to you. Make me more than a voice.” Let me talk to you.
“Your tattoo,” he says softly. “Why Medusa?” I’d nearly forgotten about the black-and-gray tattoo on my upper back—out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. But the memory comes flooding back, the flash of needles and ink as it was etched into my flesh. That’s exactly what this moment feels like with Silas. A deep burning, faint tugging as the needle penetrates skin. It’s sharp and dull all at once and leaves you with a permanent reminder of the experience.
Rook grew up in a violent home with a father who instilled in him that anguish would be his way of repenting. Every day, even when I don’t see him physically, I know he struggles to not chase the high of pain. It’s RVD’s favorite drug. The bite, the sting, the rush of suffering. It festers in him like a bad habit, and he’s fighting through recovery.
I want Coraline Whittaker. That ominous and painful thing inside of her that scratches and bites? The one that scares her? I want it to leave marks on me. It screams for me when she lets me in close, begging me to run my tongue along every square inch of her taut skin. Her futile attempts to put distance between us only feed my hunger. Coraline wants me to fear her, as if that lovely, dark thing inside of her is something to run from. She’s the only one who can’t see that it’s a siren’s call. It’s not her looks that pull men to the depths of her sea, drowning themselves for a chance to touch
...more
“I love the smell of breaking and entering.” Rook howls as he slings an arm over his girlfriend’s shoulder.
Coraline Whittaker has awoken something in me. Desire, longing, need. An ache I’ve never felt for anyone before. I don’t need her to love me. It isn’t about love. I need her to be mine.
“When I find you, not if, I’ll let you know what I want,” I whisper, dragging my mouth across the shell of her ear. “Start running.”
I hadn’t expected this to be so fucking intense, but once we all took off from the parking lot, it turned into more than a game. I’m being hunted. Stalked and tracked by an apex predator rumored to stop at nothing to get what he wants.
No one commends what I turned into. I am not a tulip you can pluck from the earth, sit in a vase, and admire until it wilts. I became barren land. A desolate valley where no life could thrive. You could not scoop me into your hands without me eating away at whatever cage you tried to put me in.
The way he says my name is like sinners who plead hallelujah. It rolls off his tongue, a prayer that he savors, letting it linger on his lips. His voice reverberates around the room, clinging to the air as if he didn’t want to let it out of his mouth, wanting to keep me there.
“You’re not cold, Hex,” he rasps through the speaker. “I felt you burning beneath my hands just the other day.”
He was only a voice. A voice that heals, soothes, and makes my thighs tighten. I find it ridiculous that a person who is known to be silent talks to me. That an outcast riddled with mystery lets his voice be heard by someone like me. The man who they said was a soundless void possesses a voice that turns me inside out. Apparently, my pussy is voice-activated.
He’s carved from granite, built for wars in the name of the Roman Empire, but carries the heart of a Greek poet, dripping tragic love with every split vein.
“Did you just laugh?” I whisper, unable to help myself from asking. “Scream for me, and you can find out.” His breath hisses out, mocking me.
“Wanna know what you’re going to give me when I win, Hex?” It’s spoken like a threat, just before another slam thunders in my ear. “A taste of that witchy mouth.”
“Do you taste sweet, Coraline? If I was a betting man, I’d say yes,” he whispers, a wicked promise in the back of his throat. “You’re going to drip like honey on my tongue, aren’t you?”
“When I find you with your hand still in your panties, are you going to let me replace your fingers with my tongue?”
“Tsk. Tsk.” Silas clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie to yourself, baby. Don’t pretend you don’t want me between those thighs, eating your pussy until you drench my face. ‘Cause that’s what I’ll do if you just let me find you.”
“I’ll spread you open, fill your dripping cunt with my fingers. Stretching you open so it’s nice and fucking ready for my cock. You’ll be nothing but a tight hole for me to use, yeah?”
“Am I getting closer?” “Hot,” I gasp, my body fucking my fingers with vigor. “So fucking hot.” “I bet you are close, aren’t you, baby? I can hear that tight pussy making a mess.” He groans as if it physically hurts him. “Tell me where you are, pretty thing.”
“What if I finish before you get here?” My throat constricts around the words, ending it with a desperate whine, practically begging him to find me so he can fuck me until my body breaks open for him. “Then you’ll have been such a good girl for me, Hex.”
“Get the fuck up off your knees with your mouth open like that, Coraline, before I break this glass and make you choke on my come.”
