Wrath of an Exile (The River Styx Heathens #1)

by Monty Jay

Fuel. Oxygen. Heat. A deadly holy trinity. It prays not to a god of forgiveness or justice but to one of destruction and chaos. It gives no mercy, only havoc. It is an elemental force fueled by oxygen and driven by unrelenting heat. I wanted to be that. A flame, a blaze, an inferno. I wanted people to be afraid of touching me.

I didn’t earn the nickname “vixen” for being sweet. You see, I’ve got this thing. This appetite for boys’ hearts. It’s impossible to survive my brand of chaos. I like bad decisions. Fast cars. And sex. Anything that makes me numb.

No one would dare report Ponderosa Springs’s Queen of Disaster to the police. No, because they are all afraid of Rook Van Doren.

Rook Van Doren flicks his gaze in my direction, light brown hair with the short sides dusted with silver, his tattooed hands tightened to fists. You’d think all the ink would keep him from the judge’s seat, but when you own one-fourth of Ponderosa Springs, there is little he can’t have. His jaw twitches, molars grinding together, anger flaring in his eyes. It makes the corner of my mouth twitch toward a smirk. I hope my existence eats him fucking alive, and when he’s six feet deep, I’ll make sure to water his flowers while I piss on his grave.

To his grave, my father loved one thing, only one. And it was Sage Van Doren, his former fiancée.

They are the sons of Ponderosa Springs. Alistair Caldwell. Silas Hawthorne. Thatcher Pierson. And none Easton Sinclair hated more than Rook Van Doren. Birthed from the lineage of founding families, the people here worship them out of fear. In the Springs, there is no one with more power. False kings sitting on thrones built from the bones of their enemies, crowns forged from teeth and generational wealth.

“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking to my wife.” Rook’s voice cuts through the air like a serrated blade, scorched and swift. Shoulders tensed, he wears a look I can only describe as pure evil in his features.

Men’s entitlement to vaginas is an epidemic, and I personally think castrating all chauvinistic pigs might be the only cure.

“We’re on a rock that’s floating in an infinite oblivion. Endlessness has no end. It keeps growing regardless of whether I jump, this falls, or I live till a hundred and three. There’s no difference. None of it matters to the universe.”

The heat of his touch reaches my wrists as he moves beneath my flattened palm to trace my pulse. The contact makes my skin feel like it’s dancing. A thousand invisible molecules spinning in pirouettes against my flesh.

That entire conversation from earlier will be enough ammo against me for years, and he’ll use every single bullet. It makes me sick, knowing I let my fear make me naive. It forced my guard down. Now, Satan’s fucking spawn got a glimpse past my walls. He didn’t deserve to see me like that. He didn’t deserve to see me at all.

Jude Sinclair and I were born with hatred for each other in our DNA. Our existence is a continuation of a decades-old rivalry. An invisible string the color of blood coiled our souls in familiar resentment.

My heart is hammering in my chest, and it’s not fear. It’s locked-up desire that is being lured out of its cage. That appetite for hearts swells in me because his is a flavor I’ve never tasted before. One that is ripe, hot, and every bit of forbidden. 96, 97, 98, 99… I’m going too fast. Too fucking fast. The yellow lines on the road are a blur, and I can’t decide what I hate more. Jude or the fact every hatred-covered molecule in my body wants to fuck him.

From Ponderosa Springs to West Trinity Falls, Seraphina Van Doren is folklore. Hair red as crimson, tongue sharp as knives, and a heart made of ice. Ponderosa Springs’s infamous Queen of Disaster.

“Aww, jealous I have a daddy to run to, Sinclair? I’d say sorry for your loss, but everyone knows Easton’s better six feet under.”

I wanna fuck this mouth, just to send her crawling back to her perfect life with bruised knees and watery eyes, choked on my cock and the regret of letting the guy her family despises screw her.

Phi’s misery tastes like it could sustain me for an eternity.

Exiles have no kingdom, and I have no need for a crown. “Fuck it.”

It’s not gentle or sweet. There is no kindness or love. It’s a natural disaster. Violent and unforgiving. This is not a kiss. I’m fucking ruining her.

“When I’m finished, you’re gonna wish I killed you.” I grab her face in one hand easily, pursing her lips open before spitting a mixture of spit and blood onto her tongue. “Now, swallow.”

“You think you like it rough ’cause a few guys tugged your hair, Van Doren?” I whisper. “You’ll carry my bruises for a goddamn lifetime.”

“Beg me. Beg for mercy like a good fucking whore.” I smirk. “I’ll make you come so hard you see God before I send you to meet him.”

“That proves my theory.” I lift my chin. “What’s that, Geeks?” “The more toxic the guy, the bigger the dick.” A wolfish grin tugs at my lips as I bend my knees a bit. “And you’ll take every inch of it.”

“Come. Scream for me. Let the whole fucking town hear how much you love being fucked by a Sinclair.”

“You know, princess, not all rumors about you are true. That pussy isn’t nearly as cold as your heart.” “Fuck you.” So tiny yet so violent. “Already did. The sweet-ass memory of you becoming a traitor for dick is one I’ll cherish for a long time.”

My smell is on her skin. My teeth marks are on her neck. My cum is leaking between her thighs. Tonight, the Queen of Ponderosa Spring was my exile.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but she isn’t a vampire.” Uncle Thatch sets his papers down, leaning forward and peering at me from his chair with a small grin. “And if she was, I’d be one too. Whatever your Aunt Lyra is, I am.” Their love is a sickening breed. Just like my parents’. That once-in-a-lifetime, fuck-the-world, we’re-destined-to-be-together love.

I’m basically cockblocking my own happily ever after by chasing self-destruction to cover up what happened to me. There are a lot of things I regret, but screwing Jude Sinclair is by far the worst.

The Milky Way eats galaxies that get too close. Sometimes, it stretches them like taffy, pulling out the streams of stars and gas. A few of them can withstand it, merely passing by, forever changing but intact. But other times, our galaxy’s hunger is insatiable. It’s a cosmic feast for those who get too close. It will tear apart with no remorse or mercy, devouring stars from its prey until it blends with its own. The truth is I’m the Milky Way, and she’s the astronomer who will never know all my secrets. Far enough to love me, not close enough to be ruined by me. Andromeda is the beauty and wonder of our universe. I’m the destructive, cold reality.

“How long do you think it’ll take before you give in and let me fuck those pretty little lies out of your mouth, sweetheart?” I hold his gaze, schooling my features, not so much as blinking. “A lobotomy sounds more enjoyable than touching your cock again.”

I am afraid of him telling people that we fucked. It absolutely terrifies me. But fear has never and will never own me. Anger does. Fear is fleeting, temporary, but this rage in me? It’s carved into the marrow of my bones. A living entity. A snarling, feral creature rooted deep in my soul, and it’s never been more hungry than in this moment.

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.

“I’ll show you why Ponderosa Springs called me the Devil long before they ever called me Judge.”

I think Jude is a living work of art. Specifically, that one artist who sculpted Lucifer so beautifully that it was too tempting for the church, so they commissioned his brother to try again—and he made him even hotter? That kind of art. Sinful. Forbidden. Perfected.

Love is the only drug I’ve ever wanted in my bloodstream. Craved and crippled my heart for it. It’s the core of human existence. Forever wanting what we will never have.

Her pain, it isn’t loud. It’s not the kind that screams for attention. It’s the quiet kind, the kind that gnaws at you in the middle of the night when the world goes silent and there’s no one left to distract you from it. It’s a slow, suffocating ache, a weight that carves itself into bone. It’s the kind I know and know well. It leaves scars you can’t see.

Sage Van Doren is a force of nature. Not because of her wealth or success, though she has plenty of both. It’s something more. There is an intensity that crackles in the air around her. It gives her the ability to command every room she walks into without ever raising her voice, the type of woman who doesn’t give you a choice in respecting her.

I named you Seraphina because your father’s name means smoke.” Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

“I’m the only one allowed to hate you.”

“Touch me,” I repeat, tongue wetting my bottom lip as I take ahold of his belt, tugging him into my body. “Show me how much you fucking hate me.”

“I’m gonna fuck that snarky-ass mouth one day. Ruin those pretty lips until they’re nothing but a hole for me to spill in. We’ll see how much shit you talk when you’re choking on my dick.”

“Taste how sweet your cunt is for me,” he murmurs against my skin, leaving me hollow before filling another one of my holes. “Fucking the enemy tastes good, doesn’t it, my little traitor?”

Fucking him branded me a traitor, I know that, but in that moment? It didn’t feel like betrayal. It was like grabbing life with my bare hands. Jude went from the harbinger of death to a live wire in seconds.

“Give it to me, Phi.” I seethe, the words barely escaping through clenched teeth. “Give me all your pain, all your hurt, every ounce of that rage in your vicious fucking heart. I can take it.”

and she knows it. I want every last piece of the twisted puzzle she hides behind that pretty smile. The darkness she buries so deep no one else dares to touch it. I want the secrets she guards with venom-laced words and the shame she masks with smiles that never quite reach her eyes. Her violence. Her rage. The seething self-loathing that’s barely held together by threads of pride. I want to own them. Fight her for it, to rip it from her with my teeth if I have to, until it’s all mine.

“You can hate that it’s me all you want, but that vicious fucking heart of yours? It’s aching to be soft.” Jude pauses, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along my jaw, and I feel my pulse quicken. “Let it, Phi. Let it be gentle, just this once. You deserve that. Worry about it being me later.”

He knows I can’t run to anyone else. He’s the only one who knows what’s clawing at my insides, the only one standing with me in the ruins of everything I’ve tried to hold together. I can’t do this alone anymore, and we both know it. None of the names I was raised to rely on, to lean into when the weight of the world got too heavy, are here. Not one of them can see me like this, stripped bare, standing on the edge of unraveling. Not a Van Doren, not a Caldwell, Hawthorne, or Pierson. The only name I have left is the one I was warned away from. The one I was never supposed to trust. Jude Sinclair is all I have right now. The worst part? I don’t feel like a traitor for needing him.

Our pain feels a lot like distant twin flames. Our scars might be different, etched by different hands, but they burn the same. We’re forged in the same fire, tempered by the same agony that no one else could ever truly understand. I can’t hate her when she’s the only one who carries that same weight—the same unbearable burden of living in a world that never gave us a chance to be anything but broken.

“Right here, right now, we’re no one. There’s no history. No last names. You’re just Jude. I’m just Phi. We can create something that’s ours.” Phi says it so easily, like it’s the simplest thing in the world—to just forget everything, to strip away all the pain, all the scars, and just be…us. But it’s not that simple. It can’t be, not for us. “Just Geeks and the Loner, huh?” I grunt, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning at her tired eyes. “Yeah.” Phi gives a little nod. “Our universe, Loner.” “Our universe, Geeks.”

Maybe, in this tiny, fleeting moment at the top of a water tower, we get to rewrite everything. We get to create something that’s ours, something that doesn’t belong to anyone else. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Something to belong to me. To just Jude.