Prologue
Scarlet
Six months earlier
Salt bites my tongue, sharp and briny in the humid air. The churning waves don’t come from the nearby ocean; they’re inside me, a storm brewing deep in my chest. Frustration swells, feeding the unrelenting rage clawing its way to the surface. It seeps from my pores with every aimless step I take through Queenscove’s quiet streets under the moonlight’s faint glow.
I thought the hour-and-a-half drive to seek comfort from my parents might calm me, but I reached the city far too quickly, and along the way, embarrassment joined my fury. I couldn’t face them. I drove past their house, parked on a random street, and stomped my way between the old period buildings. Past the dark alleys. Through shaded parks.
I walked. I even ran. None of it cleared my head.
It hurts.
Itfuckinghurts knowing how goddamn naïve I was.
She is—was—my best friend. Ariana’s betrayal cut as deeply as his. We were teenagers when we first bonded, two vastly different girls. Unlikely friends. And then Bernard came along. I thought she stayed for me, for our friendship.
The memories are tainted now. I think she actually stayed for him—my husband.Her fucking lover.
My soles smack against the asphalt. Punishing, determined strides carry me on an unknown path. Searching. Craving. Adrenaline isn’t kicking in. Need burns in the slithering fibers of my muscles. The darkness of the backstreets, the eerie quiet, the lurking unknown—none of it shadows my anger. The calm I crave never comes. Neither does the destruction.
It has to. Otherwise, things get . . . complicated. Destructive. Murderous.
After the first few times, Dad and I found ways to focus my reckless energy. But I can’t do that now. Killing my husband and my best friend to rid myself of this madness bubbling beneath my flesh isn’t an option.
I take yet another random turn between the tall stone buildings, hands clenching, sharp nails digging into my palms. I’m one step away from ripping the skin off my chest so I can get some relieving air into my lungs.
A pain-stricken grunt disturbs the silence, and I stop dead in my tracks.
Sweet adrenaline threads beneath my skin, satisfying cool infiltrating the heat, and I finally take a decent breath in.
I’m about to take another step when my heart jitters in time with the three thuds resonating in the distance. Another pained grunt follows.
My legs rationalize with my rage, not my brain, and they move down the street, toward the disturbance.
This is such a fucking bad idea.
The thought tugs at the corner of my lips. Mistakes were going to be made tonight, regardless. I already committed one when I showed far too much weakness by leaving my own goddamn house instead of kickingthemout.
“You thought you could escape us? Escapeme?”
The next beat of my heart falters as the smooth, smoky voice slips through the darkness. It’s enticing. Enthralling. Its low, calm, and calculated rumble catches my attention by the throat, vibrations snaking deep in my belly as the sound waves call to me. I can’t help but answer. I follow its echo through the shadows.
A grunt follows what I can only describe as a deep yelp, but that enticing voice cuts off the sounds. “It was a rhetorical question. Your boss’s stupidity is evident. Did you think you could simply swoop into Queenscove and establish your business here?” His eerily calm, cold tone echoes through the empty street. “In our city?”
My feet lock in place, soul shaking at the rage in those last three words. They sounded like a crack in a mask. Too loud, too passionate. I begin walking again, passing another dark alley.
A faint, gurgling chuckle echoes.I’m close.
“Because we can, asshole. You’ll never bring us down!” The second man sounds croaky, almost tired.
Silence stretches.
“Vassalo has fallen and risen once before,” he continues, a sleazy quality to his tone, “and he came back stronger. Nothing can take him, or his organization, down. We are a hydra—cut one head and two more will come. And they will come for you. YourSanctumwill fall.”
Holy shit.The man with the enticing voice is part of The Sanctum.
The name of their organization is spoken in hushed tones well beyond Queenscove. Whispers of illicit affairs flow through the salty, humid breeze. Talks of unfathomable wealth and untouchable violence. An organization that exists in the shadows. Always watching. Common folks are happy believing they’re just rumors in the wind, but people who belong to the same world, or on its outskirts, know they’re powerful enough to take full political control of Queenscove if they want to. So powerful that Dad told me to make sure I stay off their radar.
