Wrath of an Exile: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (The River Styx Heathens Book 1)

Jude

September 14

Logic says the dead guy on the ground should be my number one priority right now.

But logic isn’t my friend tonight. I wouldn’t even call us acquaintances.

The only thing I’m thinking is: What’s her natural hair color?

I glance at her through the haze of cigarette smoke. Red dye streaks down her face from the roots of her hair, a jagged line of color that drips like blood. She’s soaked head to toe, looking like a drowned cat, her boots squelching against the muddy forest floor with every frantic step she takes.

The forest is thick, an ancient wall of pines that tower overhead, their branches curling in like claws, creating a canopy that swallows the sky. Every inhale is heavy, damp, and it reeks of wet moss. The storm has settled into a steady rhythm now, raindrops falling like a slow, relentless drumbeat.

The kind that doesn’t wash things away but embeds them deeper into the earth.

I hadn’t planned any of this.

Finding her was coincidence, killing him was necessity, and touching her—instinctual.

Phi paces in front of me, breathless, as if her body is still trying to process the adrenaline crashing through her veins. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“You’re gonna walk a hole in the fucking ground,” I grunt, pinching my cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling lazily through the rain. “Take a breath, princess. Daddy’s coming to rescue you.”

Her panic kicked in the second the adrenaline wore off. I’d told her to leave him, told her that corpse would blend in just fine with the other casualties tonight. The Gauntlet claims lives every year—he wouldn’t be the first. We’d be fine.

But Phi, for all her sharp edges and venom-tipped words, still holds tight to that good girl somewhere inside her. So she called the one person she knew would get her out of this.

The conversation with her father had been brief. A few anxiously rambled opening lines that ended with, “Dad, what are you doing?”

“Calling your uncles.”

I’d heard his clipped response crackle through the speaker three cigarettes ago. Not only would tonight be the first time I’ve committed murder, but it might also be the same night I die.

“This is so not the time for your bitching,” Phi hisses, halting her pacing to throw a glare at me. “There’s a dead guy two feet away, my dad’s gonna go nuclear, and the rain is ruining my fucking hair. So do us both a favor and don’t piss me off right now.”

The storm crackles in response, lightning streaking across the sky, illuminating the jagged outlines of trees like ghostly fingers reaching toward us.

She stands there, looking at me through slitted eyes, arms crossed tight over her chest, soaked to the bone as the rain flattens her hair against her head, the strands clinging to her face in jagged lines.

I have so many fucking things I want to say. So many that are clawing at the back of my throat, desperate to spill out. But I can’t say them. Not right now, maybe not ever.

If I open that door, if she finds out that I never knew, the guilt will shred her to pieces.

I should be angry about the fire. I should want to throw it in her face. Make her admit she was wrong about me. That she got me arrested and exiled for no fucking reason, but I can’t.

Because I can only imagine how much fucking pain she’s in. Phi’s been carrying this alone, and I know that for a fact because Oakley would be dead right now if her family knew.

I’m an asshole, but I won’t do that to her. No one deserves that. Not after what she’s been through.

So, I swallow the questions. Bury them down deep with the rest of the shit I’ll never say. Because some truths aren’t worth the damage they’ll cause.

I flick the cigarette to the ground, the ember hissing as it hits the wet soil. Grabbing the back of my shirt, I tug it over my head, feeling the cold air hit my bare chest.

“Might save the hair,” I mutter, holding it out to her. “Can’t do shit about your dad’s hissy fit though.”

Phi looks at the damp fabric in my hand like it’s some kind of foreign object, hesitation flicking in her gaze before she snatches it from my hand. She steps back, putting a little more distance between us, her movements sharp, defensive.

With an exasperated sigh, she flips her head forward and wraps the shirt around her hair, twisting it into a makeshift towel. The rain drums steadily on her shoulders, but at least it’s a barrier between her hair and the irritable weather.

When she stands up straight again, her mouth is already open. “Why did you⁠—”

“I don’t recall the Gauntlet being quite so dramatic when we played.”

The coldness of the voice rattles my bones, ice shoved beneath my skin and forced to sit on my spine. I turn my head to the right, catching sight of four figures stepping out from the shadows.

I can feel the forest still, the rain halting, as if nature itself has begun holding its breath.

“Thatch,” Silas releases on a heavy sigh. “You’ve always been fucking dramatic.”

Silas Hawthorne doesn’t even glance at me as he strides over to Phi. Not like I can blame him—my father shot him once.

There is a deadly calm about him as his dark eyes sweep over her, taking in every inch of her face, her body, searching for any injuries.

He’s massive, both in size and intimidation factor. The kind of guy who makes people take a step back without realizing it.

But something softens in him when he wraps his arms around Phi, pulling her into his chest before dropping a kiss on top of her makeshift-towel-covered head.

I can’t think of one person, alive or dead, who would care enough about me to even wonder if I was missing, let alone come running to help the moment I called.

“Who’s responsible for this man’s lovely facial reconstruction?”

My gaze snaps to Thatcher, who’s squatting next to the body, leather-gloved hand gripping the guy’s hair, holding his head up to inspect the mess I made of his face.

Moonlight cuts across his pale skin, illuminating the edges of his tailored coat as it brushes the forest floor. The eerie Nosferatu vibes he’s got going for him don’t do shit to diminish the myth that is Thatcher Pierson.

He’s an echo of brutality, with a last name that’s synonymous with murder and bloodshed. It only adds to the glacial detachment in his eyes.

And even though he’s not the one headed straight at me with clenched fists, I’m man enough to admit Thatcher creeps me the fuck out.

“What did you do, and make it fucking quick, Jude.” Rook spits my name out of his mouth, tone dripping venom.

There is enough hellfire burning in his eyes right now to know I’m not dealing with the Judge tonight.

This is the retired anarchist. The Pyro.

I tilt my head, letting my eyes lock onto his, taunting him. “Who said it was me?”

It might not be smart for me to poke the hornet’s nest, but honestly? I don’t give a shit about a few beestings, and that’s all they are to me. Four annoying-ass thorns in my side.

Rook, Alistair, Silas, and Thatcher.

They’re the kind of men that Ponderosa Springs learned to respect out of fear of repercussions.

They own it. Every damning inch of that vile town is theirs.

For decades, their presence has been a black cloud. Rumors, truths, and lies have built their ominous reputations brick by bloody brick. It’s turned them into unholy folklore no local will dare whisper.

I know what each of them is capable of doing to me.

I just don’t care enough to be afraid.All content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

I’ve got nothing to lose because they’ve got nothing left to take from me.

“Now isn’t the time to be smart with me, kid. Trust me.”

“Should I reschedule?” I arch a brow, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Thatcher chuckles, the sound devoid of humor. “Karma is truly the sweetest gift. How’s your medicine taste, Van Doren?”

Rook takes a step closer, thoroughly riled up and in my face. Well, as close as he can get to it—I’ve got at least three inches on the guy.

Barely contained rage brews beneath his surface, the muscles in his neck tense, cords standing out against the ink covering his throat, like I’m one wrong word away from getting my skull caved in.

Rook’s men ready to shred the world apart for his daughter, and I’m standing in that path.

“Dad.”

Phi’s voice cuts through the rising tension. It’s the first word she’s spoken since they arrived.

I flick my gaze to her, finding her staring right at me, her teeth attempting to chew through the soft tissue of her cheek.

It’d be easy for her to lie right now.

Cry wolf and throw me under the bus. Tell them I’d been the one who got her into this mess, that it was my fault. I’m sure she could spin a beautiful web, and these men would fall right into it.

“What he did was for me. That guy. He…” She pauses, steadying herself before continuing. “Jude was just looking out.”

My tongue runs across the inside of my cheek. I thought killing that guy would’ve taken the edge off. Wiped away the bitter aftertaste of the truth Oakley left on my tongue.

But it hasn’t.

The guilt is still there. A ghost, never fully seen, but I feel it. I’m unable to escape it, and it whispers in my ear every time I look at her.

“Did he touch you?”

Rook’s question is directed to Phi, but when I look back at him, I see he hasn’t moved his gaze from my face.

It takes every ounce of willpower in me to keep my mouth shut. I bite back the urge to tell him just how much I’d touched her. How I can still taste her on my tongue and how much she loved being a traitor.

“Didn’t get a chance before Jude showed up,” Phi mutters.

“Good.”

I assume that’s the closest thing to a thank-you I’ll ever get from Rook Van Doren.

I watch him pull her into a hug, his large frame blocking her from my view as they have what I assume is a conversation meant to be private. Not that I care. I’ve done my part for the night.

Dismissed like some kid caught in a schoolyard fight, I roll my eyes, striding away from the noise. My back hits a nearby tree, cigarette naturally finding the space between my fingers before I light it.

There isn’t enough menthol-flavored nicotine in the world to get me through this night.

Taking a long pull, I let the smoke settle deep in my chest, burning its way through me.

I killed someone. I killed someone, and I don’t regret it.

I didn’t even know his name, yet the blood that once pumped in his veins, touched the muscles of his heart, is still on my hands, staining my knuckles, refusing to wash away despite the rain.

There is no guilt. No horror. No panic.

I feel calm.

It’s like that part of me—the one my father gave me, the one I’ve fought so hard against—finally found its place.

It’s settled deep into that thick, obsidian sludge that’s always been inside me, waiting. Waiting for me to stop pretending I’m anything more than this. Just beneath the surface, it pulses, alive and at home in the darkness I was given as a child.

I didn’t do this to get a thank-you from Phi. From Rook. From any of them.

I did it because I had a hand in turning her into everything I hate.

And that snapped something inside me.

This primal, ugly thing, the thing I’m most afraid of, broke through the metal bars meant to contain it. It crawled out with a ravenous appetite for cruelty, and the scariest part isn’t the abnormal calm I feel right now.

It’s that I don’t know if I can ever get it back inside its cage.

“Got an extra?”

Alistair’s voice pulls me back to the present. He steps through the fog of smoke like a ghost until he’s standing right in front of me. He jerks his head toward the cigarette pack in my hand, shadows playing along the harsh lines of his face.

If this guy tries to scold me ’cause we have a blood relation, I’m gonna deck him in the face.

I toss him the pack, watching him catch it effortlessly. He lights one up with practiced ease, taking a drag before glancing at me through the haze.

“These things will kill you, ya know?” he mutters, talking through a cloud of smoke.

“Yeah,” I breathe on an exhale. “That’s why I gave you one.”

Alistair Caldwell is known for his anger, so I’m expecting some sort of vicious overreaction from him, but instead, I get the opposite.

The corners of his mouth twitch, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. I would’ve taken wrath over this, that glint in his eye that looks an awful lot like approval.

There was a time where I would’ve died for his approval. Walked across fiery coals for even a smidge of recognition.

He lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a tired hand across his beard. “Are you alright?”

A snort leaves me as our gazes clash. “Take your concern and shove it up your ass, Caldwell.”

They say blood is thicker than water. If that’s true, then why do I feel more connected to the raindrops hitting my skin than to the man standing right in front of me?

“Not lost enough yet?” Alistair grunts, jerking his chin toward my bare chest, his eyes flicking to the medallion hanging around my neck.

Cotton fills my throat, mouth dry as I try to swallow.

It’s been years since we stood this close, since we shared anything resembling a conversation.

The last time, I was seven, and I ran straight into his legs in the hallway of my house. He’d just left my dad’s office, back when the abuse hadn’t started, and I probably looked like any other kid, wide-eyed and innocent.

He’d squatted down, meeting my gaze without a word. We just kinda stared at each other, two strangers who weren’t supposed to cross paths.

And then, in that moment, he’d taken off his necklace—a golden medallion with the words Admit One, Styx Ferryman etched into the surface—and pressed it into my small hands.

I remember staring at it, confused, before asking, “Is it money?”

And he’d replied, “Sorta. It buys your way back home. If you ever get lost.”

Now, standing here with him again, that same medallion cold against my skin, a wave of bitterness crawls up my throat. The word home twists like a knife in my gut. My jaw tightens, the muscles in my neck straining as I force out the words, my voice low, razor-sharp.

“Never had a home to get lost from.”