Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             The nightmares’ stranger.

                             My stalker.





                             Chapter Three

                             Aaron



                             An unyielding madness itches at the inside of my skull. Prominent. Persistent. Pounding.

                             ‘We want blood, Aaron. Give it to us.’ Aunt hums, over and over.

                             I said not now. Go away!

                             ‘You don’t get to call the shots when it comes to blood.’ Father’s voice digs deeper into my head as if aiming to eject my neurons. ‘Do you want a reminder of what happens when you disobey us?’

                             Screw it.

                             Throwing the covers away, I swing my legs off the bed and storm to the bathroom. Stone grey tiles chill my feet as cold water drenches my skin.

                             The sound of the stream doesn’t drown the demons’ heinous voices.

                             A week since the last kill ought to drive them— and therefore me— mad.

                             With the name I extracted out of Hampton, I’ve been restless for the next kill. Until I received a text from Tristan.

                             ‘Don’t do anything until I return. That’s an order, Aaron. I mean it.’

                             My fist crashes against the solid tiles. The shock reverberates in my bones, and my knuckles burn. It does nothing to tone down the rage flooding my bloodstream.

                             This is it. I’ll kill Tristan.

                             ‘Calm down. That option is out of the question,’ Mother whispers, trying to find a way between the dominating demons. ‘He’s family.’

                             With a deep breath, I close my eyes and allow the cold water to disperse some tension. Images of electric blue eyes come to my mind.

                             Mae.

                             The girl harasses my thoughts. Our collision a week back keeps playing in the back of my consciousness, like one of Uncle Alexander’s old broken films.

                             At the beginning, I succumbed to watching her only to unravel her. Normalise her. Deem her unimportant for my intrigue. Surely her physical appearance didn’t enamour me. I don’t work that way. Thus, I hid in the shadows and made use of my analytical observation.

                             The empaths label it as stalking.

                             I learnt snippets of her life and engraved the tiniest of her habits to memory. I recorded every step, laugh, and smile to contemplate later.

                             Mae is a princess.

                             She comes from new money, with a crowd of friends, and an effortless feminine aura.

                             However, those aren’t what kept me going back for more. What drew my attention, and worsened my dark intents, was her art. I sneaked into her college’s workshop and saw the paintings she kept there.