Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             At first, I refused to draw anything, but since I had nothing to do, it’s been better to put my time to use.

                             I take a look at the figures I put on the paper: phantoms, mutilated Greek mythology Gods, and an outline of a man. Ugh. What’s wrong with me? I can’t even draw that beautiful tree visible from my room’s window. In a split second I find myself wanting to put features on the man’s outline.

                             When on earth do I draw people?

                             With a groan, I slam the sketchbook shut and wander to the window. This derangement of my art is making me antsy and pushing me to an unknown edge. Why can’t I even control my muse?

                             Might as well have a bath or something to drive this uneasiness away.

                             The clothes Kane provided me end in a heap on the carpet as I dive into them. I never managed to find anything in a neat pile before and I won’t start now.

                             After choosing a dress, I try to shove the chaotic pile back in. I kick them in the cupboard and something snaps.

                             Oh, no. Did I break something?

                             After pulling the clothes aside, I study the wooden drawer at the bottom of the cupboard. It’s not that it broke, but another drawer emerged. A secret passageway?

                             My insides light up as I bury my fingers inside the small entrance. I snooped in this room as much as I could, but nothing stood out. Perhaps I’m having better luck this time.

                             Something solid meets my hand, and I pull it out.

                             A dusty, brown-leathered book.

                             I blow on the cover. A cloud of dust constricts my breathing, and I cough.

                             A journal? Curiosity compels me to open the first page. The blank paper is yellowish, but it isn’t dusty like on the outside. At the bottom, there’s a neat written name: Eva.

                             Could this be one of Aaron’s relatives? Although guilt overwhelms me at reading someone’s journal, curiosity is stronger.

                             I put my hands together. “I’m sorry, Ms Eva. I need to read this to know what type of a monster I’m stuck with.”

                             Determination flowing inside me, I turn the second page. The date on the top is about when I was two years old.



                             The suffocation I endure in this place is draining me. I need to ease this load off my chest even if it’s to paper.

                             I think I’m losing my son, my only breather in the estate ever since I gave birth to him eight years ago. Ariel was never able to take him from me. No matter how much she tried, none of her schemes worked to turn Aaron into the abhorrent desolate soul she and Arthur shared. My baby always came back to me. Until today. He didn’t even look at me. Ariel killed herself in front of him to prove that I can’t win against them.

                             I lost. They’ve taken my Aaron. My light. My life.



                             I stare blankly for a moment. Eva must be Aaron’s mother. But who are Arthur and Ariel? Why would the latter kill herself in front of a child? It seems like Aaron’s family is crazier than he is.