Prologue
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The sun beats down on my back, scorching its way through the rich, dark fabric of my clothes, the unyielding heat turning this day even more relentless. No one bothered telling the North Carolina sun that it’s still May, and this heatwave that is so intent on lashing out on us is uncalled for. Even though it’s technically still spring, there isn’t a hint of a breeze in the air to give us any comfort. Just the blazing sun overhead, making this despicable affair that much more insufferable.
The somber crowd curses the rising temperature, shifting from left to right in their restlessness and sweat. Some go as far as using umbrellas to provide some shade in the hopes it will cool them down, while others just suffer the sun’s punishment and stew in their discomfort in silence.
My nose twitches in disgust, but it has little to do with the stench of body odor in the air and more to do with the scene in front of me. My revulsion to this charade is potent, yet my sorrowful frown is stitched in place, mimicking everyone else’s expression to a fault.
Fucking fakes, the lot of them. With their false tears and wet, stained handkerchiefs.
However, it’s not the mourning crowd that has my blood boiling. It’s the men standing side-by-side in front of the polished caskets who deserve my utter contempt. I look at all four of them, appearing forlorn in their grief as if they weren’t the the reason why we had to bury two of Asheville’s most esteemed inhabitants today. Their fabricated act is impeccable, making everyone here join in their misery. It sickens me how well they play their part in this abhorring sham, pretending to be heartbroken rather than admitting it’s because of them that these two bodies are meeting their final resting place.
The preacher continues with his rant, while the mourners’ soft, lamenting wails give his words that extra pitch of melancholy. I feel my nose flair in loathing, and I have to bite my inner cheek to prevent me from scoffing at the ridiculous words being uttered by the clergyman.
“For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God, it is of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother and sweet sister here departed. We, therefore, commit their bodies to the ground as our Lord intended. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Right.
Some of us aren’t made of the same substance. Some of us were born and molded in lies, betrayals, and hate. My eyes lock, yet again, on the subjects of my disdain, knowing they are proof that we are not all born equal, nor should we leave this earth in the same way we entered it. And if the Almighty is too busy to deal with their pesky souls, then a vengeful, earthbound hand should guarantee their fate.
I clench my fist beside me as I watch them.
They think they’ve gotten away with it.
That no one is aware of their scheming ways.
But I know.
I know it all.
Not just what occurred on that fatal night, but also how their lives are nothing but well-fabricated tales that portray an immaculate exterior and conceal the corruption within. They think they rule the world, but their time is over. One by one, I’ll tear them apart and make them pay for their arrogance.
I repress the sinister smile that begs to tug at my lips, knowing exactly who I’ll play with first. My choice might be obvious, but it still gives me a sick satisfaction by starting off with the weakest link in their twisted quartet. The one who thinks himself invincible, with no vulnerabilities for anyone to exploit—Finn Walker.
I discreetly observe him running his fingers through his wavy blond hair, looking like the quarterback god he is, even though at this moment he is miles away from any football field. Not one tear falls down his passive face, yet his deep-blue eyes are pensively locked to the two coffins in front of him. To everyone gathered around, they’d think he has nerves of steel under such depressing circumstances. They don’t realize that the trail of sweat trickling down Finn’s neck isn’t from the blazing heat, but from an emotion no one would ever dream of him having—fear.
He should be afraid.
Very afraid.
They all should be.
My examining eye leaves Finn’s stoic pretense only to land on the six-foot-three, toned, shrewd frame of the friend at his side—Easton Price. In his preferred black gear, he looks like the majestic, dark prince he believes himself to be, but lacks the usual bored expression on his face. Today, he’s just a blank canvas, hoping no one can see past his facade and read the turmoil running through his wretched soul.
But I see you. Don’t I?
You can’t hide from me, Easton.
None of you can.
Right next to him, dressed to the nines, as if he’s just stepped out of his house for a Vogue photo shoot, stands the most vicious of the group—Colt Turner. I see, however, that instead of the relaxed swagger he’s known for, his spine is ramrod straight, and his shoulders are stiff as a board. His cocky grin—the one that always seems to make him look so regal as if he owned the fucking place—is wiped off his face, too.
Good.
That grin should have never crested his lips, to begin with. He might have had a silver spoon in his mouth since the day he was born, but at this moment he looks like he’s being force-fed something too bitter and rancid to swallow down. It’s making him twist and contort his face into something ugly, just like his damned soul.
Not looking so fucking royal now, are you, Colt?
What happened? Did your conscience finally get the best of you?
Do you even have one?
He’s standing there, trying so hard to hide his true self, but I know exactly what type of filth runs through his veins. Just like the rest of them, he’s a waste of space.
But you’re not even the worst of them, are you, Colt?
Nah. Not even by a long shot.
That place on the podium goes to his cousin, and Asheville’s golden boy—Lincoln Hamilton. He’s the real wolf in sheep’s clothing. He looks like a damned choir boy when, in reality, he’s just as hideous as we all are. Yet here he is, solemn and teary-eyed, as we all stand back and watch his parents being laid to rest. The fucker is the reason they are now worm food, yet he has the audacity to look torn.
But unlike the others, that isn’t a ploy, is it Lincoln?
He is torn up inside for what he’s done, for what he allowed to happen right inside his own home. Through whispers in the night and plans cunningly crafted in the shadows, he convinced himself and his fucking lackeys that no one would ever be the wiser of their crime.
And that makes you the most arrogant asshole of them all.
I know exactly what happened. He might think he can fool the whole world, but he’ll never fool me. He never has.
I know the real you, Lincoln. The dark and ugly part of you.
I know all his fears and aspirations. I know his secret desires and forbidden cravings. His Adonis looks and well-mannered, serpent tongue might deceive everyone he comes in contact with, but I never fell for his charms. And because of that, I’ll leave him for last.
You will be the one I will toy with the most. I’ll take pleasure in watching you squirm.