Ruin (Rhodes #1) - Rina Kent Page 0,7

if I met a serial-killer-like stranger in a dark alley?

What if I had nightmares about his darker-than-the-alley eyes every night since?

What if I sense those same eyes on me every second? Even this instant?

Worse, what if I want to keep feeling his eyes on me?

My current state is dangerously close to an erupting storm or a bubble ready to burst any second.

“Mae? Mae!”

I blink at Sydney. “Huh?”

“We passed the turn for our regular boutique. What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry.” I offer an apologetic smile and turn the car around.

Focus, Mae. Snap out of it!

The task doesn’t prove hard once Sydney and I become immersed in a shopping spree. Dresses after shoes after bags, and I’m one hundred per cent with my friend.

“Try this one on.” Sydney hands me a wine-red gown. “I love the colour, but it wouldn’t suit me.”

“Isn’t it too revealing?” I inspect the bared back and the short length. “I feel like I have the choice of covering either my cleavage or my butt.”

“That’s the point!” Sydney snaps her fingers and coerces me toward one of the fitting rooms.

I laugh, but the sound dies on my lips. Goosebumps erupt all over my skin. My fingers clutch the soft material as if it’s a shield. A dark, but familiar foreboding envelops my mind. My feet twitch, fighting the impulse to whirl around and look at the shadows.

At him.

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.

What I witnessed piqued my interest to an alarming level.

A girl whose world is surrounded with a happy cliched circle of family and friends isn’t supposed to paint those haunting works. They spoke to me in a language only my demons and I can understand.

Is her seemingly perfect little world a camouflage? Does she perhaps hide a darkness that sallies her soul?

She’s an abnormality that I yearn to unravel. Maybe tarnish her pureness, and throw her off the edge when I’m done.

Although her little existence is— by all rules— off limits. The longer I observe,