A Cut so Deep - Dani Rene

Prologue

Ares

Acknowledgments

Also by Dani René

About the Author

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

When Nesrin’s story came to me, I knew I had to do it justice. It wasn’t easy to write, and I know it may not be easy to read her struggles. But deep down, as she came to me to tell me her pain, and her heartache, I knew Damien would be her equal in every respect.

Yes, they have a rather taboo relationship, an age gap that’s bigger than expected, but I needed him to be more mature so she could find her rock in him.

There are, however, scenes in the story that readers may find disturbing and could trigger those who suffer from depression. Please be wary if you’re a sensitive reader.

I hope you take a chance on them and love them as much as I do. They’re special, and they’ll always hold a place in my heart, and I trust yours too.

Thank you for always trusting me and delving into the worlds I create. This one, it’s rather special.

Mad love,

Dani, xo

Preface

She was chaos and beauty intertwined. A tornado of roses from divine.

Shakieb Orgunwall | Quotes ‘nd Notes

Playlist

Cut - Plumb

If These Scars Could Speak - Citizen Soldier

The Devil Within – Digital Daggers

What I’ve Done – Linkin Park

Irresistible – Fall Out Boy, Demi Lovato

Heaven Help Me – RAIGN

Saints - Echos

My Demons - STARSET

I Miss the Misery - Halestorm

Bring Me to Life - Evanescence

Monster - Skillet

Numb - Linkin Park

Right Here - Chase Atlantic

If That’s Love - Shawn James

I Got You - Corvyx

Mansion - NF, Fleurie

Urges - Lucas King

Taste - Tyga, Offset

Kiss it Better - Rhianna

Find the full playlist HERE

Dedication

To the girls who were broken long before their hearts knew about love. And to those same girls who crave the bad boy who will find them in the darkness and not save them but swim in the murky waters with them.

Prologue

Nesrin

Sixteen years old

One thin slice.

Just one touch of metal to flesh.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pain. A pinch.

And then, freedom.

It’s only the second time I’ve done it, but I already know that it’s going to be so much better than talking to some rich bitch who makes notes on her iPad about my well-being. Not physically, no, she’s testing my mind to see if I’m ‘normal.’

I laugh.

It’s low. Nothing more than a giggle.

Everything around me comes alive as I feel the warmth coat my skin. My hand is shaking, the blade drops from between my fingers, as pure relief shoots through my veins.

I’ve heard all about how it works. The internet is an amazing thing. Anything I need or I crave, I can find it there. I’m no longer shaking. I feel at ease with the world. Like everything is going to be okay.

Opening my eyes, I glance down at the incision I made, and a tear drops into the dark liquid. The deep crimson dribbles slowly. Languid in its path down my leg. As it escapes the thin slit, it takes my anxiety with it.

The trickle slows, creating pretty patterns over the tanned flesh of my inner thigh.

The euphoria is inexplicable.

My body is so free. Relaxed. I’ve only ever felt like this when I accidentally cut my hand on a broken glass.

It happened so suddenly.

But the moment the sting caused me to whimper, it forced out the worries, which plagued me for months, years even. I’d been so numb, so empty, the cut forced breath back into my lungs. The anxious knot that constantly twisted in my gut eased, and it was a release of all the stress and fear that held me hostage.

I was made to feel. Not expected to.

Every day, I have to be polished, poised, and beautiful—the perfect daughter of the perfect couple, who lives in the most perfect house. Everything the media sees; all the photos are made to look like we’re happy.

But we’re not.

My father fucks half his company—all the women, obviously.

My mother spends her days at the country club, where her pool boy tends to her needs that my dad no longer does.

When they come home, they smile and play happy family, loving parents, and honest people. I’ve numbed myself to it all, I’ve emptied my soul and shoved it into a box that I’ll never open again.

I have one year left before I can leave. Twelve months before I walk out of this place and never come back. The fancy rooms, the hefty bank account, the exquisite gifts, everything about it is fake; nothing more than a shiny surface for a filthy underbelly.

The need to be away, far from my life, from the

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