Page 1 of Heart Sick Hate

Prologue

Echo

Nothing in life isfree, and I’m broke.

Never a good predicament to find yourself in.

I skim my fingers over the rich, buttery leather couch as I circle the room. Warm bulbs are hidden inside gold sconces to keep the space dim. A thick burgundy rug sits in the center. And paired with the charcoal wallpaper, darkness drinks all traces of light.

Dad’s and my apartment could fit inside this single room, and the Kingsley family uses it to store their spare furniture. There is not one hint of an ass imprint on the perfect cushions.

I’m not sure why one room needs so many seats when it’s clear no one spends any time in here. A layer of dust collects on the ridges of the floorboards and mantle. Above the fireplace is a collection of pictures, but they’re outdated. The three boys in the photos are young, but Dad told me his friend’s sons are seventeen, twenty, and twenty-seven now.

Sinking into one of the chairs, I grip the copper armrests. The white cushions are hard and unforgiving. The cool metal studs nip at my skin. Everything about it is uncomfortable. Like the energy in this room.

I stand up and make my way to another, larger recliner. Sinking into it, the soft cushions drink me. The ripe scent of old cigars and apples floods my senses. Everything from how I mold into the cushions to the stale aroma of the polyester is overwhelming.

Climbing out of the recliner, I make my way to the mantle to inspect the photos more closely. One draws my attention—a magnetic pull of steel eyes summoning me toward it.

Two cool gray orbs I can’t help but focus on. So crisp and bright they’re nearly translucent. But something about the distance in his gaze feels as lost as I am in this dark castle he calls a home.

We couldn’t be more different, given his world is made of gold and mine is the cheap copper that paints a green ring around your finger. But in his eyes is infinite chaos.

Sick rage.

Hate in its purest form.

Beauty.

I sink into a chair facing the photo. This one is black leather, slick and cool. The arms are decorated with gold studs, curving around me in a way that feels protective. While everything else in these walls is haunted, this chair somehow feels safe from the ghosts.

“Whatcha up to, Goldilocks?”

I jump at the sound of a voice coming from the doorway, popping out of the chair as it snaps me from my thoughts. And when I face the direction of the sound, I’m once more met with those steel-gray eyes from the photograph.

The youngest son, most likely. He looks only a year or two older than me.

Crew—I think?

Dad told me all their names, but as his eyes hold their focus, I can’t swallow, much less think.

“So?” He smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “Whatcha doing?”

“Nothing.” I roll my shoulders back.

A broken chuckle leaves his lips. “You sure?”

He lifts off the doorframe and grows a few inches.

His eyes hunt me as he circles the room and closes in, while somehow still maintaining a safe distance. Just enough to give the illusion I could escape when I have no doubt he’d find a way to stop me.

“You were awfully deep in thought to be up to nothing.” He rakes his fingers through his thick brown hair, hitting me with the full force of his predatory stare. “What’s on that pretty little mind of yours, Goldilocks?”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

If he was anyone else, I’d assume it’s because of my golden hair. But something about how he watches me with each step—how he seems to see everything—tells me it's not that simple.

“You were trying out the chairs, weren’t you?” He smirks, his gaze darting to each one I sat in. “Too small, too overbearing, until you found the one that was just right?”

---