Wrath of an Exile: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (The River Styx Heathens Book 1)

Jude

July 29

I hate riding through the Springs.

The shackles of my last name are heavy here, and this shithole has a thing for charging people with crimes they didn’t commit.

Or, in my case, crimes I wasn’t even alive to witness.

In Ponderosa Springs, their favorite thing to do is force me to reap what I didn’t sow.

“Thought we tossed the last of your family out four years ago. Now that Daddy’s finally dead, you thought you’d leave West Trinity Falls and come back here?” Sheriff Jacobs wiggles the slip of thin paper in front of my face before smacking it against my chest with a thud. “Not on my watch.”

Trust me, dude. I don’t wanna be here either.

My jaw twitches, averting my gaze down for a second. I pluck the ticket from his sausage fingers, planting my feet on either side of my motorcycle and slipping it into my back pocket.

“You answer me when I speak to you, boy,” he sneers, making his white mustache jump, beady eyes narrowed.

“You ask a question, Sheriff?” My voice drips sarcasm as I pick up the matte-black helmet in my lap.

“No better than your sick fucking father, smart mouth and all,” he snaps. “Get the fuck out of Ponderosa Springs, and do us all a favor—don’t drag that Sinclair name back.”

My last name is acid on his tongue, spitting out of his mouth like it burns his flesh to say it. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this spew from a townie. Won’t be the last. People like this guy are a dime a dozen here.

It took me a while to get it.

Why the short list of friends I’d made on the playground could never come over to my house or why people stared and crossed the street to avoid me and my father. Why their whispers about my family turned to a steady roar in my ears.

It became abundantly obvious when I was fourteen and we had to move to the next town over after I’d been arrested for a fire I didn’t start.

The message was loud and clear.

Sinclairs were not welcome in Ponderosa Springs.

And a part of me understood it, why they all hated us.

A quick Google search in middle school told me everything I needed to know. My pseudo-grandfather, who wasn’t even blood related to me, got arrested for orchestrating one of the largest sex trafficking rings on the West Coast years before my birth, only to escape jail and disappear.

The Halo made national and global news. Everyone knew about Ponderosa Springs and all its dirty secrets.

But no one cared that I was innocent. Not when the news had done such a fantastic job vilifying everyone with the last name Sinclair over the years. In their eyes? I was just as guilty as the rest of them.

I was never given a chance to prove anyone wrong. They would never see me as anything but my family’s last name. Jude didn’t exist, only Sinclair.

“Jacobs, it’s always a pleasure.” I force a tight smile, refusing to give this dick the satisfaction of a reaction.

I tug my helmet on to hide my clenched jaw before turning the key, the bike beneath me humming to life, vibrating my thighs, like the machine is begging for me to open the throttle.

“The law can’t protect you now. Next time I catch you, I’ll lock your ass up and throw away the goddamn key.”

I slam the pitch-black visor over my eyes, unable to bite my tongue.

“Good luck.”

My hand tightens around the throttle, not bothering to wait for him to take a step back before releasing the clutch and tearing from the side of the road onto the street.

And because I can, I turn my body slightly to fly him the bird.

I’ve always been a man of few words and many actions.

The sun dips below the towering pines flanking both sides of the road, casting an orange tint across the sky. At face value, in this moment, Ponderosa Springs looks almost peaceful.

It’s the people that make it a rotten piece of shit.

Wind rushes up the back of my hoodie, lifting the hem over my stomach as the road switches back sharply. I downshift and brake hard, then bank low as I make the turn. The tires whine in protest but hold their grip, making me grin.

The drive to Birch & Harrison Law Office is less than five minutes, a weathered brick building on Main Street sandwiched between a very pink boutique and a quaint-looking bookstore.

My bike dies in my ears, parked against the curb, and I take a moment to enjoy the anonymity before I remove my helmet. When my feet hit the sidewalk, a woman walking down the street with her young daughter pauses for a split second before jerking her child closer and scurrying away.

I scoff, tossing my hood onto my head, stepping past them to climb the concrete steps.

Fucking sheep. Running, scurrying with their ears filled with lies right into the mouths of wolves ready to eat them alive.

Twenty-something years ago, after the Halo crumbled, Hollow Heights University lost most of its private funding. In order to keep the historic university, one thing this shit town is known for, standing, they transitioned to a public university.

This opened the doors to a wave of new residents, those looking for a fresh start, a change of scenery, or who simply just didn’t give a fuck about the morbid history that built the Springs.

Newcomers or townies, they had two things in common.

Gossip and hating me.

I’d like to think that one day, I’ll disappear from this state. Change my name, forget the Sinclair name even existed, and finally be able to live my life on my terms. But that’s a dream, and since my first breath of life, I’ve lived in a harsh reality.

Dreams don’t exist in my world.

A blast of freezing air hits my face when I pull the door open, the smell of old books wafting up my nose, giving me an odd sense of comfort despite all the reasons I’m here in the first place.

The walls of the law office are a dull beige, front desk stacked with papers and files, faded blue carpet beneath my feet as I walk down the hall adorned with dust-covered framed legal documents and certificates.

A fluorescent light blows the second I find the door I’m looking for. The worn plaque on the wall reads Taylor Birch Jr., JD.

Here’s to hoping this takes less than twenty minutes so I can slump into Oakley’s shitty couch, smoke a joint, and pass out before all the junkies roll in.

I’m greeted by a gangly-looking dude wearing a wrinkled gray suit and crooked oval glasses when I open the door. This dude seriously needs to stop shopping in the geriatric department.

“Mr. Sinclair.” He clears his throat. “I’m so glad you could make⁠—”

“What the fuck are they doing here?” I seethe, staring at the two people sitting down across the weathered mahogany table.

A not-so-quiet rage brews inside of me, simmering beneath my skin. Molten metal has replaced the blood in my veins.

Rook Van Doren flicks his gaze in my direction, light brown hair with the short sides dusted with silver, his tattooed hands tightened to fists. You’d think all the ink would keep him from the judge’s seat, but when you own one-fourth of Ponderosa Springs, there is little he can’t have.

His jaw twitches, molars grinding together, anger flaring in his eyes. It makes the corner of my mouth twitch toward a smirk. I hope my existence eats him fucking alive, and when he’s six feet deep, I’ll make sure to water his flowers while I piss on his grave.

“Mrs. Van Doren was mentioned in your father’s will.” Taylor Birch Jr. speaks, nerves shaking his vocal cords, squeezed by all the tension that just filled the room.

I find the gaze of Rook’s wife, her gracefully aging face encircled with soft red hair that is tied in a high ponytail, not an ounce of gray in sight. But her age lies at the edge of her eyes, on the corners of her mouth, like she had the audacity to smile after all she’d done.

To his grave, my father loved one thing, only one.

And it was Sage Van Doren, his former fiancée.

I should have expected Sage to be in the will, even though I hated it.

Hadn’t she taken enough? What else could he possibly fucking give her?

Sage’s eyes widen as we make eye contact, face turning porcelain. She is looking at a skeleton, and I can see how desperate she is to shove me back into the closet. I wonder, how long had it been since she’d stood face-to-face with a Sinclair?

“Please take a seat, Jude.” The executor in charge of reading my father’s will takes a seat at the head of the table, hands shaking as he straightens the papers in front of him.

Wanting to be anywhere other than here, I grind my teeth as I jerk the chair across from the Van Dorens out with more force than necessary. My body drops into the seat, arms crossing in front of my chest as I think about stabbing my eyeballs with the pen in front of me.

“Thank you all for, um, coming today. As you know, we’re here to carry out the final wishes of Easton James Sinclair.” He clears his throat, readjusting in the leather seat for the fourth time. “I, Easton Sinclair, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.”

He continues reading, muttering about the distribution of assets, what remains obviously being left to me. My grandmother, Lena, died years ago from cancer, and my blood-bound grandfather? Had a heart attack, which I think is karma for refusing to acknowledge our relation. And my mother died when I was two.

I’m not here for the semantics. I legally have to be here to get my money. Money that will take me far, far away from this shit. Enough for me to finally start over, on my own.

Just Jude. No last name. A clean slate.

The two people across the table sit there with their successful, happy lives. Physical representations of everything my father hated, a constant reminder of his spiral into a shell of a man.

Losing Sage, I think, is what shattered what was left of Dad’s heart. What robbed his soul was something entirely different. That credit could be given to four men with a vendetta, infamously known as the Hollow Boys.

They are the sons of Ponderosa Springs.

Alistair Caldwell.

Silas Hawthorne.

Thatcher Pierson.

And none Easton Sinclair hated more than Rook Van Doren.

Birthed from the lineage of founding families, the people here worship them out of fear. In the Springs, there is no one with more power. False kings sitting on thrones built from the bones of their enemies, crowns forged from teeth and generational wealth.

The news never reported their involvement with the Halo, but I know. I know how many bodies are rotting in the dirt of this sleepy seaside town. How they ruined and wrecked anyone who stepped in their path of vengeance.

Now, they walk around as if their hands aren’t drenched in blood.

They got off scot-free. Untouched. Unburdened by the crushing weight of their actions.

It was me that was left to deal with that. The scrutiny. The judgment. The abuse.

When the drugs reached their peak in Dad’s mind and the cursing of their names began, I became the outlet for his untapped rage. My body was a punching bag for their mistakes, my mind constantly in battle mode because of a war I hadn’t even been a part of.

It was because of them my family was left to rot.

It was because of Rook’s daughter that I became an exile.

The executor mumbles on, tuning me back in at the mention of my full name. “With regards to the guardianship of my son, Elias Jude Sinclair, I hereby grant full legal custody to Sage Van Doren (formerly Donahue).”

My head almost snaps right the fuck off my shoulders with how fast I turn to look at the red-faced man at the head of the thick wooden table.

What?

“What?” Sage gasps softly, sounding as shocked as I feel.

He did what?

I sink my teeth into the flesh of my inner cheek so hard I feel blood leak onto my tongue.

“There is a note added for further explanation here. Would you like me to read that aloud as well?”

My eyes turn to the woman across from me, watching her nod, unable to find words. Hating that she has any say in how this goes down. Mr. Birch coughs before reading words handwritten by my dad.

“Sage, the damage I inflicted on your life and those around you are regrets I will die with. I was cruel when you gave me only kindness. You owe me nothing in this life. Only because I know you’ll show this to him, let Rook know I’m more than aware this makes me a prick to burden you with this responsibility. Despite that, you’re the only good person I know. My son deserves someone like you looking out for him. He’s not like me; he’s much better. Currently fighting with building blocks, so his temper might not be the best, but he’s curious and bright, the best parts of Mary and me. You knew me, Sage. Before I let Stephen turn me into a monster. Don’t do this for the man who broke you. Do this for the boy you once knew. I’ll die a coward having not said this to your face. I’ll be sorry forever. Signed Easton Sinclair.”

Pain like I’ve never known throbs across my chest.

Through all the drugs, all the booze and endless women, I’d been there. I had been the child taking care of the parent when everyone had abandoned us, cast into West Trinity Falls like trash on the side of the goddamn road.

I was the only one who stayed.

Yet…she gets the note.

Sage Donahue gets the apology I waited my entire life for. I’d held my breath and suffocated on the hope that one day, Dad would change. My nails dig into my palm as I tighten my fist, biting down on the inside of my cheek.

He never changed, and he never would.

Easton Sinclair was a selfish prick. I was stupid to think he’d die any differently.

The burning in my nose is enough to make my eyes water, but my pride won’t let those tears fall. No, these assholes don’t deserve to see me break. They deserve fucking nothing from me.

“Now—”

“I turned eighteen in April. This shit is pointless,” I spit, trying to expel the bitter emotions in my mouth. “What did he leave to me?”

I want my money, and I want out of here. Right now.

I don’t need this shit. I just need my money, and I can leave this room, this fucked-up town and all its shitty citizens, in the rearview mirror.

“Well, yes, technically, that is, uh, well…” Flustered by the strain in the room, Taylor stutters. “You are the sole beneficiary of, uh, assets, investments, property⁠—”

“You mind?” Rook interjects, reaching across the table and ripping the papers away from the guy before grunting, “Thanks.”

The ticks from the clock on the wall echo in my ears as the silence drags on while the reputable Judge Van Doren reads, Rook’s eyes running across each paper with a keen eye.

“Someone just let me know where I can get my fucking money,” I mutter, palms digging into the table as I push my chair back, the screech of metal against the floor echoing throughout the room. “I’d rather eat shit and die than sit here any longer.”NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of my hoodie, on my journey to the door, Rook’s stern voice hits my ears.

“There is a clause.”

“Merry Christmas.” I toss my hand behind me. “Don’t fucking care.”

“A legal clause, smart-ass.” He speaks a little louder. “You have to be twenty-one in order to receive any of the assets or money. It’s held in a trust until then. A trust that my wife is now in control of.”

I stop, debating on how many knuckles I’ll break if I shove my fist through this fucking door.

A clause.

Of course there is. When has anything in my life been simple? I can feel my plans slipping through my fingers like sand in an hourglass. I have two months before I can even apply for the fellowship in California, and it won’t be till March that I find out if I am accepted.

I’d planned to use this money to make it until then, and now I don’t know how I’ll make it to next week.

My jaw is clenched so tight it hurts, hand reaching for the doorknob. “See you in three years.”

“We could help.” Sage’s voice is soft, calm, like she’s speaking to a wild animal. “You could stay with us while you attend college, if that’s your plan? We could help you, Jude.”

My body twists slowly as I take my time to face her. Her gaze burns into my own, hands folded neatly in front of her, brows furrowed like she’s hurting.

She’s in pain? She’s fucking hurting?

The venom in my eyes matches the malice in my grin.

“Help?” I laugh, shoulders shaking with unshed rage. I wipe my palm down my mouth aggressively. “You must have bumped your fucking head. Did you forget your psychotic-ass husband left my dad with half a face? You abandoned him, then had us cast out of Ponderosa Springs. I am gum at the bottom of your red-bottom shoe, lady.”

“You got a job, kid? One that pays the bills?” Rook’s voice scratches my ears. “Better yet, got a place to live to pay bills at? By the time you turn twenty-one, you’ll be living in a box or in jail.”

“Spare me, Judge,” I scoff. “Giving a fuck looks like shit on you.”

“Maybe, well, wait! This is an option. Um, let me see…” Mr. Birch interrupts, holding a finger up as he riffles through the papers Rook didn’t take. “You have a next of kin, an uncle—Alistair Caldwell. Maybe this could be resolved by contacting him.”

“Half,” I spit out, narrowing my eyes. “Half uncle.”

“Who lives next door to me.” Rook’s smug reply makes my hand twitch.

“Birds of a demented piece-of-shit feather flock together. Let me say it slow. Write it down if you need to,” I say, barely containing the urge to dislocate this guy’s jaw. “I’m not taking a handout from you or Alistair. Wayne Caldwell made it more than clear the only thing that family is giving me is DNA. Go back to forgetting I existed. That’s what you’re good at.”

I’m not sure how I’ll make it, but I know I will.

Dad didn’t leave them responsible for me; he left me responsible for myself. I’ll figure it out, even if I have to live in a box. I always figure it out.

“We are done here.” Rook stands, pushing the papers away from him. “Have fun rotting on the street.”

Finally, we are on the same page.

Rook offers a hand to his wife, but she doesn’t take it. Sage just keeps looking at me, but I don’t think she’s seeing me. No, she sees Easton and the boy she left behind to die, to suffer.

“Your father was stubborn too,” she says, biting down on the inside of her cheek, unaffected by the strain brewing between her husband and me, looking lost in the past. “He never knew when to swallow his pride and just ask for help.”

“Don’t talk about him.” My voice is gravel in my throat, feet carrying me to the edge of the table as I slam my palm onto the wood, but she doesn’t even flinch, “Don’t sit there and talk about him like you fucking cared. You’re a heartless bi⁠—”

“Watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking to my wife.” Rook’s voice cuts through the air like a serrated blade, scorched and swift. Shoulders tensed, he wears a look I can only describe as pure evil in his features.

I clench my jaw as his threat hangs in the air. I’ve heard stories of what he’s capable of, the fear people feel when his name is mentioned.

“Or what, pyro?” I dare him, calling his bluff with a nod of my chin. “That’s what they used to call you before Judge, right? You gonna burn my face too, give me and daddy-matching scars?”

Our gazes clash, refusing to move, neither of us backing down from the challenge. The embers of my pain and his past catch fire around us, seconds from igniting the room we stand in.

“He was stubborn, and he was prideful,” Sage says calmly, standing up like the picture of still water. She slides a hand onto her husband’s back affectionately. “But he wasn’t stupid. Everything Easton did, he did for a reason. I’m sure you know that better than anyone, Jude. If you change your mind, at any time, let us know.”

I’m a reincarnation of a man Rook Van Doren would’ve killed if given the chance.

Now they want me to accept a handout? They want me to play nice with their daughter, the girl who had me thrown out of the only home I’ve ever known?

Sage is right—she may have known my father, but she doesn’t, and will never, know me.

No one from Ponderosa Springs or West Trinity Falls does.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”