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Prologue
Azadeh—Age 29
THREE MONTHS AGO
The Manor
The concept of belonging can be many things to different people. For some, it’s a ravenous crowd chanting their name and the allure of fame. Others gain accomplishment and abundance from the texture of green bills gliding between their fingers. For me, it’s coming home to the three men who simultaneously comfort and obliterate me.
My gaze wanders to the lush forest surrounding Lev’s property. I was surprised when he kept the place after his brutal and corrupt parents died. I didn’t expect him to gut the interior and make it his permanent home, especially as it was the origin of tangible nightmares that continue to haunt him.
The bump against my shoulder pulls me from my reverie. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I turn my head, and a smile lifts my lips.
Ezekiel Summers. The boy who saved me and was “rewarded” with the loss of his right eye.
He grabs the cigarette mindlessly burning between my fingers and brings it to his lips.
I shove the pack of Marlboros toward him, smashing the pack against his chest. “You can have your own, you know.”
Zeke inhales, and the tip lights up red. He doesn’t say a word as he exhales the smoke. “I know, but this filter has been between your lips.”
My face must turn every shade of red because Ezekiel chuckles and drapes his arm over my shoulders, pulling me toward him. Zeke’s arms provide a sense of safety I rarely experience. For someone who survived one form of upheaval after another growing up, having a constant is a novelty not to be taken for granted.
A part of me regrets leaving, but I know if I don’t, the seed of resentment will grow into a stubborn weed I’ll never rid myself of.
We sit silently, sharing a cigarette, the act poignant in its intimacy. That’s how it’s always been with Zeke: friendship on the cusp of consuming passion. So many times, I wanted to say screw it and burn with him. Then I thought about all the stories I’d have to forgo to do it.
I glance at him as he looks into the darkness. The beautiful boy has transformed into a handsome man. Zeke was the boy who made me not hate men. He showed me what a man could be when he stood by you, protected you, and sacrificed for you. Zeke taught me that I could lean on someone and know that the trust I’ve given him would never be taken advantage of or abused.
But when it comes to telling him how he makes me feel, my throat dries up, and my mind becomes numb. I want to nestle in the safety of his arms for all eternity, but my need for comfort is constantly overshadowed by the girl who believes that if she embraces happiness, she’s betraying her sisters, who have no choice but to reside in utter darkness.
The back door slides open, and I realize how safe I am with these three men. I don’t need to be vigilant about my environment when they’re with me. I smile, knowing Cyrus Porter is standing behind me by the flick of his zippo.
The three of us sit in silence, unsure of what to say or how to act, when a sulfurous odor suddenly assaults my nose.
Immediately, I turn to Cyrus. “Did you burn my hair?”
“No,” he replies, trying to prevent the corner of his lips from turning into a smile.
“Are you gaslighting me?” I demand.
“I would never burn your hair, Az.” Cyrus leans into me and whispers seductively, “You’re one of the few people I’d only burn if you asked me.”
I laugh. “That is a bald-faced lie because I can smell it.”
I pull my hair over my shoulder and inhale, needing confirmation, before glaring at Cyrus. “You know I can smell it, right?”
“Consider it my version of a love bite. And we both know how much you love those love bites,” Cyrus says as he wags his eyebrows.
It never fails to amaze me how attractive this man is, even with all the vicious scars covering half his face and the deep ridges burned into his skin. I know Cyrus has issues with them, covering what he can with blackout tattoos, but they’re beautiful in their imperfections.
To many, Cyrus might be The Boogieman, but all I see is a sly smile and green eyes that remind me of freshly cut grass on a warm summer day. I love their beauty, but I’ve always loved things that cause others to turn away—my little menagerie of beautiful boys the world was too scared to love.
Cyrus winks as he hands me a black box neatly wrapped with a red ribbon before pulling a joint from his pocket and lighting it. Taking a few tokes, he stares out at the lush forest. He remains quiet, as if pondering something too complicated or painful to utter aloud.
“What’s this for?” I ask, pulling him from his thoughts.
