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

Phi

October 25

“Phi! Phi! Phi!”

The chant pounds in my ears, a rhythmic pulse of voices as the burn of cheap tequila slides down my throat.

It’s supposed to numb me.

Supposed to drown out the ache that’s been clawing at my insides for days. But instead, it just sits there, lead in my gut, stirring a sickness that has nothing to do with the liquor.

I lower the bottle from my lips, shaking the empty glass above my head. The room erupts—whistles, cheers, and drunken applause, all crashing around me like the tide against sharp rocks.

I blink through the haze, swaying slightly as I glance around from my makeshift throne atop someone’s battered dining room table.

Bodies are crammed together, a sea of sweat and heat, pressed too close in the dim, smoky light. Laughter rises in chaotic bursts, drinks slosh over the rims of red cups, and hands reach out to slap backs and pull people into messy embraces.

The air is thick with cheap cologne, spilled booze, and cigarette smoke, hanging like a suffocating blanket over the room.

Faces blur and swirl—grins too wide, eyes too bright under the flicker of neon lights that splash across the peeling wallpaper. Dozens of them, all looking up at me like I’m something worth cheering for. Like I’m the life of this stupid, out-of-control house party.

And yet…they don’t see it. None of them do.

They can’t see the rot creeping through me, tendrils of poison winding their way into the marrow of my bones. It festers right beneath the surface, hidden beneath layers of skin and pretty smiles.

It’s not the kind of pain that bleeds. No, this is a slow, insidious decay. It devours in silence, consuming my organs, my breath, my thoughts, until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell where a person used to be.

Where I used to be.

Twenty people, maybe more, encircle this table, but not a single person in this suffocating room has any idea.

Not one.

Jude did.

No.

If I was a little more drunk, I’d smack my own head just to beat that into my brain.

Jude’s full of shit. He’s a liar, a manipulative bastard playing some twisted game with me, and I’m a pawn he loves watching squirm. That’s all this is. He gets off on pushing my buttons, on making my skin crawl every time he’s too close.

I’ve been trying to avoid him, trying to dodge the way his presence makes my nerves snap and spark like a live wire. But no matter how hard I try, he just keeps showing up.

Two nights ago, I was curled up on the couch, drowning in old reruns of comfort shows, building a new LEGO set, trying to drown out the memories consuming my brain. The room was dim, shadows stretching across the floor, the soft glow of the TV the only light.

I thought I had a moment of peace where I could bury myself in the things that make me feel like Phi. Not Ponderosa Springs’s Queen of Disaster, not the vixen, just Phi.

But then he appeared.

Jude came down the stairs, sauntering like he owned the damn place, and plopped his infuriating self on the love seat across from me. Not a word, not a glance—he just sat there, staring at the TV like he was enjoying himself.

And he stayed.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t fidget or get bored or make some snarky comment. He just stayed there, like the silence between us wasn’t choking the air, like I wasn’t trying to not snap and throw something at his fucking head.

It pisses me off.

But worse than that—it terrifies me.

Because some part of me, the part that should know better, my brain? It wants to believe him.

In the lab, under those cold fluorescent lights, I wanted to believe him so badly.

When he looked at me, really looked at me, it was like he saw everything. Every crack and splinter in my facade, every jagged piece of me that’s come undone, every sharp shard no one else would dare to touch. He saw it all and didn’t run. Didn’t look at me differently.

He stayed.

And for a split second, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t alone, drowning in my pain.

Someone had started treading water with me.

I’ve waited my entire life to be seen. To be more than the wreckage people whisper about behind closed doors. Even before that night four years ago. Before everything went to hell, I was desperate.

Desperate for someone to see me as more than just the Judge’s charity case. The adopted one, the one who doesn’t fit.

That’s why I trusted Oakley. That’s why he was so easily able to take from me because I was so fucking desperate to be noticed. To be seen.

It’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Just not from him.

Anyone but the one guy I’m not supposed to stay away from.

Anyone but a Sinclair.

“Told you it would be fun.” Atlas grins, throwing his arm around my shoulders with that easy charm of his as I jump down from the table. “See what happens when you listen to me?”

I hadn’t wanted to come out tonight. I hadn’t wanted to do anything other than engulf myself in school. Lock myself away, hunker down until the rawness drifted over. Until pretending wasn’t so fucking hard.

Pretending to be okay has never been this hard before.

And I’m fucking terrified being around people when the walls I’ve spent years building are so goddamn fragile.

Plus, I couldn’t keep telling Atlas no. Every time I bailed, every time I said I’d rather stay home, he got more and more suspicious. The constant worry in his eyes was gutting me.

He had Ezra’s shit to deal with. I didn’t want to add to that.

Plus, I’d be fine.

I always am.

“Thanks for getting me out of the house,” I mutter, forcing a hollow smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “You’re the best.”

For a moment, I thought going out might be a good thing. Falling into the noise, the people, the drinks, all the usual distractions? It would be a good thing.

Wrong.

None of it is working. The drinks are just gasoline fueling the fire inside me, making the ache burn hotter. The laughter around me feels like a distant echo, something I can’t touch, can’t feel.

It all just feels so hollow.

“I know I asked earlier, but now that you’re tipsy and your inhibitions are lowered, I’m gonna ask again,” he says above the noise of the party. “You doing okay?”

I let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking my head. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s something.”

“Yeah, but I’m not asking if you’re here. I’m asking if you’re okay, Phi.”

An ache echoes in my chest.

“I’m fine, Attie.” I wrap my arm around his trim waist, squeezing him a little tighter. “Promise.”

I look up just in time to catch his jaw flex, his eyes peering down at me as he asks, “You swear on the Styx?”

My heart falters, skipping a beat.

I’ve never sworn on the Styx. Not once. I’ve never had the need to because I’m the keeper of all my secrets.

It sounds stupid—maybe even silly to some—but to me, to us, this is sacred. It’s not just some empty promise, not something to toss around casually.

Breaking a promise on the Styx is blasphemous in the church of our childhood.

It’s what our fathers and uncles did, back when promises were unbreakable. Back when loyalty meant something. It was their way of saying that no matter what, even in death, they’d find their way back to each other.

We took that seriously because we knew what it meant to our parents. How hard they fought to make it here.

It will break my heart to do this. Atlas knows that, knows I can’t lie.

“I’m—”

“Atlas! Come play pong! I need a new partner. Ezra fucking blows!”

Both of our heads snap toward the doorway where Reign is standing, waving Atlas down with that usual cocky grin plastered across his face. He’s leaning against the kitchen doorframe, red cup in hand, oblivious to the tension hanging in the air between Atlas and me.

I’ve never been more thankful for my idiot brother in my life.

“Go before they start throwing punches over who’s the worst,” I say, rolling my eyes to mask the relief spreading through me. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom.”

Atlas gives me a long look, his eyes searching mine like he wants to push further, but he lets out a sigh, nodding reluctantly.

“You’re not getting out of this conversation that easy,” he calls after me as I slip away from his side, already making my way through the crowd.

I lift a hand in a half-hearted wave, not bothering to turn around. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

I weave through the crush of bodies, the heavy bass of the music thrumming under my skin, the scent of spilled alcohol and sweat filling the air.

I want to let the people who love me in, I want to let them be there for me, to hold some of the burden.

But I can’t. I can’t handle the thought of them looking at me like I’m broken.

Once they know, once they find out the truth, every time they see me, all they’ll see is this shattered, fractured version of me.

They won’t remember the way I used to laugh or the parts of me that were still whole. No. Every glance will be filled with guilt, every smile they force will be tinged with sadness, and I’ll become this constant reminder of what they’d failed to protect.

They’ll blame themselves in a thousand different ways. They’ll tiptoe around me like I’m made of fragile glass, afraid that one wrong move will shatter me completely. And I can’t live with that.

I sidestep a couple, their bodies tangled together, hands shoved into each other’s pants like they can’t wait a second longer. My lips curl into a low snort, amused despite myself, the sheer chaos of the party weaving around me.

My fingers wrap around the bathroom door handle, and I push it open, not thinking, my mind already elsewhere. But the second it swings wide, I realize I’ve made a mistake.

I’ve forgotten the cardinal rule of house parties: always knock.

“Cherry.” Oakley grins around the word, rubbing his nose to wipe away the white powder on his upper lip. “How’s my girl? Want a bump?”

Cherry.

That’s the first word Oakley Wixx ever spoke to me.

I feel stupid remembering that I used to actually like it.

I was naive back then, too willing to believe that people were good, that someone could be trusted with the fragile parts of me. But he quickly showed how merciless reality is.

He reached into me, deeper than anyone should have been allowed, and stole everything good I had to offer. Ripped it away so violently I couldn’t even feel it at first. It was like a numbness settling over my bones.

But when the shock waned, the blood dried, and the ache faded?

Emptiness was all I had left.

“Pass.”

The word slips out, flat and empty. I don’t have the strength to muster a smirk or pretend like I’m unfazed. Not by him. Not by what he did to me.

There are too many people here.

People I can’t afford to see me break, and I know if I stand here and he keeps pushing, I will break. I’m too raw. An open wound that anyone will be able to see if he presses too hard. I’m too vulnerable to fake indifference right now, and it makes me sick.

I don’t offer anything else. No explanation, no glance. I just turn away, giving him my back as I pull my phone from my pocket, the urgency to get out of here clawing at me.

I need Andy to come get me—now.

But before I can even dial, I feel it. His hand wraps around my wrist, tight, his fingers curling like a vise, squeezing hard enough to make my pulse stutter.

“Now, now. Where you going?” His voice slithers into my ear, dripping with arrogance. “I’m talking to you.”

White-hot rage flares in my chest, my breath catching as my skin prickles with the need to scream. I whirl around, yanking my wrist out of his grip with more force than I thought I had.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

My voice is low but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between us. I meet his eyes, my body trembling with the kind of fury that makes me want to tear the walls down around us.

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

I can feel the house closing in on me—the noise, the heat, the crowd pressing in too close. Every instinct in me screams to rip this place apart, to bury him beneath the rubble of it all and leave him to rot.

This Halloween will make four years. Four years since Oakley ripped through the delicate fabric of my soul, leaving it in tatters.

Each anniversary gets harder.

Not because it reminds me of that night but because it marks how much time has passed since I lost myself.

Mourning the old me feels like trying to catch smoke in my hands. It slips through my fingers, impossible to hold, impossible to let go of.

There’s no grave to visit, no tombstone marking her death, just this aching void where she used to be.

It makes grieving nearly impossible.

Oakley steps forward, slow and deliberate, his presence looming over me like a dark shadow. Instinctively, I step back, my heel catching on the floor as I stumble, my pulse kicking into overdrive.

“You too good for me now, sweet thing?” His brow arches, a sick grin spreading across his face, flashing those yellowed teeth. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if he’s assessing me. “I remember when your cheeks used to light up red for me.”

Bile churns in my stomach, rising fast. The room tilts, and for a second, I think I might actually be sick, right here in front of him, in front of everyone. How did I ever think there was something appealing in him?

I stare blankly at his face, at that twisted smile, and wonder how teenage hormones and his well-crafted lies ever blinded me to the truth.

How did I let someone like him make me feel special?

“That was before you raped me.” The words choke their way out of my throat, raw and jagged. My teeth grind as I force myself to say it. “You tricked me. You used me.”

Saying it aloud feels like tearing open an old wound, the pain flooding back in full force. My chest tightens, a vise squeezing my lungs, making it harder to breathe with every second that passes.

If I never say it, it doesn’t feel real. It didn’t happen. Not really.

But it did. It did, and it destroyed me. It’s still destroying me.

Oakley’s face doesn’t shift, no flicker of remorse, no guilt. His smile only grows more sinister before he takes another step forward, closer than he should ever be.

“Did I?” His voice drips with mockery, every syllable sinking in like a twisted blade. “You came to that Halloween party to see me. You followed me into my bedroom. You kissed me first.”

Anger explodes inside me, barreling through my veins, spiraling faster and faster until it feels like I’m burning alive from the inside out. My body trembles with the sheer force of it, this fury that I can barely contain, this fire that threatens to consume everything in its path.

I said no. I begged him to stop. I said no.

No is enough. No is a full fucking sentence. No should’ve been enough.

But I wasn’t dealing with a man that night—I was dealing with a monster. A creature that fed on power and pain, whose only goal was to wreck me. He had planned it from the start, every sick word, every touch meant to tear me apart. It wasn’t about lust or desire. It was never about me.

It was about the Judge.

“Run back to Daddy, little girl. Make sure you tell him how I broke you in. Make sure you tell him what happens when he fucks with my family.”

I was just a tool, a means to an end. He wanted to destroy me to get back at my father for sending his piece-of-shit dad to prison. Oakley didn’t care about me, didn’t care about what he took from me that night. All he cared about was revenge.

And he was never going to get it.

My father would never know the truth of what happened that night. Oakley would never get the satisfaction of watching him crumble.

I refused to let him turn me into a weapon to destroy the one person who’s always been there. Who has always blindly protected and loved me.

I would die before I let this motherfucker win.

“This is over,” I bite, taking another step back from him.

“Yeah? If you’re done with me, I could always just go after that sweet little sister of yours. What’s her name? Andromed⁠—”

My fist connects with his nose before he can finish, the crack of bone on bone sharp in the air, like a whip slicing through the thick night. The pain erupts in my knuckles, hot and immediate, but the satisfaction—the satisfaction of watching him stumble back, blood gushing from his nose, dripping down his sneering mouth—is worth it.

Every second of it.

Something feral tears loose inside me, that intangible, savage thing, as I lunge for him again.

My fingers claw into the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into his chest as I shove him harder, pushing him back with every ounce of strength I own.

He’s taller than me, stronger even, but the booze and drugs dull his reflexes, and he stumbles, almost falling.

I’m on him before he can find his balance again, my fist swinging up, crashing into his jaw with a brutal crack. The bones in my arm vibrate with the force of it, the impact reverberating through me, but I can barely feel it.

Rage clouds my vision, red-hot and pulsing, and all I know, all I feel, is that I won’t stop until Oakley feels every ounce of pain he’s caused me.

“You so much as fucking breathe near my family,” I growl, my voice a low, vicious snarl, “I will kill you. Do you hear me? I will gut you, Oakley.”

The shock on his face starts to fade as the anger sets in. He wipes the blood from his shattered nose, his eyes narrowing as he glares at me. His hand balls into a fist at his side, blood dripping from his mouth.

“You’ve done it now, you fucking cunt.”

Before he can move, before he can swing on me, I go to launch myself at him again, the fire burning in my veins, white-hot and blinding.

Red blurs my vision. I refuse to let him survive this fire.

This time, he’ll pay for laying his filthy hands on me with his life.

But before I can, a strong arm curls around my waist, pulling me back, trapping me against a solid chest. I thrash, my breath ragged, heart pounding. “Let me go! Let me fucking go, right now⁠—”

“Geeks.” The low rasp of Jude’s voice slips into my ear, soft but firm.

My foot connects with Oakley’s chest just before I’m spun around, my back pressed flat against the opposite wall. Jude steps in front of me, his body a barrier between me and his friend.

“You’re protecting him?” I hiss, shoving my palms into his back. “You sick motherfuck⁠—”

Oakley’s laughter cracks against my skin, cutting off my words.

“Oh, Jude. How’d I know you’d jump at the chance to play hero the moment you found out?” His voice drips with derision. “So fucking desperate to shed the skin of a wolf, you’ve turned into a pathetic fucking lamb.”

My eyes widen slightly, shock rippling through me as I stare at the back of Jude’s head. His muscles tighten beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, fists clenching at his sides.

What the fuck did he just say?

“Oakes,” Jude warns, his tone cold, a hard edge, “pick up whatever dignity you’ve got left and get the fuck out of here.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Oakley raises his hands, mocking innocence. “If I’d known you were into her, I would’ve told you sooner. Done you a solid, man. Have you felt how tight her⁠—”

A loud crash splits in the air before he can finish talking.

I flinch at the noise, breath catching as the pictures lining the hallway fall to the floor, glass shattering against the tile. Jude’s arms are a blur of movement as he slams Oakley into the wall with a force that rattles the house.

The drywall crumbles under the impact, a jagged hole appearing behind Oakley’s shoulders as his body slams back into it. Jude’s forearms are tense, corded with veins, the fury rolling off him in waves, palpable, electric. His fingers curl around Oakley’s shirt, twisting the fabric tight enough to choke.

“Finish that sentence. I dare you.”

It’s a lethal, quiet threat.

And for the first time, I catch it—fear flickering in Oakley’s eyes. His cocky grin falters, his smirk vanishing as the bravado drains from his face, leaving only the sharp reality of Jude’s rage staring him down.

In one swift motion, Jude hauls him off the wall and tosses him to the floor like he weighs nothing. Oakley crashes onto the hardwood with a dull thud, groaning as he scrambles to regain his footing.

“Go,” Jude grunts, “before I let her finish what she started.”

I stand there, frozen, watching all of this as my pulse thunders in my ears. The rush of rage that kept me anchored vanishes, leaving me unsteady, like the floor beneath me has crumbled.

Panic isn’t a wave.

It’s a suffocating black hole, sucking in all the light, devouring everything until there’s nothing left but darkness. My mind spirals, unraveling at the seams, and no matter how hard I try to hold on, the threads slip through my fingers.

Oakley slinks off, his sneer smeared with blood as he disappears into the crowd. But I can’t focus on him, not anymore. There’s something far more suffocating than my hatred for him—something that tightens around my chest like a vise.

Jude.

He wasn’t complicit.

He never knew.

I’ve been hating him for nothing, pushing him away for nothing, punishing him for a crime he never committed.

The rage I clung to, the lie that justified the distance between us, crumbles to ash, scattering in the wake of this brutal reality. The weight of it presses down on me, so heavy it’s like the air itself has turned to shards of glass, too sharp to inhale.

I can’t fucking breathe.

“Phi, look at me.”

Jude’s voice cuts through the madness, but it’s not enough. I’m still spiraling, unraveling. My hands shake, fingers trembling as I try to grasp onto something solid, something to anchor me.

Then his hands are on me, warm and steady, cupping my face. Those eyes, those storm cloud eyes, flicker with concern as they search mine, turbulent blue swirled with the dark, heavy weight of thunderclouds.

They remind me of the sky just after a downpour, the kind of storm that leaves the world soaked and trembling but quiet, almost calm. Moments right after the rain stops falling, when everything feels on the edge of breaking but hasn’t yet.

“You never knew,” I choke out, the words barely a whisper as they shatter between us. “You never knew, Jude…”

The weight of it hits me like a tidal wave, my chest caving under the realization of what I’ve done.

I turned Jude Sinclair into an exile, for nothing.

Arrested, for nothing.

His family home was burned to the ground over a lie.

My lie.

“Geeks, listen to me⁠—”

“I can’t do this,” I gasp, shaking my head. Panic bubbles inside of me, guilt rising like floodwater. “I can’t. Not here. I need to leave.”

I try to pull away, to escape his hold, but Jude doesn’t let go.

His hands slip to the back of my hair, fingers tangling in the long strands, holding me there. Pressing my back further into the wall, he’s unwavering in the face of my panic.

I physically can’t breathe under the weight of his gaze.

I need hate to be living in them, pure and utter loathing, because it deserves to have a home there for me. He deserves to despise me for what I’ve done, what I did to him, but there isn’t anything but the dark, wild kind of blue that swallows the light whole.

“I need to go,” I whisper, but it comes out more like a plea, like I’m begging him to let me disappear into the night.

I feel raw, exposed, every nerve ending frayed, ready to snap.

I don’t want to do this in front of all these people. In front of my friends. In front of him.

“No.” His voice is low, rough like gravel grinding against pavement. It sends a shiver down my spine. “You’re not leaving alone.”

Jude’s thumb skims the corner of my lips, the touch featherlight. The softness of it almost makes me laugh, a quiet, bitter thing lodged in my throat.

How can hands like these—gentle enough to craft poetry, to leave tender imprints on my skin—also be the same ones that can throw a grown man into a wall as if he were nothing? How can they be the same hands that killed someone?

These hands had transformed into something brutal for me.

All because I leave ruin in my wake. Disaster written in the cracks of my skin while his hands follow, cleaning up the wreckage I never wanted to create but can’t seem to stop.

All I ever do is bring brutality. Break things. Shatter people.

I shake my head, panic clawing its way back up my throat. “Jude, please, I can’t⁠—”

He steps closer, cutting me off, and I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, his chest brushing mine, close enough that the world narrows to just this—his presence, his voice, the scent of rain just before lightning strikes.

“You leave with me,” he says, his voice a command, a promise. “Or you go grab Atlas. But you’re not walking out of here by yourself. Not tonight, Phi.”

“I don’t need you,” I force out, my teeth grinding against the lie, clinging to the words I’ve repeated to myself for years. “I don’t need anyone. I’m fine on my own.”

His fingers curl under my chin, lifting it until I’m forced to meet his gaze. There’s no softness there, no room for argument, only something raw and relentless.

“You leave with me, or you don’t leave at all.”

“I don’t want your help,” I whisper, but the words tremble, fragile, and we both know it.

Jude’s eyes darken, something primal flickering in their depths as he steps even closer. His forehead brushes mine, and the heat between us sparks, electric.

“Yes, you do,” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp that ghosts over my lips. “You’ve been begging for it. It’s right there in those tragedy-soaked eyes.”

I need to pull away, I tell myself.

I need to break free from the gravity of him, but I can’t.This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

I’m tethered by the weight of his gaze, drawn in by the intensity burning behind those storm cloud eyes. For a heartbeat, everything else—the party, the noise, the people—fades into nothing but a distant hum, like we’ve been swallowed into a universe where only he and I exist.

“You can hate that it’s me all you want, but that vicious fucking heart of yours? It’s aching to be soft.” Jude pauses, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along my jaw, and I feel my pulse quicken. “Let it, Phi. Let it be gentle, just this once. You deserve that. Worry about it being me later.”

Jude knows.

He knows I can’t run to anyone else. He’s the only one who knows what’s clawing at my insides, the only one standing with me in the ruins of everything I’ve tried to hold together.

I can’t do this alone anymore, and we both know it.

None of the names I was raised to rely on, to lean into when the weight of the world got too heavy, are here. Not one of them can see me like this, stripped bare, standing on the edge of unraveling.

Not a Van Doren, not a Caldwell, Hawthorne, or Pierson.

The only name I have left is the one I was warned away from. The one I was never supposed to trust.

Jude Sinclair is all I have right now.

The worst part?

I don’t feel like a traitor for needing him.