Page 19 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Wren

My heart is pounding, my pulse a rabid animal fighting for survival, as hands wrap cruelly around my throat. A terrible, maniacal face appears in front of me—an unnaturally wide grin stretched across his inhuman face.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I try to fight, but I’m paralyzed. I’m a prisoner in my own body, and there is nothing I can do to stop what is happening to me.

A single tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I feel it. I feel the warm, wet path as it trails across my temple and disappears into my hair line.

I awaken with a startled gasp, the sound of bombs detonating crashing through my skull. Exploding head syndrome, a doctor once told me, is most likely to occur when I awaken suddenly from the REM stage of sleep. The condition is frightening, but it’s harmless.

“Wren?”

A pair of worried brown eyes regard me from the side of my cot, and I recognize Clarissa instantly.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, fighting to steady my breathing, a hand over my heart .

My voice is rough after a night of sleep, the inflammation and bruising having worsened. I swallow, and it aches.

She lays a gentle hand on my arm, her calm presence grounding me. “Take a deep breath, darling. I think you were having a nightmare.”

I nod, my eyes squeezed shut as the ghost of the dream and the phantom sound of explosions fade away. My skin feels damp with sweat, and my entire body aches in more places than I can count.

“Jesus, Wren… your neck.”

The events of last night come rushing back in, and I lift a hand to my tender throat as I imagine what my sore neck must look like this morning. “Ah—yeah, I’m okay, though. I promise.”

Clarissa doesn’t look convinced, her worry growing with every second. “Can I call the police for you, or get you an appointment at Marshall Heights Clinic for a check up?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to be poked and prodded right now, and I really need to get back to job hunting. I’m out of money, and now I’ve lost every single one of my belongings.

My stomach drops, and I cradle my head in my hands.

I’ve lost everything. When I ran away from the church last night, I didn’t realize my attacker had successfully pulled my backpack off of me at some point. I’m sure it’s gone by now. There’s no point trying to find it.

My stack of résumés, my phone, my wallet with my ID, the clothes I bought from the thrift store for interviews—all of it is gone .

“Lorraine stopped me on her way out at shift change. Someone stopped by last night and dropped your backpack off with security.”

For a second, I wonder if I’m still dreaming—caught in the tail end of some hopeful delusion. But when I lift my head, Clarissa is already reaching down and grabbing my pack from beside her on the floor. She sets it on the bed beside me.

Around the room, the other women are either still asleep or quietly getting ready for the day. No one’s paying attention to me, despite the nightmare that loudly yanked me out of sleep just moments ago.

“Who brought it?” I ask, my voice hoarse and my eyes wide as I reach out and grab my pack. I bring it in, clutching it to my chest like it’s a buoy I’ve just found in the middle of a stormy ocean. Relief washes through me.

Clarissa shrugs. “He didn’t leave a name. Kevin just told Lorraine that a man dropped it off.”

It had to be Dominic. He was the only one still breathing when I ran.

“Thank you,” I murmur, shifting slightly so I can unzip the top. The weight of it feels heavier than I remember.

“You’re welcome, darling. Let me know if you need anything.”

I smile in response, and she turns and heads back to the front desk.

As soon as her back is turned, I open my pack.

My phone is sitting right on top of everything, the indicator light blinking.

I grab it and turn it on, checking the newest message, expecting a response from one of the job applications I filled out recently.

Dominic’s name is at the top of my message list. I stare at it like it’s a three-headed monster, before the shock wears off enough for me to tap the screen and open the message.

DOMINIC

Did this find its way back to you?

It was him. Something warm and foreign coils around my heart and gives it a squeeze, before memories of my bloodied hero butchering my attacker come back to the forefront.

He killed someone. Even though he did it for me, that still makes him a killer. That should upset me, right? I should call the cops and turn him in. That’s the right thing to do.

So why am I abandoning that idea as quickly as the world abandoned me?

ME

Yes. Thank you.

It’s all I can think of to say to him. What else could I possibly offer the man that came to my rescue not once, but twice now ?

I set my phone to the side of me and dig into my pack. Shock hits me again when I find things that don’t belong to me. There are four expensive looking protein bars, a large protein shake, and a fresh bottle of water.

My stomach aches immediately, cramping with need. I don’t even hesitate as I crack open the protein shake and take a long sip. The sweet taste of chocolate hits my parched tongue, and I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude.

Another text message comes in, so I set my drink down and pick up my phone.

DOMINIC

You’re welcome, little lamb.

I don’t respond. I don’t know what else to say, not without opening the door for a conversation about what happened last night, and I’m not sure I’m up for that discussion yet.

Instead, I take another sip of the protein shake and dig through my bag again. I find a gift card for a local restaurant—Luce Nera—for two hundred dollars.

I gasp, startled at the amount. A few women still sleeping in nearby cots stir at the noise, and I quickly slap a hand over my mouth to prevent myself from disturbing them again .

I keep digging, my hands going still when I reach into the smaller front pocket of my pack. My fingers brush against what I quickly realize is a neat pile of cash, secured with a band.

My stomach flips, and I stare down at the money like it might detonate. Nausea rolls through me as I try to count the bills without actually removing it from my bag. There has to be nearly five hundred dollars here.

This has to be a mistake.

I grab my phone and begin typing so quickly that I make what feels like a million typos.

ME

Heyy, I think you misplaced some stuff in my backpack. I need you to come get it ASAP. It’s not safe with me when I’m out and about. People like me get robbed often…

DOMINIC

I didn’t misplace anything. And you don’t need to worry. No one will touch you again.

ME

No, Dominic, really. There’s money in here. Cash that doesn’t belong to me. A gift card too. And some other things.

DOMINIC

I didn’t misplace anything, Wren.

I don’t remember ever telling him my name, but the way he uses it now feels like a warning.

ME

Dominic… I can’t accept this. Please, it’s too much. You’ve done too much.

DOMINIC

I haven’t done enough. But I intend to remedy that, little lamb.

I sit there in shock, staring at my backpack, not sure what to do with what Dominic left for me. I’m also not sure how to respond to what he said, but I feel like I can’t do this. This is too much, especially considering the fact that he killed for me last night .

He killed for me.

ME

Please. Take it back. I’m thankful, but it’s too much.

DOMINIC

No.

A heavy sigh slips past my lips, and my skin practically itches with the instinctive need to thank him for everything he’s done, for everything he’s given me, even though it’s too much and I wish he would take it back.

ME

Thank you.

DOMINIC

You’re welcome.

A bell chimes, announcing that we need to leave the shelter for the day, and the women all start to move. The cleaning crew and volunteers will be here soon, so I need to get my morning routine done so I can get back to job hunting.

I join the small group of women and children making their way toward the bathrooms, the noisy shuffling of our feet echoing across the shelter’s tiled floors.

***

I’m exhausted after another long day of job hunting, made worse by a last-minute interview that had me jogging across the city to get there in time.

I’ve pushed myself a little too hard the last few days, and that’s on top of nearly being strangled to death yesterday. My body aches all over, and my voice is hoarse from the bruising to my neck.

It was hard to hide the damage to my body during my interview, and the owner of the café made it clear that she wasn’t interested in hiring someone so troubled. I didn’t have it in me to explain what had happened, especially when I was sure it wouldn’t change her mind about me anyway.

By the time I left, I knew a migraine was coming. I couldn’t stop yawning, and my vision was doing strange things. Not quite an aura yet, but I could feel it coming.

Thanks to the stash of medication I still have, it didn’t completely destroy me when it finally hit. But a migraine is still a migraine. Within ten minutes, I lost my vision completely—everything replaced with prismatic static, nausea, and the familiar crawl of neurological chaos .

I know from experience that if I don’t find a place to rest, at least during the aura phase, my symptoms will get much worse.

So I wander into a quiet park and find a large brick building that looks like a public restroom, hoping to find a safe place to ride it out. With people coming and going all evening, the chances of being mugged are less than if I go somewhere more private.

Behind it stands a massive, old willow tree. Its heavy branches hang low like pale green curtains, shielding me from the bright, setting sun.

As I stand beneath it, I watch the distorted world my brain is painting across reality—a nauseating, shifting kaleidoscope of rainbow sparks and geometric patterns.

With a resigned sigh, I sink down at the base of the tree and lean against the thick trunk, closing my eyes.