Prologue: Lola
I remember the first time I felt the violent chill of premonition wreak havoc on my flesh. It was a cold so piercing that my memories are still haunted by the way it penetrated past my outsides. Marring my soul with the reminder that life is merely a waiting game until death’s final act.
It is in moments like these that nightmares are formed.
And it is in places like the one I find myself in today, with my bloodied machete in hand, that nightmares become a reality.
Dreams don’t exist here, only truths that become exposed for better or worse.
And beneath the veil of deception comes the slow and torturous end to what it means to live a life stuck in the clouds.
Wishing, wanting, waiting for things to be like what they appear to be in our dreams.
But dreams are deceiving, because they are simply the lies that our hearts tell us to soften the blow of the wicked truths that always find a way to creep into our lives.
A pessimistic stance, yet it is one I have come to embrace, since I’ve never been much of a dreamer anyway. I’d rather spend my days in an abandoned hell than run to a hollow heaven. So long as I am with them,mis alas, I welcome the burn.
I’ve come to accept my fate and wear my destiny with pride, just like I do the ink that covers my skin.
The ones who don’t understand me, will learn to fear me. Because the girl they have spent their lives discrediting is now the woman who will have the last laugh when she destroys them with a smile on her face and a resolve in her heart.
I no longer fear The Reaper. In fact, I welcome his destruction, because in his quest to destroy me, I learned my worth and found my voice.
Only I can be the author of my story.
Only I can write my end.
1
Lola
“If you wantto feel our hands wrapped around that pretty, little neck of yours again when we share the honor of filling you, be a good girl and just stick to the fucking plan. We are off-limits until the arrangement is terminated. Got it, Morta?”
“Then what?”
“Then, you’ll be ours forever…alive or dead.”
Their stipulation echoes in my mind, along with the mental image of their ink-drawn frames towering over me.
The harshness that entrapped their words was intended to be a warning, but the way it blended with their deep, raspy voices only solidified how alive they made me feel. Even in lucid memory, both of their sultry vibrato’s serenade something deep within my soul, a soul that has felt empty withoutmis alas, my wings, by my side. It’s an attraction, a connection, a bond unlike anything I have ever experienced before.
Their words, much like them, are equal parts rough as they are sensual. Demanding while still being effortless. They both possess traits that are a constant mixture of intoxicating and infuriating. And even in their contradictions, they provide me with everything I need and nothing I don’t.
As I stand here, miles away from them, threading the lanyard that holds the key to my Nightster in between my fingers, I debate if I should heed their warning or pay them a visit.
They should know by now that the only context I will comply with their demands is when I am being fucked by them. Otherwise, it will be a cold day in hell before I allow any man—let alone two—to tell me what to do…anymore. I’ve spent most of my life having to play nice, walking in the shadows of men trying to dictate how I should live, and I’m sick of it. Tonight, I need to see them—the two broken wings that help this fallen angel fly—and no one, not even them, can stop me.
Now securing the nylon material of the keychain in my ready palm, I wrap my fist around the small steel key at the end. My hips sway through my stride as I envision their ink-splashed bodies melting into the music they will be playing at tonight’s carnival.
They forget that their best friend, my brother, Zeke, is incapable of lying to me. All I had to do was bat my eyelashes when I asked him where Pax and Cillian were playing tonight, and he caved almost instantly. Granted, there was less eyelash batting and more “If you don’t tell me where they are, I’ll cut you” vibes on my end, but that is neither here nor there.
A coy smile works its way to my mauve-painted lips from thinking of how vexed they will be when they see me standing in the crowd. My grin widens while running all the scenarios in my head of how they will act on that anger, because as much as keeping apart was part of the plan, keeping their hands off me is a whole other story.
And for my sake, I hope they release their frustrations on me in a twisted, lust-induced fury. Because I’d rather be close enough for either of them to cut off my air than to be cut out of their lives any longer. It’s been months since I’ve had either of them in or on me, but that’s changing tonight.
At least they have each other to comfort and satisfy one another when they feel lonely, but for me, my hand never satisfies my cravings quite like their unified touch on me does.
I knowmis alas,Paxton Collins and Cillian Reyes, believe that this time apart—as torturous as it feels—is to ensure we make it out alive from the mess we have been thrust into. But I know better. All going along with the foolish edicts that define our lives does is buy us some extra time before shit inevitably hits the fan.
