by Nyla K
NYLA K
Copyright © 2020 Nyla K
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jada D’Lee Designs.
Model: Mario Hervas
Formatting by Julia Scott, Evenstar Books
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7359162-0-0
eBook ASIN: B08HYJFXFZ
To Burn In Brutal Rapture is the intellectual property of Nyla K.
Except permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, popular culture, corporations, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to all the unapologetic readers out there. The readers of dirty, smutty works of depraved fiction, the proud holders of dark, taboo romance.
Forever shame me, Karen. I’ll just sit here reading the best sex you’ll never have.
From the author of PUSH comes a new epic tale of unexpected forbidden romance . . .
The ache of tragedy sunk deep, like the claws of a wicked monster.
To heal was to remember what my godfather told me when I was six…
Pain is a part of life. If you prepare for it, it will hurt less.
He would know, after all. Lazarus Weston is pain personified.
The scowling man with stormy eyes and tattoos covering his excessive muscles is not only my godfather, but also my dad’s business partner and best friend. A permanent fixture in our lives. Well, in Dad’s, not mine.
But when grief mixes with confusing new feelings, I’m forced to see Lazarus differently, in a way that severely complicates my world.
Because he’s too old for me. He’ll never be mine.
I’m not allowed to have him, but obsession burns a fine line between can’t and won’t.
I can’t want her…
The curse on my heart is heavy, the tale of my malediction drenched in brutal loss. Wearing ink like scars reminds me of the tomb I left behind.
I’ve been expecting pain all my life, yet I’m still unprepared, failing to see my downfall until she’s wrapped around my soul like barbed wire.
Tracien Wright. My best friend’s daughter. Part of my life strictly through association. She was never meant to be more than that.
But Traci is a trickster. A skilled predator in the most unexpected package, oblivious to her own power.
She’ll learn the hard way that not all beasts should be hunted.
I’m not what she thinks I am, having rose from a pit, only to bury myself in secrets and lies.
Deep down I’d love nothing more than to have her. But I don’t get to keep nice things.
Burn with me, Lazarus.
Foreword
The first thing I’ll say about this book is that, without a doubt, it needs to be read without spoilers. Even if you’re someone who isn’t deterred from a story after hearing what happens, TRUST ME, in this book, it is absolutely best to go in blind.
I’ve written the blurb to spoil nothing. Please refrain from reading reviews that contain spoilers, though hopefully my readers will understand enough after experiencing this book that spoiling it in reviews is a dick move. I’m telling you, it’s better this way.
Just trust me, ‘kay?
The second thing is that this book could contain triggers. I say could because triggers are subjective. What is triggering to one person, is enlivening to someone else. Please bear this in mind going into it.
This book contains a significant age gap and follows the heroine from the time that she is twelve years old. There are taboo subjects that may be too much for some readers. If you’re someone who gets squeamish over theoretically underage characters doing grown-up stuff, this book isn’t for you, not even slightly. Because that’s what happens.
I don’t believe things in life are black and white, but not everyone shares my views on this. So if books that deal with tough subjects, many of which center around someone being under eighteen, make you uncomfortable then don’t read this book. Plain and simple.
Take this as your warning. If you’re easily offended, even if you think you aren’t but are unsure about the age gap thing, you might want to sit this one out.
And if you read this note and then complain later, I have no sympathy for you.
Just sayin.
Enjoy the burn ;)
**TBIBR is a standalone novel which contains sensitive subjects that may be triggering to some. Open-minded readers only! Please do not read or post spoilers.**
Brutal Rapture: The Playlist
Available for download on Google Play Music and Spotify
Lazarus - David Bowie
The Funeral - Band of Horses
Ophelia - The Lumineers
2 Become 1 - Spice Girls
Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls
Who Do You Think You Are - Spice Girls
Daughters - John Mayer
stupid - Tate McRae
breathin - Ariana Grande
Girlfriend - Avril Lavigne
Find U Again (feat. Camila Cabello) - Mark Ronson
I Can’t Fall in Love Without You - Zara Larsson
Freaking Me Out - Ava Max
New - Daya
ocean eyes - Billie Eilish
Lost in Yesterday - Tame Impala
It’s You - Ali Gatie
Find You - Nick Jonas
My Oh My (feat. DaBaby) - Camila Cabello
Working For It - ZHU
Lush Life - Zara Larsson
Crave You (Adventure Club Remix) - Flight Facilities
Takeaway (feat. Lennon Stella) - The Chainsmokers
Adore You - Harry Styles
Lollipop - Lil Wayne
WOW - Zara Larsson
Body Say - Demi Lovato
PILLOWTALK - ZAYN
Truly Madly Deeply - Savage Garden
In Your Eyes - Peter Gabriel
Close To Me - Ellie Goulding
Be Kind (Stripped) – Marshmello & Halsey
When I Look At You - Miley Cyrus
Tompkins Square Park - Mumford & Sons
Don’t Say (feat. Emily Warren) - The Chainsmokers
Window - The Album Leaf
Back To Life - Hailee Steinfeld
Lazarus - Sadistik
Finally Moving - Pretty Lights
Lover (Remix)(feat. Shawn Mendes) - Taylor Swift
Burn the Night - Stick Figure
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Lazarus - G-Eazy
Prologue
Traci
What kind of fresh Hell is this?
My eyelids struggle to lift enough. They’re heavy like weighted doors, and my vision behind them is blurred and cloudy. I lift a hand to rub them open, but something catches me and it stings.
Eventually my eyes adjust to being open, and to the dim light in this room, and that’s when I notice there’s a tube sticking out of my arm. And a beeping noise coming from my right.
I can barely swallow, my throat is so scratchy. It burns like it’s on fire. A sterile smell invades my nose, and it brings on a wave of memories to hurt my heart a million times worse than my head is pounding. Faded, choppy images flash through my subconscious, cracked and worn like a broken slide projector. They’re here, but not quite.
Why am I here now?
I try raising my head, but it weighs a hundred pounds.
What is happening??
Rolling my neck, I observe more of the scenery. Next to the machines I’m hooked up to is Dad. He’s asleep in a chair, pulled right to the edge of my hospital bed. He looks disheveled and exhausted in his state of obviously uneasy sleep.
More recent memories trickle in, and now I know exactly where I am… And why.
My heart lurches inside my weakened chest as a wicked tremble sweeps over. Regret fills me like sand, making me heavier, while awareness of my situation sheets my skin with a chill.
Now that the realization of what I’ve done is bounding back to me, I feel even worse than when I first woke up. I’m physically sick, emotionally drained and weakness is defining me.
I can’t remember what I was thinking before I did what I did, but I know why I did it. And looking at Dad, twitching in his sleep right next to me, I feel nothing but a desperate guilt. It itches, like millions of tiny needles pricking me from the inside. I can’t breathe and the rapid beeping from the machine next to me verifies my sudden increase in blood pressure.
Just as I’m about to claw at my throat, movement catches my eye and my head darts to the left, toward the hospital room door. Even that hurts.
I see nothing, but my awareness is suddenly heightened. I know someone was outside that door, looking in through the window. Watching me.
And I know who it was.
My stomach twists into an even larger knot, and I try over and over to swallow, but it won’t take. Pressing the button for a nurse, I’m overcome with jittery unease.
He was here.
He came to see me…
My body tingles with fear and anticipation.
Checking on Dad again, I breathe out a shaky one.
What have I done?
Chapter One
Traci
Past…
This notion of emptiness is a bit baffling. I’m a human being, after all.
My body, my shell, contains many things. Bones, organs, tissue, blood, membranes… There’s a lot in there. And yet right now, I feel completely hollow.
I’m not. I’m ninety-five pounds of flesh with a pumping heart and a functioning brain, aware that this whole thing is just grief. Even as a kid, I know this.
We were prepared for it. We knew it was coming. But that doesn’t make it any less devastating.
My head swivels left. Then right. All these people, in my house, mulling about in their black dresses and suits… Munching on crudités and whispering about this and that, likely wondering when it’s socially acceptable to leave.
How long does one stay at a funeral reception, anyway? Twenty minutes? Forty-five?
An hour seems long.
My back hits a wall behind me, and I melt into the shadows. I don’t want any more of these people communicating with me. I just want to be left alone, like I’m used to.
Invisible… Like I truly will be, now that she’s gone.
Across the room, people pat Dad on the shoulder. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, which is accurate. I don’t have to see him in his room at night to know he hasn’t been sleeping since she passed. And even before that.
How would one sleep while the love of their life is dying? My father was afraid to leave her side for one minute, let alone close his eyes for hours at a time. He didn’t want to miss a breath in case it was her last. A facial expression, a murmur, a cough, a cringe… He needed every last one of them.
But not me. It pained me to see her like that, knowing she would be gone soon. Pancreatic cancer isn’t something people survive often. I may be only twelve years old, but I’m not stupid. I know how to use the internet. The statistics speak for themselves. The disease is a literal death-sentence.
The corner of Dad’s mouth struggles to curve up as if he’s attempting to smile at the person speaking to him, but it just won’t work. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears, and I have to turn away before I burst into some myself.
I’ve cried enough today. I honestly don’t know if they would even come out at this point.
Just as it looks like Dad is about to break, Lazarus swoops in, like the loyal protector of my parents he always has been. He steps in front of the person talking to Dad, a bit rudely, though Lazarus Weston has never given a shit what people think of him, and guides my father toward the veranda to get some air. I watch as my father’s best friend disappears with the only parent I have left, out the doors to our backyard area.
I’m glad Dad has Lazarus. He needs someone right now to distract him from his anguish. It can’t be me. I’m dealing with my own grief.
I just lost my mother. The person who knew me best in this world. Or, one would argue, the only person who knew me.
I’m a loner. I don’t have many friends, and I’ve always been like this. I prefer to be alone, reading, talking to my stuffed animals, dancing and singing in my room. Mom was the only person who got that. She would sit on the floor with her back against my bed and watch my performances of her favorite Britney Spears songs. She would smile and laugh and cheer for me.
I didn’t need anyone else.
Sure, maybe Dad. But my relationship with my father is different. He takes care of Mom and me together. He works long hours, sustaining his empire, so that his girls never have to worry about a thing. He brings home pizza or Chinese when he knows Mom doesn’t want to cook, and we all eat together in the living room, laughing and watching dumb TV shows. How he always knows exactly when Mom doesn’t feel like cooking I’ll never know. But he does. Sorry… Did.
Damien Wright is good like that. And his wife was the other half of his person.
Now he’s split down the middle. I can relate.
I’m getting ready to flee, but a hand grips my shoulder, holding me in place. I turn and my muscles relax when I see it’s Grampa Frankie and Grampy Pete. My dearly departed mother’s fathers.
“Hey, kiddo,” Peter rasps to me with nothing but sympathy in his voice. For me, and for himself. “How are you holding up? Do you need anything?”
I shake my head, eyes focused on Frankie. He’s the more emotional of the two and he’s looked on the verge of a breakdown all day. Not that I could blame him…
No one’s supposed to lose a thirty-four-year-old daughter.
“We’re here for you, muffin,” Grampy Pete smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I told your dad we’ll stay as long as you guys need.”
A sob escapes Grampa Frankie, and he covers his face. Pete wraps an arm around him and drags him away before he can start blubbering in front of their granddaughter.
My eyeballs vibrate and I think his emotions are contagious, because I’m about to lose it.
I can’t do this.
My breathing becomes labored and my vision swims. I reach out for the nearest piece of furniture and realize it’s a door handle. So I twist it and swoop myself into the room, the study, closing the door behind me while sucking in a long stream of air. My hands are trembling and I’m so tired I want to lie down on the floor and die with her.
Instead, my legs walk me around the room as I observe all the framed photos of my mom in here. They’re everywhere. My parents love decorating our house with family photos, and since the study is mostly Dad’s domain, a majority of the pictures are of his other half.
Of course I’m in here too, but I only spot one or two of just me. The rest are of me and Mom, or the three of us. They’re great photos, but looking at them now slices at what little feeling I have left in my chest, like someone is sticking razor blades between my ribs.
Picking up a frame, I gaze at the gorgeous blonde in the picture. An angel.
Never had there been a more beautiful woman. Big blue eyes, full lips that were permanently pink, high, slender cheekbones that models would kill for.
Everything about Ophelia Wright was perfect. Together, she and Dad looked like they belonged on Hollywood billboards.
And then there’s me. The static in their seamless radio waves. The distortion in their crystal-clear pixels.
A noise from behind causes me to falter and almost drop the frame. I glance up quickly, and guiltily, although I’m doing nothing wrong.
Bright gray eyes and jet black hair are the first things I see. And I release a breath because it’s just Lazarus.
Lazarus Weston. My father’s best friend and business partner. Basically, like his brother.
They’ve known each other since they were in high school. And Dad met Mom their sophomore year of college, so Lazarus was Mom’s best friend, too. The three of them were always together, practically family, which solidified Lazarus in my world. They actually made him my godfather, strangely enough, because he’s not exactly a kids guy.
Still, I grew up around him. Like a beloved family pet, only much more intimidating.
Lazarus steps over to where I’m standing and I check back on the framed photo in my hands. It’s a picture of my mom and dad on their wedding day. He walks right up to my side and peers at the photograph.
And we both stare down at it in silence. The picture of the two people who mean the most to us, knowing full well that if the picture was extended by a few inches, you’d see Lazarus, standing next to Dad in his tux, smiling with his best friends, celebrating their wedding day alongside them.
But now we’re grieving. A grown man, and a child. Both of our lives ripped to shreds. Hearts chewed up and spit out.
I look up at Lazarus, gulping because his presence has always been overwhelming. I don’t know what it is about him, but he makes me nervous.
Maybe it’s the way he never smiles at anything other than Dad and Mom. How he walks around scowling like life has done nothing but piss him off. I suppose I understand why, because from what I’ve heard, he had a hard beginning to his life. But still… He’s a billionaire now.
And yet he never looks truly satisfied.
Lazarus surprises me by gazing down into my eyes. And for the first time in my entire life, in all my memories of this man, he’s not looking at me like I’m a problem that needs a solution; like a kid who needs coddling he isn’t equipped to give.
