by Selina Marie
THE
SECRETS WE KEEP
SECRETS AND REVELATIONS BOOK ONE
SELINA MARIE
Copyright © 2021 Selina Marie
The Secrets We Keep
Release Date: Spring 2021
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and businesses portrayed in this book are fictitious and the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
No copyright infringement intended. Any music, songs, quotes, celebrity names or lyrics written are entirely the original owner’s property, no claim had been made. All credit goes to the original owner.
Disclaimer: Some scenes, language and themes in this book may be sensitive to readers. Contains mature language, dark themes, triggering situations and explicit sex scenes. Not intended or recommended for anyone under the age of 18.
Edited by: Sarah Plocher, All Encompassing Books.
Proofread by: Amy Briggs, Briggs Consulting LLC.
Cover Design by: Selina Marie via Canva
E-book Formatting by: Selina Marie
CONTENTS PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT & DISCLAIMER
CONTENTS PAGE
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
"Triggered" by Chase Atlantic
"Torn in Two" by Breaking Benjamin
"Sabotage" by Bebe Rexha
"Gods & Monsters" by Lana Del Rey
"Wicked Game" by Stone Sour
"Pillowtalk" by Zayn
"Demons on the Side of My Bed" by Teflon Sega
"The Dark of You" by Breaking Benjamin
"Church" by Chase Atlantic
"Teardrops" by Bring Me The Horizon
"You're Somebody Else" by Flora Cash
"Saints" by Echos
For full Playlist visit:
https://spoti.fi/2QUDDjQ
DEDICATION
To you, may you always remember how beautiful, strong, resillient, and magnificent you are. Even in the darkest times, there is always light within us, we just have to find it, and feed it.
PROLOGUE
Lukas
When I was seven years old, I used to lie awake in my bed, clutching my scruffy stuffed bear close to my chest, praying to God, Santa Claus and even the fucking tooth fairy for my father to take his last breaths. Sounds fucked up. That’s because it was.
My mother’s screams pierced through the winter night, the house eerily silent except for the howling of the wind outside of my window, the whistles sneaking in through the tiny gaps too small for the eye to see.
There were two types of screams that would echo through the house, both made my stomach turn. One was sharp, sudden and high pitched, and usually followed a thud or a crack—a slap against the skin.
The other was like a moan. I never knew what the second one was until I was a few years older.
Each time it happened, I would curl myself into a ball so tight my limbs ached when I finally moved. Tears poured down my cheek as I lay there unable to help her. I was “only a little boy… nothing but a weak disappointment” as my father would say. I was powerless to help her, and the shudders of my little body rocked the bed until there was nothing but silence again, and the gentle creak of my bedroom door being pushed open. I slowly lifted the covers from my head, looking to the door through the haze of my tears.
My mom treaded over to me softly, lowering herself until she was sat on the edge of my bed. Her skin pale, like mine, already bruised and red with the shape of a large handprint wrapped around the top of her arm. I gazed up at her face where her lip was split open, her mouth stained with blood. She never hid her wounds from me, and I know now it was to show me life wasn’t pretty, not some whimsical fairy-tale where pain was an illusion and the only darkness that plagued our lives was the setting of the sun and rising of the moon.
Scooping me up and sitting me in her lap, she flinched. I wanted to get off because I was causing her pain, but I also never wanted to let go. Her arms wound around my little body holding me close.
“My sweet little boy, I want to tell you something that I hope you’ll always remember, even when I’m not here anymore.” Her face tilted down to mine and I nodded. I could see her eyes were glassy.
“There are some people in this world whose hearts don’t understand kindness and compassion, they don’t understand love and sacrifice.” She stroked away the dark hair that had fallen into my eyes as she spoke tenderly.
“Some people who have nothing left in their hearts but hatred, those are the people who need love the most, even when they try to fight it, even when it seems impossible to show them the light, show it to them anyway,” she told me, her voice soothing, like music.
“Daddy says that love and compassion are a weakness,” I said, my voice cracking. My mother held me tighter.
“Your father is a complex man, one I fear is beyond redemption, but the one thing I know with every part of me, is that to give love and show compassion will always make you the strongest person in the room.”
Light from the hallway danced across my bedroom wall as my door was pushed open a little more, where my older brother Elijah stood there in his pajamas, waiting in the doorway. Mom lifted her arm out like a wing, gesturing for him to come and join us, which he did.
Each of her delicate arms wrapped around us tightly, and she kissed our heads.
“My warriors, I have something for you that I want you to share, you can take it in turns to wear,” she said. Unwinding herself from around us, she reached around her neck and pulled out a locket. There was a tiny key that tucked straight down the center of the thick silver metal.
Pulling it out and twisting it, she opened the locket and there was a photo of all three of us from when we went on a vacation without my father the previous summer.
It was the best vacation we had ever been on; full of happiness, laughter until our tummy’s hurt, ice cream smiles, and hugs that warmed you straight to the bone.
My mom stood and turned to us, crouching down until she wa
s holding our hands looking up into our innocent eyes.
“I want you both to promise me something. I want you to always fight for the good, never give up on the innocent and—” She moved her hands, so they were pressed lightly on each of our hearts, gently patting. “Never turn out the light in here.”
That was the last vacation we went on with my mother. After that, the beatings continued and my father didn’t allow us to go anywhere unless he was present. The dark, ominous cloud hung over us dulling the light in my mother every moment he got.
It wasn’t until she had gone, that the light started to fade from me too. Each time I held the locket, I felt her love and her light, begging me to remember those words she had told me that night in my room.
They say you become the product of the people you spend the most time with, and unfortunately for me—other than Nate and Elijah—that was my father Viktor Elin, Alexander Grayson, and Andrew Caper.
Which meant two things, that the light inside of my heart fizzled out, and I broke my promise to my mother.
CHAPTER ONE
Emilia
Pressure threatens to crush my windpipe as his fingers dig into my throat, squeezing tight like a boa constrictor as he holds me under.
My lungs burn fiercely, as if someone had struck a match in the center of my chest. He yanks my head up out of the water, submerging me only a second later before I can frantically suck in another breath.
As the seconds tick by and my thrashing body slows, my mind goes quiet, and I feel oddly peaceful. Strangely enough, I am not afraid anymore.
Whether that is due to the fact that my brain was deprived of oxygen and I was reaching a state of deficiency, insanity, or death, who knows?
Well, I know, because I didn’t die.
The sound of running water lulls in the background, drawing me out of my subconscious. My body registers the silky softness underneath my skin first, caressing me from the fog in my mind. My sense of touch and smell increases, as I haven’t opened my eyes yet, and I am acutely aware this isn’t my bedroom. I can feel the spaciousness around me instead of the claustrophobic energy of my own room. I’m also pretty sure I can hear the ocean.
My hair is wet, and my throat is dry, and feels like knives are scraping at my airways each time I take a breath; at least I know I wasn’t having a nightmare.
The energy shifts right before I open my eyes to look at my surroundings, and I can feel someone in the room with me. I can sense their stare burning into and right through my body.
Anxiety lingers in my stomach and makes me want to keep my eyes shut tight, so I don’t have to face what might be on the other side of my eyelids.
Reality is overrated, but maybe that’s easy for someone like me to say. I don’t live a life most dream of, but I stand tall, pick the gravel out of my wounds, dust myself off and get on with it. There is no other option for me.
Sometimes life is shit, but it’s the attitude you give out—what you give is what you get back. I like to believe that’s true. I like to believe in karma, and I for one, hope that karma is as brutal as they say she is. I hope she is a raging bitch.
Slowly, I peel my eyes open, and don’t regret it one bit, my breath gets stuck in my throat when I'm met with ocean blue eyes, literally.
The shade of cornflower blue, how beautiful. They are strained though, as if something is burdening them. They know hardship; I can sense it flickering in their depths.
My gaze follows the path down his face to his pointed nose, and a pair of perfect lips that look so delicious I wonder how soft they might be against mine. I take in the rest of his face, his jawline so sharp I swear it might cut if I were to touch him.
The powerful energy that radiates from his eyes and every feature screams masculinity, an alpha male.
As I slowly lift my head, he stays rooted in his spot, motionless, but his eyes, those gorgeous eyes, are fixated on me. I can feel his stare without even watching him, and my nerves fire up purely from the intense energy exuding from him.
I sit up and scan the room, taking in every detail—just in case I need to tell the police if he turns out to be a psychopath, and I end up being one of the lucky ones who escape. There goes my mind on a tangent and at the most unideal time.
Deep, navy-blue painted walls, with rich, wooden furniture dotted around the room in a very strategic fashion, not a single thing out of place, no clothes scattered around the floor or dumped in a corner; it seems like everything that has a place, is in it.
The space and everything about it is all powerful and dominating, but surprisingly not as dark as one might imagine. Huge glass windows cover an entire wall, which welcomes the sunlight streaming in through the partially closed blinds. It could be sunrise or sunset. It’s in that moment when my brain finally catches up with reality that I realize, I don’t know where I am, who I’m with, or what happened.
Blue eyes clears his throat and looks down his nose at me, with a pinched expression I can only decipher as irritated. As if I disrupted him. I didn’t.
Who gets pissed at the person they kidnapped and brought into their own space?
"Who are you, and where the fuck am I?” I ask. He looks frustrated and bored by my questions, but there’s a spark of intrigue there too.
A small smirk grows on the side of his mouth but quickly disappears before it can become anything else.
"Here," he says, thrusting a water bottle toward my hands. “You sound like you need a drink,” he supplies with a blasé tone to his voice. He’s right, I can’t deny that the scratchy croak in my voice makes me sound like a water deprived hag. I take the water, growing agitated by the second that he didn’t answer my questions.
"You didn't answer my questions. Tell me where I am and who you are," I demand, emphasizing each word—he obviously heard me. He is standing literally three feet away. If he wants to act like an idiot, I’ll treat him like one.
"Well, that's not very polite now, is it? Here I am just trying to keep you alive… and not one thank you." His sarcastic remark with the same smirk as before makes me want to smack it off his gorgeous face. Something seems off with this man.
I now assume he’s the reason I’m still alive, and in many ways his words just confirmed it.
But the way he looks at me, as if he despises me, sends shivers through my body. I don’t even know the guy.
Shouldn’t he be asking me questions like, what's your name, what year is it, blah, blah, blah...? Like a normal person would, who had just saved someone from a seriously fucked up situation.
I swing my legs off the bed with a lot more ease than my muscles should allow. I've had enough of this prick. If he isn’t going to say anything helpful, I’m out of here. I know I sound like an ungrateful bitch, I know. But I’ve had enough. I am so mentally and physically exhausted.
I don’t have a lot of options and as fucked up as it is to admit, maybe it’s better to be with the devil you know.
There is a part of me that desperately craves safety, for someone to wrap me up like a new-born baby and swaddle me tight and keep me safe from the big bad world. That part of me wants me to stay, and I can’t imagine why.
I don’t think this man will hurt me, not physically anyway, but I don’t want to find out. Then why do I feel a physical ache in my chest when I think of leaving here and going back home?
That’s when I check myself, because this isn’t my home. This is a stranger, and in all honesty, I know I’m not exactly making it easy, but I don’t feel the slightest bit of warmth from him right now and am pretty certain the last thing he would want would be for me to stay.
My limbs burn and ache when I slowly lift my body from the mattress. Cuts and scars decorate my skin, some from tonight but most are my little reminders of what waits for me at home.
I do my best to cover my body in modest clothing most days, meaning the majority of the scars aren't visible, they're hidden.
Which reminds me, the usual sensation of my blood circulation
being cut off from my legs from wearing skinny jeans that are too tight, is gone.
I glance down noticing the huge, baggy T-shirt I’m wearing, and it definitely isn’t mine. My torso is drowning in the soft navy material that feels expensive against my skin and falls loosely down to the tops of my thighs. I’m grateful he didn’t leave me completely naked, at least some of my dignity was left intact.
Each time my chest rises and falls, my breasts brush against the fabric, reminding me how naked I am underneath his shirt, and the slight breeze I feel between my legs doesn’t help either.
Humiliation and anxiety swim in my belly, doing somersaults and speeding up my heart rate when I think about how this man has seen me naked and completely bare.
It means he saw my body, the body that carries too many sordid memories that come with every mark on its surface, straight down through each layer of skin, through the muscle, the blood and down to the marrow in my bones. Every mark that is stained into my skin—my soul—is irreversible and I can’t stand it.
Lifting my gaze to his, I can see the heat in his eyes, he likes what he sees. There’s a feeling of unease that swells in my belly, and I can’t decide if the hunger in his stare creeps me out or turns me on.
