Let Me: New Adult Dark Romance (Vengeful Book 1)

by K. V. Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by K V Rose

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For more information, please contact authorkvrose@outlook.com

  Cover design by German Creative

  Interior formatting by K.V. Rose

  ISBN: 978-1-9991947-5-8 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-9991947-4-1 (ebook)

  To all the good monsters in the world

  Theme Song

  why you gotta kick me when i’m down

  Bring Me The Horizon

  Proceed With Caution

  This book contains adult content, including language, violence, and sexual scenes. Only suitable for those 18+. It is a dark romance.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Present

  I don’t expect to see her here, and when I do, it takes all of the self-control I possess not to shove her up against the wall and start screaming in her face. Not to take that fucking black silk top and rip it to shreds, yank her long hair back and ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.

  But I don’t do that.

  Because this is my parents’ house, and this is a party with far too many eyes and ears. And I’ve been wanting to hurt Riley Larson for three long, miserable years and I’m not going to blow my chance now. Instead, I run a hand down my black blazer and tear my eyes away from her down in the foyer below, hugging my dad as if she isn’t responsible for my younger brother’s death every bit as much as the bullet that went through his skull.

  I clench my hands into fists and stalk down the hall. The hall I grew up on, with him. This whole house makes me feel like I’m drowning in memories of Jack, and I don’t know how my parents stand it. But they refuse to move. They could buy any house they wanted in Toronto, and they choose to stay in this mansion full of trauma.

  I don’t know who the fuck invited her here, either, because I made it very clear she was not welcome anywhere near me the last time I saw her. Not that I’ve spoken to her since then. Not since she was just eighteen, in her last year of high school, and Jack was too, already offered a full ride to half a dozen schools on a basketball scholarship. But only one of them made it to graduation. Three years, and I’ve finished law school. Started a business. I’ve got six years on top of her twenty-one but as I glance at a photo of Jack lining the hall—curly brown hair, hazel eyes, that beautiful smile on his face—I swear to God I’m going to give her a weight of suffering so immense she’ll be begging for an early death.

  But I’ve said that before.

  It was easier when I knew she was in the States. I could put her out of my mind. Now, she’s fucking here. In the house Jack died in.

  “Caden, why don’t you come down?”

  I turn around and see my mother watching me, shadows beneath her eyes. She’s beautiful, she’s always been beautiful, but those shadows haven’t left since Jack died.

  “Ma, I will, I’m just—”

  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, closing the space between us, the marble clicking under her heels. Her hair is a lot like Jack’s, curly and brown, now piled up in an elaborate braid on top of her head. She takes my hands, her red nails glistening in the chandelier overhead. There are way too many fucking chandeliers in this house. “I’m sorry about Riley, but—” she looks down and I know what she’s going to say before she says it, “—Dad wanted her here.”

  I take a breath and let go of her hands, biting my lip for a second. When I meet her gaze, it’s like she knows what I’m going to say before I say it, because she flinches before I even speak.

  “Has Dad always wanted to fuck her?”

  But my mother is no shrinking violet. She backhands me across the face so hard, I swear the entire house goes silent for a second. I put a hand to my cheek, and marvel at the fact that at twenty-seven years old, I’m still getting slapped by my mother, and Riley Larson is floating around our house without a goddamn care in the world.

  “If you ever speak to me like that again, Caden Virani, I will—”

  “What?” I interrupt, angrier now. My hand falls to my side, closes in a fist. “You’ll what, Ma? You know she shouldn’t be here. You know this was her fucking fault!” I slam my fist below the picture of Jack, and it falls to the floor, glass shattering on the white marble tiles.

  For a moment, all I can do is stare at his face. At the suit he wore for graduation photos. A graduation he never got to attend. I see the shattered glass but then it blurs, and I hear the phone call, and I see Riley Larson watching me with wide green eyes as I get the news while I’m with her, while just a moment before my mouth was on hers, and my hands were fucking all over her, because she played us both. She played us both, and in the end, my brother got fucked the most.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, bending down to pick up the glass.

  She stops me with a hand on my arm. “I’ll send Matthew up.” I meet her gaze and nod, and she helps me to my feet. I’m over six feet tall and she’s barely 5’5” in stilettos, but I feel like right now, she’s holding me up.

  After a moment, I turn from her, and she drops her hand, and I walk in the guest bathroom on the hall. I sink to the floor, my head back against the door.

  I’m going to make Riley Larson suffer for everything she ever did to my brother. To me. My family. And I don’t give a damn if I’ve got to shatter more glass to do it. She’s going to get what she deserves.

  Two

  Present

  When I hear the glass shatter, I know without seeing it that it’s about me. I know, because before his dad could pull me into a too-tight hug, I saw Caden standing at the railing above their foyer, murder in his eyes.

  Even from such a distance, I could see the blue irises, knew the flecks of silver. His hair was shorter than the last time I saw him, dark blonde and cut close, showing off the hard lines and angles in his angry, beautiful face.

  But then his dad is on me, and Caden turns away and stalks down the hallway and I feel genuine regret at coming. I didn’t want to come. But Rolland Virani, one of the richest men in Toronto, can be very convincing. Tonigh
t, for his annual summer party, one he throws for the fuck of it, he convinced me to be here.

  His hands slide down my black pants and he whispers in my ear, “You should’ve worn a dress, darling.”

  He’s probably right. It’s late July and hot as hell outside. But I don’t like dresses.

  I pull away from him, and reluctantly, he lets me go. I take him in: The wide shoulders, trim waist, the hair that’s not so different from his oldest son’s. Only son, I have to remind myself. And that reminder hurts.

  Caden thinks I played his brother. Thinks I’m responsible for his death. And while that’s a heavy burden to put on any eighteen-year-old, I did play him, and I played Caden too. I played them both, and they still don’t know the half of it. They don’t know the real lie.

  But I regret it, and even though Rolland’s eyes are boring into mine, as if reminding me of our deal, as if warning me that I best act like I’m enjoying my time here, I hate him for it. I hate him for the brothers he made me tear apart.

  His own sons.

  How he lives with his own guilt, I don’t understand. I’m barely breathing in mine. Being here was never part of the plan. I wanted to stay in the States. I wanted to never set foot in Ontario ever again. But when Rolland calls, I answer.

  When the glass shatters, Rolland glances upstairs, as if he can see all the way down the hall. He turns back to me and shrugs.

  “He’ll be okay,” he says, and I know he doesn’t really believe it. I think he’s hurting for his son, too, but not enough. But I’m here, and even though I haven’t been with Rolland—he stopped being ‘Mr. Virani’ to me a long time ago—in those three years, I’ve been subject to his every beck and call. Even when I moved to the States, even though I’m in a university in North Carolina. Even though I moved my mom into my shitty little apartment, too, because I wouldn’t dare let Rolland taunt me like that. And he tried. God, he tried to control every aspect of my life.

  I fought back as hard as I could to keep myself disentangled from him.

  But even through that, I’m still here. Because at the end of the day, he’s pulling the strings when it comes right down to it.

  “I can’t stay long,” I say breezily, as if Rolland will be okay with that. Even though he won’t. It’s been two months since I was last here. Two months I’ve gotten out of this. As I make to step around him, to head to the back of the house, to the patio around the in-ground pool and the smell of hotdogs and hamburgers and the sound of music thudding outside, he grabs my wrist.

  “You’ll stay as long as I need you to, right, darling?”

  I swallow, nod, force a smile on my face. “Sure,” I answer him, and then I leave him standing there as I yank my wrist from him. I don’t dare look in the sitting room as I pass it on my way out.

  Music greets me from the back patio, although calling it a patio really undersells the property. The Virani house is easily worth ten million, maybe more, and the patio is triple the size of my shithole apartment in North Carolina. Here, there are men in suits, even in this heat, and women in dresses, which at least matches the weather. I’m, of course, in pants, because I’ve never really liked dresses, and the less of me there is exposed to Rolland Virani, the better. He’s a sick fuck, but he’s stayed off of me, physically, for the past three years, so I suppose there’s something to be said for that.

  Not much.

  But something.

  “Wow, Riley, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  I still, my heart skipping a beat in my chest. The way in which Benji says my name, I know he didn’t want to see me here. I feel something tighten in my gut, the gleaming wood of the patio tilting beneath my heels as I turn to face him.

  It’s better than facing Caden.

  Where Caden is dark blonde hair and ice blue eyes, Benji is pure darkness. Dark hair, dark hazel eyes, and that wicked look on his face like he wouldn’t mind throwing me in the pool and holding my head under until I stopped squirming. Even then, I’m not so sure he’d be done with me. But it’s still better than facing Caden. Benji never liked me.

  I swallow, take a glass of something pink—a color I hate—from a passing waiter (because Rolland, of course, spares no expense), and gulp the contents down before I say a single word to Benji.

  “I didn’t expect to be here,” I finally say, the sweet liquor like honey on my tongue.

  Benji smiles, glances at the empty glass and offers to take it. I hesitate. Benji is not a gentleman. I didn’t know much of him or Caden’s other friends, but I know that much. I know he’s been to prison, shortly after Jack died. I know he’ll probably go back, if the world is lucky.

  But he keeps his hand outstretched and because I feel as if everyone’s eyes are on me, even though they probably aren’t—since the video, I’ve been overly paranoid—I hand him the glass.

  Right when I let go, he lowers his hand, and the glass shatters at my feet.

  I step back but stifle the scream that threatens to spill out of my mouth.

  There’s complete silence around us.

  Someone has even turned the music down.

  I’m wearing caged sandals that I didn’t pay for, silver, and I see a shard of glass on one of the leather straps.

  I meet Benji’s eyes, my face heating.

  Then I hear a voice behind me, and that blush spills down through my body, spooling in my core.

  “What happened, Benji?” Caden asks.

  Benji’s eyes slide from my face, to focus on Caden, who is at my back. Benji smiles. “She’s clumsy,” he says without looking at me, “but you know that.”

  I still don’t turn around, and there’s still silence around us, until I hear Caden say, in my ear, “Clean it up.”

  The hair on the nape of my neck stands on end, and I can feel him there, just behind me. But I can’t turn, because if I do, I don’t know what I’ll say or how I’ll even find breath to speak.

  Saving me, I hear Caden’s dad say, “We’ll get Matthew to clean it up, son. Where’s your manners?”

  And then Benji laughs, low and dark, and I turn around and Caden’s eyes lock on mine, just for a fraction of a second. A fraction, because I can’t stand to look at him longer than that. There’s a red mark on his golden skin, which puzzles me, but I don’t try to figure it out. The hatred in his eyes is nearly palpable.

  I look beyond him, to his dad.

  “Sorry,” I say, flustered, but relieved someone finally turned the music back up. “I just…” I shrug, trying to portray a nonchalance I don’t feel. “It just slipped.”

  Caden is still staring at me but I refuse to look at him.

  His dad smiles and shakes his head. “It’s okay, doll, really.”

  I cringe at the name, and Caden scoffs. “She’s no doll, Dad,” he growls, and then he pushes past me, but without touching me. I only feel the air rush between us. I hear him say something to Benji, who laughs again, and then they walk away, their voices fading, people around us beginning to speak together once more.

  Rolland eyes me. “What happened?” he asks quietly. Gently. Because the thing about Rolland is that even though he’s a monster, he pretends to be something else entirely.

  “Nothing,” I say, not sure why I don’t just tell him about Benji. Maybe because I don’t want to cause this family any more trouble than I already have. “Nothing.”

  Rolland’s hand goes to my shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of his golden wedding band in the sun as he reaches for me. My skin crawls with his touch, and I feel sick. “It’s okay, Riley. I’m glad you came.”

  “You’re the only one,” I bite out.

  His fingers curl around my shoulder. “I’m the only one who matters,” he says. But I don’t respond because over his shoulder, his wife has just come out onto the patio, her brown hair in braids coiled on top of her head. She’s glaring at me, and I honestly can’t blame her.

  Rolland, annoyed I’m ignoring him, takes his hand to my chin, tilts my head up, his grip tight. �
��Right, Riley?” he asks, venom in his words.

  I force my eyes back to his. “Right,” I manage.

  He drops my chin, and then turns away from me. I see him stiffen as he catches sight of his wife, because even though Rolland probably has no respect for any woman on this planet, everyone is a little scared of Maria Virani.

  I have to leave.

  I don’t really care what Rolland says, especially as he won’t be saying anything now that Maria has him in her clutches. She’s leaning against him now, his forearm in her manicured fingers, and for all intents and purposes everyone else probably thinks she’s whispering sweet nothings in his ear, but I know better.

  I saw them fight enough when I was with Jack to know there is nothing sweet between them.

  I thread my way through the overdressed people on the patio, some jostling out of my way, others I move myself, not caring who I knock into. I didn’t grow up in this neighborhood, I don’t live in a cul-de-sac of mansions. I never have. They might know my name, know who I am only because of my connection to Jack three years ago, but they know nothing else about me and I owe them nothing.

  I’ve got nothing.

  They have everything.

  It’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I genuinely fell for Jack Virani, and I don’t know what he saw in me—maybe a way out of his rich-kid angst, or something different, something not clad in overpriced dresses with weekly manicure appointments and chauffeured cars—but I wish, not for the first time, he had treated me like shit like nearly everyone else did in high school. I wish he had laughed at my thrifted jeans, at my mom’s nearly broken-down car. I wish he had turned his nose up at me like most people in his circle did.