by Abigail Cole
Devilishly Damaged
The Shadowed Souls Series Book One
Abigail Cole
~Because we all need a Meg in our lives~
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Avery
Wyatt
Avery
Wyatt
Avery
Dax
Avery
Wyatt
Avery
Axel
Wyatt
Avery
Wyatt
Avery
Garrett
Avery
Huxley
Meg
Dax
Wyatt
Avery
Axel
Wyatt
Avery
Wyatt
Huxley
Avery
Meg
Garrett
Wyatt
Avery
Wyatt
Avery
Thanks!
Avery
“Oh mum,” I sigh, staring longingly at the huge, framed portrait that has been propped onto a makeshift shrine at the front of our recently converted dining room. Her jade coloured eyes glimmer out from the canvas with incredible accuracy to their unique brightness. She was stunning, her rich brunette locks pulled over one shoulder and her usual humble smile on her lips. A stark contrast to my blonde hair/blue eye combo, leaving no one fooled that I am adopted. In the painting, my mum sits regally in her favourite teal chiffon gown, just as she is wearing now, lying in the open coffin filling the right-hand corner of the space.
Shuffling in the doorway at my back pulls me from my thoughts. Mourners begin to filter into the room in fine dresses and suits. It looks more like Milan fashion week than a funeral. But that is what is expected for the death of a famous Hollywood actress. My mum had just won her second Golden Globe which is sitting pride of place on the table between her painting and coffin. Various other trophies and awards cover the red velvet lined counter beneath bay windows, with matching coloured curtains draped over them.
“Avery!” The slender brunette frame of my best friend pushes her way through the crowd with the brute force of a rugby player. A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth for the first time in weeks at the sight of her clambering towards me. Meg has never been phased by the upper-class guests we often have or rich life I now lead. The daughter of my therapist when 13-year-old-me first arrived in the states, Meg was the only one who was able to breach my defensive barriers and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Tackling me into a firm hug, I snigger under my breath at her strength. She may play lacrosse, but the girl is only 5ft 5 and around 115lbs like me. After returning her hug with equal vigour, Meg pulls away to smooth my long hair out of my face. Her pale blue eyes appear grey in the artificial lighting, swimming with unshed tears.
“You look beautiful,” I smirk, realising her long-sleeved black lace dress is almost a replica of mine. Although, as usual, she’s styled it much better with a thin silver belt matching her dangling earrings and clutch. When I arrived in Atlanta as a young teen, I didn’t have an identity, so I quickly latched onto Meg’s - not that she seemed to mind. We have been like twins for the past 6 years and spent every minute of spare time we’ve had together.
“I’ve missed you Ave. How are you holding up?” Meg asks, dragging me down into a seat in the front row. Celebs and those who deem themselves of great importance fill the rows of mauve cushioned seats behind us. At the back of the room, I hear the mumbling of selected journalists and paparazzi enter before the doors are clicked closed. That’s the thing with fame, everything they do is part of an act to uphold appearances.
“I’m okay, I suppose.” I look longingly at the empty seat beside her. “I really thought he would come.” My ‘brother’ has hated me since the second I stepped foot into his family home, but I believed he might have put our differences aside, just for today.
“Don’t let it get you down. You haven’t needed Wyatt before, don’t give him that power over you now.” Meg whispers into my ear as Nixon, my adoptive father, walks down the centre of the space and takes up position by the oil painting. Quickly glancing at the open casket with love in his wrinkling blue eyes, he addresses his audience with more composure than I could have managed.
“Thank you all for coming. It is with great sadness that we say goodbye to my beloved Catherine today. I hope you will join me in celebrating her life and giving her the send-off she deserves.” Nixon’s peppered dark hair has been styled back into a small quiff and he’s wearing an impeccably crisp navy suit that is at odds with the stubble lining his jaw. His eyes settle on me, a look of adoration passing through his features. I love both of my adoptive parents with more than I’d ever thought I was capable of, but Nixon understands my personal reasons for not wanting to call him Dad.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of camera flashes and repetitive eulogies from actors that barely knew her. By the time the service comes to an end, the only thing distracting me from my itchy eyes is the growling in my stomach. Nixon rises from his seat beside me, holding out his arm for me to join him. We stride over to mum’s coffin, taking turns to place one last kiss onto her forehead. Painted perfectly to appear like she is merely sleeping, mum’s long eyelashes fan her rosy cheeks and her hair pools around her like a chocolate puddle.
“Thank you for showing me how to love,” I breathe. Nixon catches the tear that leaks from my eye with the back of his hand before it can land onto the most beautiful corpse to have ever been, pulling me into his side for a hug. His strong heartbeat and cigar scent allow me to briefly hide away from the imposing stares and camera lenses. Turning to walk up the central aisle, bright flashes abruptly assault us as we push our way arm in arm through the crowd of photographers. Blinking several times to banish the sparks from my vision, as the paparazzi focus on other grievers, I find myself focussing on intense emerald green eyes I know all too well.
“Wyatt.” Nixon nods in greeting, not seeming pissed in the slightest that his son missed a majority of his own mother’s funeral. Wyatt’s attention stays directed on me, a scowl claiming all of his features and his teeth are actually bared like a wild animal. His suit sits lazily on his muscled frame, the top few buttons of his white shirt left open to reveal the edges of black ink beneath. I purse my lips at his display, refusing to let him intimidate me today of all days.
The night that I’d found myself in Catherine’s arms had been a complete fluke, she had saved me like an angel in the dark. Running into the back alley behind our run-down house on the outskirts of London on bare feet, I ran directly into a set of bright headlights without caring what hit me, only that something did. My memories of that night are filled with the smell of whiskey, blood coating my skin, the screech of tyres and the comforting cuddles of a couple that had stepped straight out of a magazine to save me. I was on a private jet in plush, new clothes by the end of that week and never looked back. Much to Wyatt’s distaste.
Leaving the only men left in my life behind, I go in search of food and privacy in the kitchen. Meg’s arm slinks into mine as she joins me, reassuring me without needing to speak in the way she always does. We ascend on the pre-laid buffet like savages, filling delicate bone-china plates with a mountain of canapes and amuse-bouchées that are the main reason most celebrities stay so skinny. Meg grabs an open bottle of champagne from an ice bucket on the end of the table and we jog upstairs to my room before the wait staff return.
“How does he get hotter every time he comes home?” My best friend asks the second I shut the door with my foot. Dropping onto my bed, she lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a swig.
“Oh ew. Firstly, he�
��s my brother and secondly, germs!” I giggle for the first time in ages. A stab of guilt shoots through me, knowing I shouldn’t enjoy any of today. But I also know my mum would encourage me to find a slither of happiness whenever I can. She paid for me to have the best therapists, tutors and trainers but above everything, she was the one who healed me with her love and attention.
“Well, he’s not really your brother – as he keeps reminding you.” I roll my eyes, hopping onto the bed next to her as comfortably as this tight dress will allow. Kicking off my heels, I tuck my legs beneath me and accept the bottle she’s offering to me with a smirk.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say, the bubbles from the champagne tingling in my mouth after I take my own sip. “He’ll probably run back to boarding school by tonight. He barely tolerated staying in the same house as me when mum was alive.”
Sadness prickles in my chest at the way Wyatt has acted these past years. Not that I’ve known him any different, but I’ve seen photos. He seemed like a happy child before I came along, but I can’t bring myself to apologise for existing. One summer with me was enough for Wyatt to choose to attend boarding school across the country rather than stay here. He only came home for a few of the holidays over the years, preferring the family he’s made with his ‘gang’ than us.
Spending the rest of the afternoon snacking like only the rich can and binging a new series on Netflix, I can almost forget there is a wake happening downstairs. Although, I see today as more of a performance. I will mourn my mum in my own way and time, without it being splashed across social media or the papers. Changing into our sweatpants and hoodies, we snuggle up under the duvet with a tub of Hagan Dazs and two spoons that Meg managed to sneak down and steal from the freezer without being seen.
It’s a Friday so Meg will be staying here until Sunday night like usual. We often joke her mum and I share joint custody of her, which seems to suit us all perfectly. Her mum, Elena, is a single mum who lives and works on the border of Brookhaven as a therapist to the famous during the week. On the weekends, she likes to attend various workshops and classes, living a quality of life she would have if she hadn’t found herself pregnant with Meg at 17. Not that there’s any resentment there, the pair are more like sisters than mother-daughter.
Orange tones have started to bleed into the sky outside of the French doors leading to my balcony. Car engines signal the departure of guests until the noise on the floor below has decreased significantly. I find that with every muffled goodbye, my heart eases slightly knowing that this difficult day is nearly over. My white wood door abruptly flies open loudly, a 6ft bulky nuisance barely fitting within the frame.
“My Dad wants to speak with us in his office.” His deep voice commands our attention, despite speaking fairly quietly. I didn’t miss the emphasis on ‘my’, not ‘ours’. The death glare in his green eyes leave no room for negotiation, so I jump down from my high bed and follow him to Nixon’s office. I try not to notice he’s shed his suit jacket, his white shirt straining across his broad back, and fail miserably.
After knocking lightly, we step into the dark space. Without the fireplace lit, only the light emanating from a brass lamp on the desk guides us, silhouettes bouncing around the exposed wooden panels of the room. Our shadows move towards the black leather armchairs a moment before we do, taking our place across the desk from a defeated looking Nixon. Holding a glass of bourbon in his hand, the smell of it making me nauseous, he seems to have given up on his appearance for today. His hair is dishevelled, the plum coloured tie hanging uselessly under open buttons to reveal his greying chest hair. The light catches his sharp jaw line and cheek bones perfectly, making him look striking and chilling at the same time.
“Isn’t it pleasant to have you both in the same room at the same time,” his slightly slurred voice echoes around the room. I steal a glance at Wyatt, but he keeps his face forward. A tick beats in his clenched jaw, waiting for his father to continue. “Cathy prayed for the day you two could get along. We figured you’d return home after college, and maybe we could have been a proper family.”
Nixon chuckles to himself, but his pale eyes look blank and glazed. Wyatt’s scowl only deepens in my peripheral vision while I fiddle uncomfortably with the hem of my hoodie. With my ‘brother’s’ four-year bachelor’s degree in computer science, he isn’t due to leave school for another three years yet – not that I believed he would have ever moved back here with me. He already has a pad on the college campus he shares with a group of equally rich and damaged boys from the basketball team. They call themselves The Shadowed Souls, which has always seemed ridiculous to me but each to their own.
“I need to return to my business in New York tomorrow evening. It is imperative that Avery is cared for.” Nixon seems to sober slightly, staring intently at Wyatt as if I’m not in the room. “Luckily, summer break is due to begin in a fortnight. I have already contacted your teachers to have your work sent through electronically so you will be remaining here until the autumn term. I need you to stay and watch over her Wyatt.”
The silence that follows is filled with tension, a physical pressure I can feel pushing onto my chest. Wyatt’s lack of reaction is scaring me more than if he’d flipped the table, his eyes have a murderous look in them. It is true I’ve never been left alone before; Nixon and my mum have always juggled his job in stock exchange with her acting roles so there was always someone here with me. But I definitely don’t need this moody bastard breathing down my neck or trying to kill me in my sleep.
“Seriously, I will be fine Nixon. I don’t need Wyatt to stay with me.” His eyes soften as they land on me, although he is already shaking his head slowly. Reaching over, he takes my hand over the desk, stroking the back with his thumb which draws a noise similar to a growl from Wyatt.
“I promised I would never let anything hurt you again, Avery.” Pulling back, I know I can talk my way out of this. Nixon may be ruthless with everyone else, his son included, but he has always been softer with me.
“I have the tutors here every day during the week, the sessions with Elena every Thursday, Meg is here every weekend and all of the staff you hire. I’d barely even see Wyatt if he were here anyway.” Nixon’s shoulder sag, seeming to ponder my points.
“Seems like I’m not needed, as usual. I need to get going anyway, thanks for the party.” Wyatt rises from his chair and walks towards the door casually. Immediately, Nixon’s posture strengthens and the emotional barrier in his eyes disappears. My nostrils flare in irritation, knowing Wyatt should have kept his mouth shut and let me handle this.
“You are staying right here, Wyatt. Your sister needs protecting when I’m not around and you’ll have to step up!” Nixon slams his fist onto the desk, causing his framed photos and desktop to wobble.
“She’s not my sister!” Wyatt shouts back and suddenly I’m transported back 6 years in my mind to a long summer with a spoilt little shit. His perfectly styled ash brown hair and fancy clothing only enhanced the brat that he was, thinking he deserved whatever he wanted without having to work for it. I understood he couldn’t have foreseen my arrival and I tried for years to find common ground with him. But he always shot me down, so I stopped trying altogether.
Nixon stands from his reclining office chair to his full height which matches Wyatt’s. Striding towards his son, he grabs Wyatt’s shirt in his fist and drags him the last few feet to bring them together. Standing nose to nose, Nixon’s tone lowers to a threatening level I’ve never heard before.
“She has been more a part of this family for the past 6 years than you have. You will keep her safe or so help me, I will cut you off from your allowance and see how you fair. Don’t push me Wyatt.” He shoves his son backwards. With a death glare at me, Wyatt leaves the room and a feeling of foreboding settles over me. My big brother babysitting me seems like a sure-fire way to ensure I’m the very opposite of ‘safe’.
Wyatt
Gripping my phone hard enough to crush it, I m
anage to end the call. After spending forever on hold, the airline company told me it was too late to cancel my flight back to Salt Lake City, so I’ve just wasted my own fucking time. Forcing myself to release the handset, it drops onto the carpeted floor. I started to convert the two-storey pool house into my own mini penthouse a few years ago, during one of the insufferable occasions I couldn’t avoid called me home. The mansion has more than enough bedrooms for guests, but I can’t stand sleeping under the same roof as that reject.
Flicking on the tv, I strip off my suit and lounge on the battered, blue sofa in my boxers since I hadn’t expected to be staying. There will be two babes waiting for me on my bed back in Utah all night, wondering where I am. Sending a short message explaining my situation in our group chat, the rest of the Shadowed Souls instantly respond with ‘be there tomorrow’ and my chest eases a little. Those men are my true family and the thought of being without them was making me spiral.
Each member of our group has a wealthy background, and the lack of real parenting that goes with it. I hadn’t cared that I was raised by nannies, I loved my life and understood the privilege of having famous parents. Until she came along. They brought Avery back from their trip to England like a stray dog who they couldn’t resist rehoming. I still don’t understand the appeal.
But the worst part was how they magically re-coordinated their lives to be with her. I was bought off with possessions and gadgets, but they looked at her like she was the centre of the fucking universe. Suddenly, my parents became interested in having a ‘proper’ family and there was no place for me in it.
A knock sounds against the glass door before it slides open, my father stepping into my shitty living room with a duffle bag in one hand and bottle of whiskey in the other. Throwing the bag onto the coffee table without waiting for me to remove my feet from it, he strides over to take a seat next to me. Removing two glasses from his jacket pocket, he hands one to me before pouring us each a double shot.
