Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

“Melanie!”

The feminine voice reaches me before its owner collides into my chest. I hold my position as a girl, wearing a long coat the same colour as the dog’s ribbons, stumbles and falls on her arse.

“Ouch!”

With the grace of an athlete, she rises to her feet. “What were you—” The girl cuts off when she meets my stare.

Under the dim street lights, her skin appears too pale to be real. Or is it because of the light? With a round petite face, an odd shade of grey-blonde hair, held in a long ponytail, and wide blue eyes, she can pass for a porcelain doll.

A loud beauty. The kind you’d spot right away amongst a crowd. It’s like the redness of blood against white surfaces.

The unrelenting gaze of her intense, blue eyes is like a bottomless ocean. Diving, drowning, I stare back— fascination gripping me by the gut.

From her stiffening posture, I can tell she doesn’t like me. Yet, her gaze sparkles with determination, as if she’s trying to figure me out.

Foolish.

If she only knew what resides in my head. I can spend days watching blood flow from her every pore, with those enthralling eyes staring at me.

No. She’s way off the charts, and my one-way ticket to the asylum if I attempt to squeeze the life out of her compelling body.

The girl lowers her head and takes a deep breath. “You bumped into me. You’re supposed to apologise.”

Her wide eyes and shaky whisper sends a jolt down my spine. Throbbing veins under her translucent skin desperately call for my knife.

‘Her blood will be a great addition to our collection,’ Aunt hums. ‘We can use more female targets.’

‘Stop.’ Mother makes her first appearance in three days, her voice detached but soft. ‘She’s an innocent girl.’

“You better disappear from my sight,” I say, tone steady and low.

The girl’s mouth opens, as if to speak, then quickly closes. Her fingers are unsteady as she hunches down to scoop the dog off the ground. With a sharp breath, she backs away, never taking her attention off me.

She shouldn’t do that.

Showing fear entices me. Morbidly so. It gives my monsters reasons to stir and plan an ugly end.

Still walking backwards, the girl picks up her pace, turns, and dashes in the opposite direction.

‘Follow her.’

‘You already denied us a kill.’

‘Can you afford to disobey us twice in one night?’

‘Madness will be waiting.’

Father and Aunt speak at the same time, their voices intertwining, rising, rambling. I hate it when they do that. If I don’t give them what they want, I’ll be denied of sleep tonight.

Fuck it.

I inspect my surroundings before scurrying to the path the girl took. With composed steps, I sneak through shadows and catch up with her in a few minutes.

Her heels slow her escape. Their clanks interrupt the calm night and mask my already hushed footsteps.

The girl stumbles a few times, but not once does she look sideways or behind her.

A few streets later, she stops in front of a two-storey house in an elegant street lit by two yellow lamps.