Twisted Secrets Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Ace Gray

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song lyrics, and song titles contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders. The author concedes to the trademarked status and trademark owners of the products mentioned in this fiction novel and recognizes that they have been used without permission. The use and publication of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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

  Cover Design by Bex Harper Designs

  Editing by Gray Ink

  Formatting by Elaine York of Allusion Graphics, LLC

  Prologue

  Filly

  Brye

  Present Day

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  Six Months Later

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  Exclusive Bonus Scenes

  Pretty Young Things Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements

  Books by Ace Gray

  About Ace Gray

  My whole life, there had only been one rule. Don’t go to Chicago. It always made me feel like a damsel in distress, trapped in a tower. But my life was filled with kings and queens and the most noble knights and I didn’t need another fairytale.

  I needed a bad boy.

  Brye McCowan was just that. He was smooth, and seductive. Dark, dangerous and downright drool worthy too. I saw trouble swirling around him in place of a shadow. He was my one rule personified.

  And I couldn’t stop myself from kissing him.

  Which was right about the time that whole fairytale thing kicked back in. Only this time I wasn’t surrounded by heroes. These were the villains, wicked and vengeful. And Brye was one of them. When all was said and done, when all the blood was spilled, the only thing more tormenting than the dungeon he threw me in was knowing it was my family’s twisted secrets that put me there.

  To those who break down and let others build them back up.

  It takes more strength than you know.

  To Sarah Grim Sentz who broke me down and put me back together even better.

  My parents raised me steeped in art and stories, paint and poetry. I knew the great sculptures of the world, the breathtaking bush strokes of the masters. My childhood had unfurled like its own work of wonder as we traipsed around the world. Make-believe was my only friend, but its ever-changing intrigue kept me better company than I deserved.

  The world around me was beautiful and free. The world around me was perfect.

  I’d only ever had three rules. Always stay where we can see you. Never speak to strangers, certainly don’t tell them your name. And for the love of all that is holy, don’t go anywhere near Chicago.

  We’d traveled to the ruins of Machu Picchu, inspiring my carvings coated in gold. We’d run through the Scottish highlands and for months, every story I knew was shrouded in mist. The Dolomites had inspired a snow bunny phase and Thailand a Buddhist one. But we never went near the American Midwest.

  Art had been the only constant in my life. Sketches, sculpture, paint, and prose. And of course my family.

  We’d always been unique. I was an American kid home-schooled in Mexico floating on the wind to Paris and back. We had money to move mountains—I saw the piles of it under our floorboards—but we lived simply. Family was the currency we really traded in. My uncles, Horse and Conrad, were as close to my side as my mom and dad. I loved them. Fiercely. But…

  They were protective. Sometimes overly so. Just like my parents. There was a hard edge to their watchfulness, suspicion even. And though I’d flown to the far corners of the globe, and painted doves and gulls and angels above, I felt as though I’d never really unfurled my wings. They were itching to unwind.

  “Filly?” Uncle Horse stared deep into my face, his brows quirked up awaiting my answer to a question I hadn’t heard.

  “What? Hummmm?” I shook my head a little as I fully focused back on him.

  “What are you going to tell them?” He cocked his head and pressed his finger to his temple as he studied me.

  I started a few times, only to flop like a little goldfish out of my bowl.

  “Oh, Filly Bean,” he used his favorite nickname for me when his face softened. “You need an ironclad argument for going to The States for school and you know it. Don’t half-ass this.”

  “They’re going to say no,” I whined and reached for my glass of sparkling water, my thumb tracing shapes in the condensation.

  “Hey,” he said softly as his giant hand crooked beneath my chin and lifted my eyes to mine. “Of all the things this family is, quitters is not one of them.” He smiled at me and my insides felt like warm cocoa. “Disbelievers is the other.”

  “But…” My voice trailed off. “You know how they feel about The States.”

  Something flashed behind his eyes, a darkness I caught from time to time, but then he squashed it and his easy, sweet face was back.

  “It’s just Chicago, Bean. They’ll be okay with San Francisco.” He rubbed his thumb across my chin then let his hand drop. “So give me the pitch again.”

  We’d been trying to nail my verbiage down before I sat down with my folks and prayed. I sucked in a deep breath, ready to try again.

  “If you’re going to San Francisco…” Uncle Conrad came in singing. The first syllable of my speech froze on my tongue.

  “Knock it off, Pie,” Uncle Horse scolded.

  “They’re going to give you anything you want,” Uncle Conrad whispered as he leaned in to kiss my forehead, his pink bathrobe brushing my nervously shuffling fingertips.

  “Impromptu family meeting?” My dad walked into the room and swallowed the air in one gulp. His green eyes were so close to mine, and they did a better job than anyone stripping me down to my secrets.

  “No,” Uncle Horse answered.

  “We wouldn’t dare scheme behind your back, Cole.” Uncle Conrad rolled his eyes as he reached for a cucumber in the fridge and started to slice eye-sized pieces.

  Something rippled out from my dad’s shoulders, something almost terrifying, but then Uncle Horse reached for his hand where he clutched the counter. He wove his fingers into my dad’s and squeezed.

  “No one’s scheming, Cole. Filly just has a question.” Uncle Horse turned up the temperature and dissipated anxiety all at once.

>   I swallowed hard and met my dad’s unyielding eyes. Their strength and fortitude usually brought me strength, but when I was about to be a gently lapping wave against the fortress he could be, I withered.

  “What’s going on in here?” My mom’s small voice barely preceded her small hands wrapping around my dad’s shoulders.

  Her bright blonde waves matched mine and her smile twitched up in the same way mine tended to. Her subtle way of manipulating the boys around her, her quiet resilience, were things I tried to replicate. The way she smashed apart the hard in my dad’s eyes gave me courage.

  “I know where I want to go to art school,” I said as confidently as I possibly could.

  My dad snarled, but my mom straightened her small spine and swatted his shoulder.

  “Okay, shoot,” she said warmly as she came closer and collected my hands in hers.

  I chanced a look up at her and read the worry plainly creasing her face. My eyes fell to her forearm and traced the scar I knew so well, the one that had decimated my dad’s nickname for her. Ladylove. They’d never told me how she got it, but I suspected it had to do with the shadows that hung around conversations like this.

  “Well, see, I wanna go somewhere with an institute, but also museums and an indie scene.” The city rose in the periphery of my vision while my mom’s fingers tensed in mine. “I know Manhattan made you two a little queasy, but I really want to be in the U.S. I mean, we’ve spent the least amount of time there, and the movements there are so different than Copenhagen or Paris.”

  My dad straightened and reached his ink covered hand over the top of where Mom held mine. “You cannot go to Chicago,” he said it sternly, but there was a layer of fear in there too. A wild shiver rolled up and down my spine, a small bit of exhilaration combined with the worry they’d managed to instill in the pit of my stomach.

  “I know not Chicago, Dad.” I smiled up at him and he blew out a deep breath, his matching smirk pulled at the scar crossing his cheek. “But maybe San Francisco.”

  “I don’t like it,” he snapped.

  “Cole…” My mom warned him and soothed him all at once.

  “She’s an adult, Cole.” Uncle Conrad came to my defense.

  The truly terrifying version of my dad came out as his gaze settled on Uncle Conrad. Ice flowed through his veins and his quite calm, fraught with tension, was frigid as death.

  “Conrad.” Uncle Horse stood and stepped into the crosshairs. “Cole.” He bent the slightest bit to meet Dad’s eyes. “He didn’t say it quite right but Conrad’s right.” Uncle Horse turned and clapped his big hands on my shoulders, still weathering my dad’s withering gaze. “Filly is twenty-one. We’ve dragged her around the globe and back and not once has she asked for the next stop. I mean for fuck’s sake, I don’t think she’s asked for anything. Ever.”

  My dad’s whole facade melted at my Uncle’s words, then again when he looked down on me.

  “You guys fostered a sensitive artist soul with endless curiosity and a sense for simple beauty. You raised her well, Cole, but at some point, she has to paint the sky herself. You know this.” His soft words made my dad’s throat wobble and my mom’s hand pulled from mine to wrap around him. “It scares us all, Cupcake,” Uncle Horse added in a murmur.

  A million words stuck on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to ask about the very real fear thumping through the room. I wanted to rail on and on about all the reasons I should be allowed to go, all the reasons I didn’t even need permission. But one look from Uncle Horse had me pursing my lips together and keeping my mouth fixed shut.

  “We trust you, Filly Bean, we do.” My mom pulled one of my hands up to her lips. “But monsters don’t hide under your bed. They’re out there. And sometimes in plain sight.”

  “Don’t waste it, Filly Bean.” Uncle Horse ruffled up my blonde hair like I was still the little girl wearing fairy wings and painting whorls on the garden walls of our Paris home, not a grown woman packing up the contents of my Puerto Escondido bedroom. “Your parents can be unshakeable when they want to be.”

  “I know.” I smiled at the memory of my dad folding, of him saying that he wanted nothing more than to lay the world at my feet.

  “Let Conrad help you pack.” He smiled the broad and beaming smile of a conspirator. “Lord knows he hasn’t assembled a fall wardrobe in far too long.”

  “Next you’re going to suggest I let you and Dad drive me in that junky old Charger all the way to my new doorstep.” I winked then held my breath, praying that I wasn’t pushing my luck too far.

  “Wouldn’t mind that one bit.” He picked up the small Horse figurine I kept on my desk then fingered the paper cranes that always littered our homes. “But I think we all agree that it’s time.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly and stood on tippy toes to kiss his cheek.

  “Anything for you, Filly Bean.” He kissed my forehead. “I pray you never know how serious I am about that.”

  That same shudder shot down my spine from earlier, the terror and thrill dancing like a ghost wind across my skin. I closed my eyes and let the weight of some unseen force fall on my shoulders. It was unsettling and grounding all at once, like acceptance of my already woven fate.

  When I opened my eyes again, Uncle Horse was gone, and I was alone with the bright colors, sharp cactus and steel sculptures of my childhood home. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. For the first time, I was leaving this house on my own, headed for a simple reality rather than the fantastical world my family had created for me.

  A reality where I could visit Chicago any damn time I pleased.

  I’d never been a disobedient child, but for as long as I could remember, I’d been told only one thing in this world was off-limits. My parents should have known that making it forbidden made it all the more tempting. Had they never said anything I don’t know that I would have gravitated toward the Windy City, but now the sculpture garden of Millennium Park called my name. There was no other museum I wanted to spend time in more than The Art Institute of Chicago.

  I wanted to see the works of my mom’s displayed in different galleries.

  As quietly as I could manage I pulled out my desk drawer and fished for the postcards I kept folded behind it. They were tied up tight with a high top shoelace. I let my fingers run over the well-worn papers, the pinpoints on my road trip that no one needed to know about. I’d been planning this in the darkest corners of my heart, so secret I barely whispered to myself about it.

  One last adventure, one foray into the world of Fairy Tale on my own, before I settled into a life of complete and utter normalcy.

  My father raised me ass deep in savage violence, punctuated with pain and pure hedonistic pleasure. I knew how easy it was to kill a man, how skin felt against my skin whether alive and willing or plied with mortis and death. My childhood was nonexistent and only a small part of me knew to yearn for it. Death was my only friend and it’s ever-fixed eventuality gave me more peace than I deserved.

  The world around me was darkness incarnate. The world around me deserved to burn in flames.

  Blood, dark and red puddled on the pure white in front of me and for a moment the inky black of my soul ebbed back. For a moment I was back on the lake. Back in the first and only night I felt human. Back to the night I lost my soul for good.

  “Come on, laddie.” My father’s gritty voice brought me back to the moment. “Fuck her.” He jerked his chin toward the snow white girl in front of me. The snow white girl that was naked, rolling on ecstasy, and reveling in the blood that dripped from my split lip onto the soft plane of skin below her belly button.

  “I don’t really feel like it,” I answered with a shrug. And I didn’t. I never did when Rosalyn ghosted into my thoughts.

  “We’re all waiting for dessert,” he countered as he motioned around the table to his most trusted associates, each seated in order of importance away from him, the king, as they descended to me the prince. Each seated watching, waiting for
me to fuck the little toy in front of me.

  The same small part of me that knew I should have grown up differently, knew that this was wrong at best. Depraved at worst. But it was all I’d ever known.

  “I’ll beat you again, m’boy.” My father went to rise in his chair, but I stopped him with a glower and a signal of my hand. The only thing less appealing tonight than drugged up pussy was another beating.

  “Fuck you,” I spat the words at my father and saw the small speckles of blood that mimicked splatter paint on her stomach. I reached down and let my fingers smear the blood across her skin. Then down. And down. Then between her thighs into the hot, wet and slick of her. I couldn’t help but groan.

  “Atta boy.” He recognized the submission that he’d beat into me over the years. No one would touch me—I was the heir to an unholy throne—but the exception was god himself. Or the god my father believed himself to be.

  So I slid into the nameless, faceless girl and did what I did best. I forgot. I forgot about Rosalyn. I forgot about the kernel of good tucked way deep down inside of me. I forgot about everything but the feel of a tight cunny, the jiggle of voluptuous breasts and the heat that roared through my blood when I realized the men around that table envied me. Desired me.

  “You did well today.” My father still sat in his perfectly pressed suit opposite of me at the ornate dining room table of our downtown Chicago mansion. “In the end anyway.”

  “A compliment?” I sucked in a deep breath not giving a damn that I was still naked as the day I was born. “From you?” I smirked.

  “Someday, when you take this over, you will understand. It is better to be feared than to be loved.”

  “Then thank the fair folk MacCowans don’t have hearts.”

  He raised his glass to me, his smile growing until it caused him pain where it drug across his destroyed cheekbone. I likewise raised mine.

  “Is it drugged?” I asked, knowing that most of the booze in our house was. When his minions weren’t afraid, they were fucked up, making for our own odd brand of loyalty where it mingled with addiction.