A Cut so Deep (Thornes & Roses Book 1) Read online

  A Cut so Deep

  Thornes & Roses

  Dani René

  Copyright © 2020 by Dani René

  Edited by Rebecca’s Fairest Reviews

  Proofread by Illuminate Author Services

  Cover Design & Formatting by Raven Designs

  Cover Model: Karl Kugelmann

  Cover Photographer: Vincent Chine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  THINK TWICE BEFORE YOU PIRATE! Support an author by buying a book.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Preface

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1. Nesrin

  2. Damien

  3. Nesrin

  4. Damien

  5. Nesrin

  6. Nesrin

  7. Damien

  8. Damien

  9. Nesrin

  10. Damien

  11. Nesrin

  12. Nesrin

  13. Damien

  14. Nesrin

  15. Damien

  16. Nesrin

  17. Damien

  18. Nesrin

  19. Damien

  20. Nesrin

  21. Nesrin

  22. Damien

  23. Damien

  24. Nesrin

  25. Damien

  26. Nesrin

  27. Nesrin

  28. Damien

  29. Nesrin

  30. Damien

  31. Nesrin

  32. Damien

  33. Nesrin

  34. Nesrin

  35. Damien

  36. Nesrin

  37. Nesrin

  38. Damien

  39. Nesrin

  40. Nesrin

  41. Nesrin

  42. Damien

  43. Nesrin

  44. Damien

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Need someone to listen?

  Are you ready for book two?

  Have you met Ares?

  Prologue

  Ares

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Dani René

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  When Nesrin’s story came to me, I knew I had to do it justice. It wasn’t easy to write, and I know it may not be easy to read her struggles. But deep down, as she came to me to tell me her pain, and her heartache, I knew Damien would be her equal in every respect.

  Yes, they have a rather taboo relationship, an age gap that’s bigger than expected, but I needed him to be more mature so she could find her rock in him.

  There are, however, scenes in the story that readers may find disturbing and could trigger those who suffer from depression. Please be wary if you’re a sensitive reader.

  I hope you take a chance on them and love them as much as I do. They’re special, and they’ll always hold a place in my heart, and I trust yours too.

  Thank you for always trusting me and delving into the worlds I create. This one, it’s rather special.

  Mad love,

  Dani, xo

  Preface

  She was chaos and beauty intertwined. A tornado of roses from divine.

  Shakieb Orgunwall | Quotes ‘nd Notes

  Playlist

  Cut - Plumb

  If These Scars Could Speak - Citizen Soldier

  The Devil Within – Digital Daggers

  What I’ve Done – Linkin Park

  Irresistible – Fall Out Boy, Demi Lovato

  Heaven Help Me – RAIGN

  Saints - Echos

  My Demons - STARSET

  I Miss the Misery - Halestorm

  Bring Me to Life - Evanescence

  Monster - Skillet

  Numb - Linkin Park

  Right Here - Chase Atlantic

  If That’s Love - Shawn James

  I Got You - Corvyx

  Mansion - NF, Fleurie

  Urges - Lucas King

  Taste - Tyga, Offset

  Kiss it Better - Rhianna

  Find the full playlist HERE

  Dedication

  To the girls who were broken long before their hearts knew about love. And to those same girls who crave the bad boy who will find them in the darkness and not save them but swim in the murky waters with them.

  Prologue

  Nesrin

  Sixteen years old

  One thin slice.

  Just one touch of metal to flesh.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Pain. A pinch.

  And then, freedom.

  It’s only the second time I’ve done it, but I already know that it’s going to be so much better than talking to some rich bitch who makes notes on her iPad about my well-being. Not physically, no, she’s testing my mind to see if I’m ‘normal.’

  I laugh.

  It’s low. Nothing more than a giggle.

  Everything around me comes alive as I feel the warmth coat my skin. My hand is shaking, the blade drops from between my fingers, as pure relief shoots through my veins.

  I’ve heard all about how it works. The internet is an amazing thing. Anything I need or I crave, I can find it there. I’m no longer shaking. I feel at ease with the world. Like everything is going to be okay.

  Opening my eyes, I glance down at the incision I made, and a tear drops into the dark liquid. The deep crimson dribbles slowly. Languid in its path down my leg. As it escapes the thin slit, it takes my anxiety with it.

  The trickle slows, creating pretty patterns over the tanned flesh of my inner thigh.

  The euphoria is inexplicable.

  My body is so free. Relaxed. I’ve only ever felt like this when I accidentally cut my hand on a broken glass.

  It happened so suddenly.

  But the moment the sting caused me to whimper, it forced out the worries, which plagued me for months, years even. I’d been so numb, so empty, the cut forced breath back into my lungs. The anxious knot that constantly twisted in my gut eased, and it was a release of all the stress and fear that held me hostage.

  I was made to feel. Not expected to.

  Every day, I have to be polished, poised, and beautiful—the perfect daughter of the perfect couple, who lives in the most perfect house. Everything the media sees; all the photos are made to look like we’re happy.

  But we’re not.

  My father fucks half his company—all the women, obviously.

  My mother spends her days at the country club, where her pool boy tends to her needs that my dad no longer does.

  When they come home, they smile and play happy family, loving parents, and honest people. I’ve numbed myself to it all, I’ve emptied my soul and shoved it into a box that I’ll never open again.

  I have one year left before I can leave. Twelve months before I walk out of this place and never come back. The fancy rooms, the hefty bank account, the exquisite gifts, everything about it is fake; nothing more than a shiny surface for a filthy underbelly.

  The need to be away, far from my life, from the normal that I’ve become accustomed to burns through my veins, reminding me that I can never be loved in the
way I need to. Not from my parents, and not from the boys at school.

  I’ve made my choice.

  It won’t take much for me to walk away because I want to leave this place and never come back. I want to find my own way, without the rules and regulations that my parents have imposed on me, where I have to be perfect all the time.

  Perfection is not real. It’s a myriad of broken pieces fit together just to shimmer when the light hits it. But, in reality, it’s broken, it’s shattered. Nothing more than an illusion to show off a poised, polished person that you can never be. Under scrutiny though, the fissures show up, and each time you fear someone might notice them, you add more jewels, add more makeup, more expensive clothes, hiding the ugly truth underneath.

  I look at the cut on my inner thigh, it’s not deep, but it’s enough to release the pent-up frustration that’s taken hold of me. Enough to make me feel alive, real. I push off the floor and wince when the skin tingles and stings.

  It’s high enough to be hidden from view. Only I know it’s there. Only I can see the truth of what I’ve done, and that’s how I know it needs to stay. I apply the plaster gently over the wound and pull the leg of my shorts down.

  Time to be the happy child they created. Time to be the perfect doll my parents have portrayed me as since I was born.

  And that all starts right now.

  Happy birthday to me.

  1

  Nesrin

  Two years later

  There’s nothing more dangerous than time.

  People come and go and, sometimes, they go before you’re ready to let them. When you have no choice but to say goodbye. It’s been a year since my father died, twelve months since I first found solace in the actions that I’ve become addicted to.

  I can’t explain why, but I need it. Anxiety tightens my stomach when my mother knocks on my bedroom door. It’s my eighteenth birthday, and even though I can legally move out of the house and get an apartment, she hasn’t yet allowed me that freedom. Her argument is that I’m safer in the home I grew up in. For now, I’ll indulge her.

  That might sound strange to someone else, but my mother isn’t a normal mom. She’s one of the most famous faces in America. And now that she’s getting remarried, she’s become a household name. People follow her around daily; the paparazzi never leave her alone. There are times I’m fearful of her life being endangered, but she loves it. Every moment is like a godsend for her, even when she receives stalker mail. I’ve seen some sordid messages from people who call themselves fans, but they’re more deranged from what they’ve said.

  Each time she opens one of those envelopes, a cold shiver takes hold of me because I half expect them to walk in any second and I’ll be an orphan. Without a dad, losing my mother would more than likely hurt like hell. Not that we’ve ever been close. We’ve always had a volatile relationship.

  But I’ve learned that behind the Botox and pearly white smile lies the depression she struggles with behind closed doors. That’s how I’ve grown up, knowing that when you’re in public, you fake a smile, giggle when you’re asked personal questions, and air-kiss people you don’t know but act as if you love them dearly.

  “Nesrin Anne Ellington,” my mother’s voice calls to me from the other side of the door. Whenever she uses my full name, I know shit’s about to go down. Groaning, I push my blankets off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It’s not even sunrise yet, but I know summer will be here soon, and we’ll be drenched in the sticky heat.

  I wanted to move to Washington State, or farther north, maybe Canada, where it’s cooler, but Mommy Dearest loves to be baked under the hot California sun.

  “If you don’t—”

  I swing my door open, interrupting the angry tirade I know she was about to spew at me. Arching a dark eyebrow, I meet her steely gaze. I look nothing like her, taking after my father—olive skin, pitch-black hair, and gentle hazel eyes.

  “I’m awake,” I tell her nonchalantly because I enjoy fucking with her pristine, polished appearance. Nobody knows what she’s really like. Only I’ve seen the ugly bits, the parts she doesn’t show to anyone else.

  “We’ll be leaving for the church in an hour,” she huffs. “I’ve had the biggest fight with your father,” she sighs.

  “He is not my father,” I bite out, anger raging through me at her inconsiderate words. She’s convinced I’ll accept Bradford Thorne as my father, but what she doesn’t know is that nothing she can do will ever make me want to call him Dad. And that’s what she can’t understand. I mean—he’s wealthy, influential, and he has connections—her words not mine. I’ve heard rumors of Bradford, the man who owns the world.

  Okay, maybe not the world, but he does own half of America, and from what I’ve garnered, he also has Europe, Britain, and most of Southern America in his pocket. A man who knows that money can buy anything, and the next item on his list is my mother.

  “You need to learn about respect,” Mother bites out, and I know she’s talking about me actually accepting some asshole as my new father. She didn’t even wait for Dad’s corpse to go cold before she was diving onto Bradford’s dick. I shudder at the thought. At least I know for sure I won’t have any surprise siblings because my mother had her tubes tied after she had me. And I only know this because I overheard a fight between my mom and Dad when I was younger; she was adamant one child was enough; whereas, he wanted another.

  “I’ll respect the man, but I will not call him Dad. He is not my father,” I retort. Anger sizzles through my veins, and I’m ready for another one of our infamous arguments when Jeannine, our maid, nears us.

  “Ms Ellington, the car is on its way.” Her voice is low, and I know she’s scared of my mother. Everyone in this house is afraid of the wrath that Marcia Ellington spews.

  “Thank you, Jeannine.” Mom doesn’t look at her. Those luminous green eyes are still pinned on me. “Get ready.” She spins on her heel and leaves me glaring daggers at her back. If only one would pierce her, just to show her how much it hurts.

  “Are you alright?” Jeannine asks, regarding me with her gentle smile. I wish so much she was my mother. If only.

  “I am.” I nod. “I have to get ready, you heard the queen,” I bite out, causing Jeannine to grin. More like an evil queen.

  “Take care of yourself today, don’t let her upset you.”

  The warning in her voice sends a cold shiver down my spine. She’s seen me broken by my mother’s cold words, by her constant berating comments. Her time spent in this house has led her to learn just how my mother loves me.

  I nod, stepping back and closing the door, as Jeannine makes her way down the hall toward the staircase.

  Sighing, I head into the bathroom with my mind on the upcoming nuptials. I don’t want to go, but when your mother gets married, your attendance is expected. Frustration blooms in my chest. I wish I could go live with my aunt. She’s, at least, someone who I can get along with. Someone who I can talk to; whereas, my mother is more focused on her career and making headlines.

  Marcia and Mallory are sisters, but they couldn’t be more different. Even though they came from the same womb, three years apart; Mallory, my aunt, is a gentle, affectionate woman. My mother, on the other hand, is cold, aloof, and hates being a mom.

  Time to get ready. Time to see just what this new man I’ve never met has in store for us because my mother agreed to marry him before I even had the chance to come face to face with Bradford Thorne.

  The church is massive, filled with guests, people I’ve never met. My nerves are shot. I hate being in the public eye, and I honestly wish my mother had chosen a more intimate event. All my life, I’ve struggled with anxiety, especially in crowds like this, but Marcia always enjoyed pushing me outside my comfort zone; hence the scars I bear that nobody will ever see.

  The man sitting at the large organ starts playing a song I don’t recognize, and the doors slide open. I’m standing at the altar beside the priest. Opposite me are two boy
s; well, men actually, but they can’t be older than twenty-five. They’re gorgeous, and I can’t stop myself from sneaking peeks at them. My new stepbrothers.

  We haven’t officially met but I know, soon enough, I’ll be thrust into a family where I will have three older brothers. Which has my mind wandering to where the third son of my mother’s new husband could be. Perhaps he’s as against this wedding as I am, and he won’t show up.

  My mother slowly moves down the aisle, gliding as if she were floating on air. Her smile is pristine and perfect, and I wonder how real it is. Bradford looks absolutely smitten with her, as he watches her walk toward him, and when she finally reaches us, he leans down to kiss her cheek. A chaste kiss.

  Mother hands me her bouquet, and I’m thankful to have something else to focus on, other than the eyes that are now on us at the front of the church.

  “Welcome guests; today, we celebrate the union of Bradford Jeremiah Thorne and Marcia Anne Ellington.” The priest’s voice filters into the background as I glance up, and in the darkness of the church, right at the back, behind all the people, I see a dark figure. I can’t make out his face, and I certainly can’t see if he’s in a suit or not, but my gut tells me that I’m looking at the eldest son of Bradford Thorne.