A Death to Seek Read online

  A Death to Seek

  Thornes & Roses

  Dani René

  Contents

  Newsletter Sign Up

  Author’s Note

  Preface

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1. Finn

  2. Zaria

  3. Finn

  4. Zaria

  5. Jarred

  6. Finn

  7. Finn

  8. Zaria

  9. Zaria

  10. Finn

  11. Jarred

  12. Zaria

  13. Finn

  14. Jarred

  15. Finn

  16. Jarred

  17. Finn

  18. Jarred

  19. Finn

  20. Zaria

  21. Jarred

  22. Finn

  23. Finn

  24. Zaria

  25. Finn

  26. Finn

  27. Zaria

  28. Zaria

  Epilogue

  Bonus Scene

  Sneak Peek - Cruel War

  Need someone to listen?

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Dani René

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2022 by Dani René

  Edited by Rebecca’s Fairest Reviews

  Proofread by Caroline Cogswell

  Cover Design & Formatting by Raven Designs

  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.

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  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  As we come to the end of this series, it’s a bittersweet note that I introduce Finn’s story with. I wasn’t expecting it to be MMF, but as I started with chapter one, Finn was adamant that’s what he wanted, and I had to obey.

  Even though this isn’t a particularly dark story, there are some elements that some might find upsetting. This book touches on suicide, so if that is a trigger for you, please don’t continue on.

  I hope that you fall in love with Finn, Jarred, and Zaria, as much as I did while I spent the past few months with them.

  Mad love,

  Dani, xo

  Preface

  Let me take your pain

  Erase thunder from the sky

  Wash away those tears

  Be there when you cry

  * * *

  Slay your every demon

  Championing the night

  Take my hand in battle

  Together we will fight

  * * *

  _Hydrus

  * * *

  More from Hydrus at

  www.hydruspoetry.com

  Playlist

  Better than Drugs - Skillet

  Heaven Sent - Hinder

  If You Met Me First - Eric Ethridge

  Immortals - Fall Out Boy

  Echo - Jason Walker

  Lonely - Nathan Wagner

  Death is in Love with Us - HIM

  Proud of You - Georgiou Music

  That’s Her - Georgiou Music

  Bedroom Ceiling - Citizen Soldier

  The Ones Left Behind - Martin Rapide

  * * *

  Find the full playlist HERE

  Dedication

  To those who wanted to give up, but didn’t.

  To those left behind who stay strong.

  And to those who have gone, we miss you.

  Prologue

  Zaria

  Sixteen Years Old

  It isn’t something anybody can understand.

  The pain is hidden down inside me, burrowed deep in my bones.

  It’s as if I’ve been tattooed with this invisible agony that will haunt me for the rest of my days. The itch to do something about it lingers in my mind. Most times, I shove it into the box with all the vicious words—fake, liar, spoiled, slut, whore—my followers spew at me, and I lock it up tight. In that hidden box, I’ve included my broken heart as well, because I lost it a long time ago.

  It may sound silly, but I recall the moment I gave it away. He was someone my parents would never have agreed to let me date, let alone marry. I have all of that set out for me, it’s been that way since I was thirteen. I’ve seen the contract, my father signed it and told me one day, I’ll be given to a family, and it will strengthen our foothold in America. I don’t understand it, but I have to obey because it’s my duty as a daughter to the Abadi name.

  I break my focus from the mirror on my vanity and glance at the phone screen again, wondering if I should do some research on the family my father mentioned that day. But the moment I unlock my device, I realize it was a mistake to do so. The apps that lead to my social media always draw me in, but as much as I smile looking at my friends’ photos, I have to see the comments on mine. Notifications that remind me of why I’ve decided to do something about the state of my life.

  Useless. Ugly. Stupid.

  I shake my head to clear my mind of the negative thoughts that instantly attack me. The house is empty as I pad from my bedroom to the staircase heading down to the entrance hall. I’m alone with the morbid and unrelenting thoughts as they swirl through my mind. And I willingly go into the darkness. It’s where I’m comfortable. Even though my thoughts hurt me both physically and mentally, I can’t stop them from consuming me. No amount of medication will ease it, no amount of talking can ever stop the voices.

  Nothing you do is right.

  You’re a burden on them.

  They don’t really love you.

  Even when my parents wanted to sit down and talk to me, I couldn’t explain it. There were no words to explain just how broken I felt. There was no way to explain the constant negative thoughts that plagued me. No encouragement or positivity, just a barrage of destructive words.

  They were convinced I was just being a normal teenager.

  I had to be perfect in the public eye since my father is one of the most prominent senators in California, which means he’s constantly in the news, his face on every post from the East Coast to the West. My mother runs her own import and export company. Seen as a confident woman in the business world, she’s obsessed with keeping up appearances. Convinced that portraying the picture-perfect family would only elevate her popularity.

  In the bright lights of the media, I’m the princess of the Abadi family. I’m already well-known at sixteen, which means I’m followed around, hounded by paparazzi, and have been on the front of tabloids across the country. But even when I make the news, it’s always for something good.

  They’ve labeled me the Abadi princess.

  The up-and-coming role model for girls my age.

  But my parents don’t believe the hype, because they see what I want them to. As does the public. I allow them to glimpse the perfectly-polis
hed persona that I’ve been given and crafted accordingly. My reputation has been built to perfection. It cements my place in society once my parents marry me off to some rich asshole who will keep me around as merely eye candy.

  I lift my phone, tapping the camera to selfie mode. Once it’s focused on my pretty smile, I tap the screen a few more times, offering the world the face they want to see. After taking a few photos, I select the perfectly posed one and open Instagram.

  Once I’ve edited the fuck out the image, making sure that it shows exactly what I want it to, I smile and post with a caption I know will lure the followers, the likes, and the comments. Most times, they’re positive, but then there are times I find myself in tears from the bullies who think being behind their screens safeguard them. It makes them more confident in their slander, becoming nastier, ruder, than they would be in person.

  My parents don’t know about what I deal with when it comes to being in the public eye. I’m alone in it. I don’t tell anyone it bothers me. I simply grit my teeth and smile.

  Showing off the perfect veneer, allowing those who taunt and torment to watch you shine bright is the only thing I’ve been taught. So, instead of allowing the pain to take hold of and crush me, I slide on a mask, and allow the public to see the lie.

  But there are times, like tonight, where I’m alone with my thoughts, and anything could set me off.

  Sighing, I stand before slipping my phone into the pocket of my shorts, and I make my way down the staircase which leads to the entrance hall. From there, I pad barefoot into my dad’s office and find the bottle of shimmering, copper-colored liquid and pour a double shot into one of his tumblers.

  You’re so fucked up.

  Why do people even like you?

  I choke down the alcohol and pray it helps just a bit. Most times when I steal my father’s whiskey or brandy, I can quiet the voices that bring about negative thoughts, but tonight, they’re particularly evil. They’re all real, though, every opinion, each declaration that plays like an echo in my mind comes from an actual person on the other side of a screen.

  Every comment has turned into a voice, a vocal wound hitting right through me. Their words have become my normal. I’ve come to believe what they say. And I can’t stop it because they’re right. I am convinced they are. Perhaps that’s what they’re trying to do, and I’m allowing them to win. Fighting it is no longer an option; it’s too difficult.

  You should just stop breathing.

  You’re nothing but a fucking waste of space.

  I fill the glass once more and slowly sip on the fiery liquid. It burns its way down my throat, twisting in my stomach like a tornado about to explode through every inch of me. And I welcome it. I flick open my screen, opening the app that’s brought me the pain, the heartache, the agonizing knowledge that I’m whatever they call me. I scroll through the comments. It’s something my shrink told me to refrain from doing, but I can’t stop myself.

  Fake princess.

  Pretentious bitch.

  Gag, you’re so fucking fake it’s gross.

  Disgusting whore.

  Why don’t you come show me what those lips can do?

  Just die.

  Kill yourself already.

  The words blur into nothingness, and the pain grips my heart, more fire licking against my throat as I swallow the last of the drink and make my way upstairs. The memory of my father lying to my face is still fresh in my mind, and that piled on top of the words from my so-called fans, all takes a toll.

  I want to fight the dark thoughts which attempt to take over me.

  But I also want to hide and never come out.

  If they don’t see me, perhaps they can’t hurt me. But I know there’s no way I can disappear, because my mother will never allow it. She enjoys the attention, craves it. It’s as if she basks in it because it’s her way of being validated for who she is. But I’m not the same.

  We’ve always been different. Even when I was younger, I would want to stay in while she preferred going out. At times, it feels as if I was born into the wrong family because despite the fact that I’m lucky enough to have a good dad, one who loves me, my mother and I, we’ve never seen eye to eye.

  I turn from the office, leaving everything as I found it, and head back upstairs. The silence of the house is deafening. There are times I enjoy it, but tonight, it’s particularly lonely.

  When I reach my bathroom, I pull open the cabinets to find what I need. Just die. The words ring in my ears as my heart thuds against my chest.

  I stare down at the little bottle that I set with trembling hands on the counter. The smooth marble below the bright orange container is a stark contrast to each other. Just like me and mom.

  Tears burn my eyes as the alcohol sloshes inside me. It’s as if I can feel every drop as it mixes with my blood. The burn of it still in my throat. For a moment, I think I’m going to puke, but I don’t.

  Thankfully, I swallow back the lump in my throat and focus on what I need to do. I’ve toyed with the idea for so long, and now it finally feels like the plan is falling into place. I’ve read up on the heartbreaking stories of teens who chose death instead of life. I’ve never been one to seek it out, but over the past while, it’s been playing on repeat in my mind.

  I don’t blame those who’ve taken their own lives.

  I can see why they did it. The only thing that’s held me back for so long was leaving behind my parents, who would have been hurt. Even though my mother may not really be hurt, it was more my father I was concerned about.

  But now I know the truth.

  It’s no longer an issue.

  I looked right into his eyes and asked him why the kids were talking about me not being his. And he lied. He hid the truth from me and now that it’s finally free, I want to be as well.

  There’s nothing left for me in this house, and in this life. Nobody loves me enough to give me a straight answer. They’re not keeping me safe; they’re only breaking me further. The people who are meant to love me, have lied to me. And I can’t take it anymore.

  It’s time.

  I flick the bottle cap and empty the contents into my hand.

  With tears streaming down my cheeks, I swallow them one by one.

  1

  Finn

  Present Day – Two Years Later

  The sky has turned to darkness. I find it fitting actually. As we head closer to Halloween, I know the gala will soon be upon us, planning has already started. Each year, it becomes more elaborate, but this year, my father has something up his sleeve. And that’s why we’re here, standing beside a six-foot deep grave.

  The earth smells of rain. The grass is soft underfoot, and the trees are losing their leaves as they flutter to the ground. Heaviness is rank in the air around us, but it’s not because of the weather.

  I think back to my childhood, as I get lost in the words of the priest as he speaks. Death comes to us all, some run from it, some seek it. Others wait patiently, and when it arrives, they smile, knowing they’ve fulfilled their lifelong dreams. They’ve ticked off everything on their bucket list. There’s nothing left to do but close their eyes and sleep soundly.

  But nobody knows where we go after this. There are religions who tell us about heaven and hell, each recollection slightly different from the other. But the common thread amongst them is that hell is the bad place. And heaven, that’s where you want to end up. It’s bright and sunny; it’s filled with gentle music and angels.

  Most people I know won’t end up there though. They have their names already carved in hell’s door, where Cerberus and Hades await them. Their souls forever damned. My mind flicks to my mother, and I wonder if her soul is at rest.

  “Our Father,” the deep gravely tone of the pastor interrupts my thoughts, and I finally flick my gaze up. The man is dressed in deep red and crisp white, with his hand hovering in the air, as if he’s trying to bless the coffin as he says the Lord’s prayer.

  The corpse doesn’t k
now what’s going on. Funerals aren’t for the dead; they’re for the living. It’s meant to ensure you’ve said your goodbyes, and then, once you’re done, you lower the casket into the ground and walk away.

  Some people may visit, bring flowers, but others, they’ll forget about the rotting dead, the gravestone that may tell the story of who is buried here. But it would be lies. We can’t be sure that those engravings are true. The man may have had an affair, but that won’t be written on the stone forevermore. It will be hidden in the closet like every other family secret.

  I take in the procession that slowly starts moving. Men holding onto the shovels, awaiting the order from the priest. People surround the gaping hole all dressed in black. There are tears, sniffles, and the crisp white button-up shirts against the black suits are a stark contrast.

  When I’ve taken in each of the mourners, I look up to the charcoal gray skies threaten, rainclouds hang heavily above us.