Wrath of an Exile: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (The River Styx Heathens Book 1)

Phi

November 16NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

“Phi!”

I drop my phone like it burned me, quickly turning it over and glancing up the moment the door swings open, the hinges creaking in protest. Andy’s voice slices through the steady hum of J. Cole, filling the air with her familiar gentle energy.

My heart is racing, feeling like I’ve just been busted, and I wasn’t even doing anything bad. Well…nothing that bad.

I arch a brow at my sister, taking in the sight of her, pink hair twisted into cute space buns that bounce with each determined step she takes toward my closet.

Her outfit is a striking blend of black and pink, an aesthetic that embodies all she is. She has this uncanny ability to juxtapose dainty softness with a fierce edge—delicate frills of pink against the stark, rebellious undertones of black that dominate her wardrobe.

It’s like, yeah, I’d believe she started the heist, but not at a bank. Definitely a cotton candy factory, leaving a trail of sugary chaos in her wake.

“Can I please borrow that vintage leather jacket you have?” she pleads, already rifling through the hangers with practiced urgency.

“I would give you a kidney if you needed one,” I mutter, leaning back against my pillows, “but no.”

“Ugh, why?” she whines, her voice rising as she snatches one of my favorite jackets, clutching it to her chest like a cherished prize. “It’s gonna go perfect with my outfit tonight. Please?”

“Dude,” I laugh, shaking my head before playfully launching a highlighter in her direction. It arcs through the air, hitting her chest before toppling to the ground. “You know how long it took me to find that, and the last time you borrowed something, it went missing.”

Those big blue eyes of hers, wide and pleading, do that stupid fucking thing that makes me want to give her my firstborn child, her bottom lip sticking out as she pouts like a spoiled kitten.

I don’t even know why I bother putting up a fight.

“Please? Not even if I pick you up midnight munchies on the way back home?”

“Slim Jims, Skittles, and a Diet Coke?” I counter, raising an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.

“Always,” she laughs, a bright sound that shatters the heavy air of my room as she shrugs the jacket over her shoulders. “I’ll even go to the gas station in West Trinity that has the cherry vanilla Icees you like.”

Damn, she’s good.

“Deal.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come out tonight?” she asks, tone shifting as she walks toward the door. “It’ll be fun.”

“I’ve made a home in my cave tonight. Leave me to rot.” I wave my hand dismissively, even though part of me longs to join her in the world outside. “Go have fun, be safe, and seriously, Andy—no crowd surfing this time. If you break another bone, I’m getting you a bubble suit for Christmas.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, the gesture exaggerated, but I can see the affection behind it. “I swear, no one in this family lets me live.”

“Sue us for wanting to keep you alive,” I shoot back, a smirk tugging at my lips.

“Love you, Phi.”

“Love you more,” I call after her as she retreats down the hall. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the silence settling in like a thick fog.

The music fills the quiet, wrapping around me in a comforting embrace, while the sweet scent of Aunt Coraline’s lavender cookies lingers faintly in the air, their plate lying abandoned at the foot of my bed like a forgotten treasure. The soft, warm glow of fairy lights casts a cozy ambiance, flickering gently as if sharing in my solitude.

Textbooks are sprawled open across my comforter, surrounded by a chaotic mix of highlighters, each one a vibrant color, a testament to my indecision because why choose one when I can have them all? Out on the balcony, a freshly rolled vanilla Swisher Sweet waits, its sweet aroma practically calling my name, a promise of escape lingering in the night air.

This is my usual recipe for a perfect evening: a blend of solitude and indulgence, my ritual for recharging. It’s the paradox of my existence—loving the attention and the warmth of the spotlight while craving these moments alone to replenish my energy, a way to prepare myself for performing for those around me.

In here, I can break. That way, when I’m outside these four walls, I look completely and utterly whole.

This familiar routine is something I usually look forward to every week. My “rot days,” as I call them, are a refuge where I can just be.

But today? I don’t want to rot.

My fingers twitch toward my phone, unable to resist the pull, and I scoop it off my comforter, the cool screen lighting up my face.

Loner

If birds really were government surveillance drones, don’t you think they’d be more subtle?

Me

What, pray tell, would subtle look like to you? Pigeons in trench coats? Robins with sunglasses?

Loner

I’m just saying, if you’re gonna spy on people, maybe pick something less likely to get hit by a semi.

Loner

Or fly into a windshield.

I snort a laugh at his replies, a grin spreading across my face despite myself, like sunlight breaking through a stormy sky. I’d like to say I don’t know how we ended up here, tangled in this absurd conversation, but I do.

While we waited for the random stoners to clear out at the Port, an awkward silence had draped itself over us, thick and uncomfortable. We fumbled with our clothes—a futile attempt to reclaim some semblance of normalcy—while I dabbed at what was left of my makeup, trying to piece together the facade that was slowly unraveling.

That tension shattered like glass when a whole fucking bird flew straight into Jude’s windshield, sending us both into a fit of laughter, the sound echoing against the stillness of the night.

Our laughter erupted simultaneously, a spontaneous, infectious sound that echoed against the stillness of the night, a brief moment of relief from the heaviness that had settled between us.

His laughter was deep and genuine, and I found myself caught up in it, the sound reverberating through me like a pulse. I watched as he threw his head back, the lines of his jaw sharp and defined under the streetlights, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

And that’s how we ended the night.

Laughing.

It was a moment that lingered, a snapshot of joy etched into the fabric of my memory. As the stoners finally drifted away, we remained, still chuckling, our breaths continuing to fog up the windows. There was something electric in the air between us, a fragile connection born from the absurdity of the moment and the mind-numbing sex.

A spark that ignited the possibility of more.

When he asked for my number before I got out of his car, I couldn’t say no—not when it felt like the first time I’d genuinely laughed with someone in ages.

Since that night, we’ve just been…texting.

Stupid stuff, obviously. Conversations spiraling from government conspiracy theories to heated debates over whether Plato’s Allegory of the Cave supports the idea that individual experiences shape reality or, as I argued, implies an absolute truth that exists independently of human perception.

Jude…he makes me feel settled. No, that’s not right—peaceful doesn’t quite capture it either. We fight about most philosophical ideas, which is to be expected from the idealistic, brooding poet and the realistic physics nerd.

Light.

Loner makes me feel lighter.

The word feels foreign, strange, like something I shouldn’t recognize anymore—an old shirt I’ve outgrown but can’t bear to toss aside because it’s the only thing that fits, the only thing I can breathe in.

Really breathe.

The oxygen Jude provides is different. Better. Cleaner, somehow. It’s like he’s filtered out the suffocating parts of my past without even trying. The way his presence loosens the knots in my chest, making everything feel just a little less heavy.

The air isn’t thick with shame and hurt, no longer choking me with every inhale. The weight I’ve carried for so long still lingers, a shadow I can’t shake, but it’s no longer suffocating me. Not like before.

It’s there, always—looming and heavy—but it doesn’t crush me with each breath.

The air Jude Sinclair gives me feels like my first real breath after four years of drowning in a war I thought would never end.

Me

I miss our universe.

Galileo lets out a soft meow at the foot of my bed as the familiar whoosh of a text sending echoes.

“You do not get to judge me. I feed you,” I hiss, dragging my sock-covered foot across her fluffy body, earning a disgruntled huff in response.

Jude’s response comes through quicker than I expected.

Loner

You climbing the wall, Geeks? Or am I?

I bite down on my bottom lip, my heart racing at the thought.

I want to, so bad.

Everyone in the house has started to warm up to Jude, so it wouldn’t be that odd for us to hang out.

I’d even caught Dad smirking at Jude a few days ago, amusement twinkling in his eyes like he’d secretly approved of him helping Andromeda with her English paper. Which in itself had sent butterflies soaring in my stomach.

There is nothing I love more than seeing my family taken care of.

If it were only about shared company and friendship, this decision would be so much easier.

But it isn’t.

Jude and I can’t be just friends.

We don’t know how to be only that. We couldn’t even be enemies without fucking each other, and now we’re gonna make a run for friends?

We burn through boundaries of labels, and if that truth comes out, it’ll leave everything and everyone else in ashes behind us.

Hating him used to be my armor. As long as I could despise Jude, I could surrender my body without handing over the rest of me. It kept me safe, locked behind walls he couldn’t climb. But that shield? It’s cracked, the pieces slipping through my fingers like sand.

And Jude’s hands are right there, catching the fragments before they fall away completely, adding them to an hourglass he keeps on his shelf. Each grain represents a moment we share, the time we have ticking away until it eventually runs out. It’s a delicate balance, and I can’t help but wonder how long we can keep this up before everything collapses

Me

What happens if I come over there?

Jesus, Phi. You’re an idiot. You know exactly what happens.

It feels like some twisted cosmic joke.

The guy I swore to hate forever is the only one who’s seen every broken, ugly piece of me.

My sorta, kinda, not-really foster brother—the only person in the world my family would disown me for touching—is the one I crave with an intensity that should fucking terrify me.

Not just in some casual desire kind of way either.

It’s the wake up at night drenched in sweat kind of desire. It consumes my late nights and early mornings, my thoughts tangled around the memory of his tongue ring swirling over my clit, his hands gripping my waist, bouncing me on his cock, like he owns every inch of my pleasure.

Yesterday morning, before class, he slid behind me in the kitchen—barely awake, hair a wild, tousled mess, still damp from sleep.

Jude’s shirtless body brushed against mine, heat radiating from his skin, sending a shiver through me. His fingers curled around my belt loops, not rushed but deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world, before tugging me to the side and grabbing the orange juice on the top shelf.

It was so simple, so stupid, but so hot at the same time.

The roughness of his fingertips sent a jolt straight through me, lighting up my nerves in ways I wasn’t prepared for. And I swear to God, I almost fucked him right there.

Had Andy not tumbled in with her hair looking like a rat’s nest, I would’ve let him bend me over the counter.

It wasn’t just the way he moved; it was the casual intimacy of it. Like he could slide into my space, and I’d just…let him. No resistance, no hesitation. Like we’d been doing it for years, like he knew how to touch me in all the ways that mattered without even trying.

My phone buzzes in my hands, drawing my attention back to the screen, heat crawling up my neck and tinting my cheeks as I read.

Loner

Whatever you want to happen and nothing you don’t.

Loner

You’re in control here, Geeks. Always.

I know he means it. It’s always my choice with Jude.

He will never take from me what I don’t willingly give.

It’s the bare minimum—a respect that should be given freely without having to fight for it. I understand that, yet it ignites a flicker of warmth in my chest.

Something fragile and dangerous. Something I can’t afford to feel but do.

My fingers are moving before I can stop them.

Me

That’s what I’m scared of. We know what happens when we are alone together for too long, J.

Loner

Are you about to try and sext with me right now?

Loner

Fair warning, my thing is making words that touch people.

Loner

I could make you cry if I really tried.

I snort out a laugh, rolling my eyes at the screen, a mix of amusement and exasperation bubbling up inside me.

Me

Prove it.

The seconds that go by feel like hours, the typing bubble appearing and disappearing repeatedly, each pulse echoing my growing anticipation until finally, his message comes through.

Loner

She, the muse of the stage,

Sculpted from ruin, propelled by rage.

Born to sway on strings of cruelty,

A marionette of fractured beauty.

But beyond the red drape, where shadows grow,

She slips from beauty’s grasp below.

Her strings secretly frayed,

No longer the graceful illusion,

But a tired, broken thing.

Him, the shadowed architect, her hidden hand.

Master of misery forged for wicked strands,

Gentle limbs were never his to bend,

For love is a violent act learned from tortured kings.

His wrath-stained fingers pulled her close,

As she danced with fear, unmasking her face.

A wilting rose in God’s cruel throes,

Bound by a fate that time cannot erase.

In this dim theater, their dance remains,

No masks, no light, just endless pains.

No audience to laugh or to sneer⁠—

His vicious puppet, her angry puppeteer.—E

I’m the girl who thrives on numbers and equations, who finds solace in the neatness of formulas. But Jude’s words? They are haunting melodies that strike chords in me I didn’t know existed.

It’s not just poetry.

It’s an invitation into the heart of a boy I have spent my life misunderstanding.

A glimpse into a world where emotions dance and intertwine, where pain and beauty coexist in a delicate balance. Each line resonates, echoing the turmoil I’ve tucked away, the struggles I thought I could outsmart with logic.

It makes me feel seen in a way that is both exhilarating and terrifying.

Jude has this uncanny ability to capture the chaos of my existence, transforming it into something beautiful. It’s like he holds up a mirror to my soul, reflecting the parts of me I’ve always tried to hide.

My entire life I’ve been called beautiful. I’ve been sought after because of how I look. But after Oakley, all I could see in the mirror was the reflection of a rotting girl. Someone ugly, cracked, and irreparable.

I’ve told myself for a long time that words don’t matter. What people whisper about me, what they say behind my back when they think I’m not listening, what they say to my face—words can’t hurt me.

But his do.

Jude’s words fucking hurt.

They’re stitches pulling together wounds that have long been left to fester. I can almost feel the angry skin knitting itself back together, the sharp pangs of discomfort that accompany healing, slowly repairing the broken image of myself I’ve always seen in the mirror. Reminding me, making me believe, that maybe, just maybe, broken things can still be beautiful.

I pause, my thumb hovering over the screen.

I’m trapped in a toxic cocktail of emotions I don’t know how to untangle.

Jude has given me safety—real, tangible safety—but there’s more to it. He’s attractive in ways that get under my skin, ways I can’t shut out. Mysterious enough to feed my curiosity, dangerous enough to keep me on edge.

Atlas was right.

This will blow up in my face if I’m not careful. And when it does, it won’t be a minor explosion. It’ll be an all-out detonation, shrapnel slicing through my family like a weapon of betrayal.

No one walks away from this unscathed.

And for what? For this magnetic pull that’s already costing me more than I have to give?

It’s reckless. Stupid, even. But…can’t I have this one thing? This singular, secret joy? I deserve that, right? Even if it comes with a Sinclair label?

I’ve been down this road before—sacrifices for the people I care about.

I’ve given up dreams, trust, my own happiness, all to protect them.

But when I look at the E signing the bottom of his message, I think of the poem tucked away in my dresser drawer. The boy from room 13 made it out. Made it to me.

I don’t want Jude to become another thing I have to surrender, another casualty in a war I never wanted to fight.

Ponderosa Springs says it’s wrong. That our names shouldn’t go together, that we are destined to carry on a legacy of turmoil, deception, and hatred. They insist this will be a mistake, a repeat of history etched in the scars of our families.

But how can this be a mistake when I don’t have to shower after he touches me? How can this be wrong when the only time I feel right is when I’m with Jude?