Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)

“Are you sure about this?” Eleanora asks, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve told you a million times, I don’t trust the Harrow brothers. Especially Julian.”

I’m standing in front of the mirror at Eleanora’s house, applying a thick layer of red lipstick to match the color of my Valentino Garavani silk wool mini dress. Adrian gifted it to me on our second anniversary. It’s too pretty to throw away, so I still wear it sometimes.

I frown at her mention of Julian. It’s been two days since the meeting with Lucian Harrow, and I haven’t heard from him since.

“Trust me.” I glance over at her as she carefully curls her long black hair. “I feel the same way. But I need to blow off some steam, and Julian’s club has the best booze. Plus, I can’t spend another pamper Friday stuck at home watching ‘The Sweetest Thing’ one more time.”

Eleanora rolls her eyes, their amber color striking, and sighs in agreement. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when Julian goes celebrating his victory with one of those skanks, breaking your heart again.”

“Please.” I scoff, giving myself a once-over in the mirror. “As if I’d let someone like him mess with my heart. Besides, you can’t talk. Last time I checked, your relationship with Emeric wasn’t all sunshine and roses.”

I’d never let Julian mess with my heart? Liar. He already has.

Eleanora and I became friends during our freshman year of high school, right after she found me crying my eyes out in the girls’ bathroom because Julian had pushed past me, ignoring my very existence, in front of his friends. She dried my tears and offered me some wise words on how to make him regret ever treating me that way while she munched on the star cookies I’d baked for him.

Her confidence and independence—and my lack of both—were what brought us closer together. She taught me how to believe in my own strength, while I taught her to let her sensitive side take over occasionally.

It’s funny how Eleanora helped me to become this version of myself who stands up for herself and the ones she loves—who isn’t scared of killing the people who wronged her mother—more than she knows.

“Exactly,” she says, “because there is no relationship. We aren’t dating. We just have fun.”

“Whatever you say, Eleanora.”

She and Emeric are fuck buddies. She insists she likes it this way, but I know she’s secretly harboring feelings for him.

As we make our way to the Den, a place where predators gather to watch their own kind battle it out, I think back to how self-controlled I was in Lucian’s studio while my insides were screaming.

He was so relaxed as depravities left his mouth. The things he talked about crawled all over my skin. I wanted to end his life there and then. I was so tempted.

Instead I kept my cool and agreed to work with Julian on entertaining Victoria—whatever that means. It’s a risky move, but it’ll get me closer to my goal. And once the Marlowe family goes down, Lucian will be left vulnerable and exposed for me to kill him.

The fight club is packed when we arrive. The atmosphere is electric with anticipation. Glancing around the gloomy navy venue, I watch the crowd jitter with excitement for tonight’s fight. Two weeks have passed since the last one.

I feel my pulse quicken to the beat of the music as we move through the crowd. Even if the people here are all ironically dressed formally, this place remains tainted with danger, exciting me in ways I can’t fully understand.

“Look at us.” Eleanora’s voice strains above the blaring music. “We look like femme fatales, ready to break hearts and take names.”

I grin at her, feeling confidence surge in me with the way people are staring.

Eleanora looks stunning, dressed in a form-fitting dark purple leather dress that showcases her long legs. We decided to wear a matching set of black combat boots. The contrast between them and the red mini dress with bows is exactly what I was aiming for: formal but edgy.

“Let’s hope so.” I scan the room for Julian. Tonight I need to make sure he sees how much time has passed since we were friends. I want him to see how much I’ve changed. He needs to know I’m not the same naïve little girl he discarded. And maybe I want him to want me. Just a little . . . just for fun.

We take our positions near the front, close to the boxing ring in the middle of the room, as the crowd cheers and jeers, signaling that the fight is about to begin.

Julian will soon step into the ring.

Tonight the winner of the last fight will be up against him, vying for the title of the Most Ruthless Fighter in Seattle. A title Julian has held for three years now, ever since he opened the Den at twenty-five.

These tournaments happen every two weeks, drawing in people from all backgrounds who crave the adrenaline rush of watching the brutal fights—or participating in them.

This isn’t a closed-door event like the ones of the Inferno Consortium. Everyone is welcome here.

Eleanora shouts, “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Watching Julian fight has always had a weird effect on me. It’s the push and pull of seeing him bleed that makes me both worried and captivated.

Valentine didn’t approve of me attending university, so I had to settle for taking Fine Art classes in the safety of our home.

One day I overheard two of the Harrows’ guards discussing Lucian’s disappointment in Julian for spending thousands of dollars on an underground fight club instead of focusing on the family business. That conversation ignited something within me—a desire to break free from my sheltered existence and experience the same reckless abandon Julian seemed to embody.

Yet I’ve never dared to defy Valentine’s wishes. Not after he took me in and treated me as his own.

Besides, there was always something deeply satisfying about the moments when he would hang my artwork on our kitchen walls—a daily ritual we both cherished. I couldn’t give that up back then. And I guess he couldn’t either, because he still asks for them from time to time. In his typical, detached manner—but he misses my drawings nonetheless.

I never stopped painting; I just keep my art to myself. The first time I read my mother’s diary, something shifted inside of me. My artwork portrays the dark turmoil in my head now, and I don’t want him—or anyone, for that matter—to see it.

A guy double my size—no, triple—enters the ring.

Shaking off the memory, I turn my attention back to the present and the guy going up against Julian. The crowd’s reaction is mixed as he steps in, with some cheering and others remaining silent, waiting for their fighter to make his appearance.

The guy—Fury, the announcer calls him—does some jabs in the middle of the ring, making a little show of it. His face is painted with streaks of red and orange as if he’s on fire, and he wears red shorts and matching shoes. He isn’t wearing any MMA gloves. Julian hates not feeling his opponents’ skin breaking under impact, so he abolished them. The club is his, so he makes the rules.

“God, this is ridiculous. Do they seriously not know how to dress for the occasion? That shade of red is not his color,” Eleanora complains, her voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd.

“Introducing the reigning champion, the Ripper!” the announcer bellows, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

Julian steps through the crowd, his muscular body, adorned with tattoos, straining as he jumps into the ring. He’s wearing black shorts and matching shoes. My heart skips a beat as his eyes, almost silver under this light, catch me in the audience.

A skeleton is painted on his lower face, and he smirks at me before turning and opening his arms, calling for the audience to go feral.

“Well . . .” Eleanora begins, but I slap her on the arm before she can continue, rolling my eyes at her drooling for him. He’s undeniably attractive, but I’ll die before admitting that—or having my best friend admit it for me.

The bell rings and Julian stalks forward. His fists are clenched, knuckles white, his muscles flexing under the bright lights as he takes his stance, dark eyes fixed on his target.

They circle each other like predators, their movements calculated and precise.

The sound of fists hitting flesh echoes through the arena as they exchange blows. Julian seems to anticipate his opponent’s every move, countering with swift strikes that leave the other guy reeling.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the brutal dance unfolding before me. My heart races with adrenaline as I watch Julian dominate the fight with ruthless ability.

“Hey, I’m going to grab something to drink,” Eleanora shouts over the noise. “Want anything?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I yell back, masking my eagerness to escape the crowd’s intensity for a moment. “I can get it for us.”

“Are you sure? You’ll miss the rest of the fight.”

“It’s fine. Julian will win like he always does. I won’t miss anything new.”

I tear my gaze from the entrancing sight of him dominating his opponent in the ring and head toward the bar, weaving through the crowd.

When I finally reach the other side of the room, the bar is packed with people ordering while watching the fight. I squeeze between two men in suits and lean against the counter, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

The atmosphere is thick with thrill and a hint of sweat, leaving me feeling intoxicated despite not having had a drop of alcohol yet.

The sleek, polished counter of the bar gleams in a rich navy-blue hue, catching the light and reflecting it back in a mesmerizing dance. The shelves behind the counter are lined with endless rows of bottles, reaching all the way up to the high ceiling. A large mirror hangs on the wall behind the bar, adding depth to the already spacious room.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” a deep voice purrs in my ear.

I turn to see a tall, lean man leaning casually against the counter next to me. His light hair is perfectly tousled, and his smoldering eyes seem to hold an invitation for sinful things.

“Hi.” I give him a small smile. “What’ll it be?” I ask him, and confusion clouds his face until I tilt my chin toward the bartender waiting to take his order.

His eyes roam over my body before he shakes his head. He orders a Jack and Coke, and I notice his gaze falling back down my body like a predator sizing up its prey.

I order my drinks next and wait for the bartender. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Julian’s fists connecting with his opponent’s face over and over again.

I’m not missing anything new. Although the way his muscles dip and bulge . . . that is very new and not at all like the boy I knew ten years ago. I subconsciously bite down on my lower lip.

“Feeling brave enough to step into the ring yourself?” the guy asks, his voice dripping with innuendo. “I bet you’d put on quite a show.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll leave the fighting to the professionals,” I shoot back. My tone turns icy as I try to create some distance between us. But if he notices, he doesn’t show it.

Instead his hand suddenly grips my arm tightly, and he pulls me closer.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck as his other hand slides around my waist.

Panic rises within me, along with a fierce surge of anger.

How dare he touch me like this?

“Get your hands off me,” I snarl before shoving him away with all my strength. The force of my push catches him off-guard, and he stumbles.

“You fucking bitch,” he hisses, his breath putrid as it engulfs me.

In a second his hand connects with my face in a vicious slap that sends me stumbling backward.

The crowd cheers with madness as Julian deals a blow to his opponent’s temple. Everyone is too high on adrenaline and other substances to notice my predicament.

Before I can regain my senses, the man grabs onto my arm with a bruising grip and pulls me away from the crowded bar. His fingers dig into my skin, leaving red marks in their wake as he leads me into a corner, hiding us from prying eyes.

The shadows seem to close in around us as I try to pull away, but his grip only tightens, trapping me in this secluded space alone with him.

“Let go of me!” I shout. But my voice gets lost in the cacophony of the crowd as I struggle to break free.

He’s too strong, and he knows it, as he presses me against the wall. His hot, alcohol-laced breath traces my neck as he whispers, “With this little dress, you are just asking for it, aren’t you, baby?”

I grunt in frustration, pushing with all my strength at his chest. But he doesn’t budge.

“Such a pretty little thing.” He sneers, his fingers digging into my flesh as he starts to tug at the hem of my dress. “Look at you squirming for it. You are making my dick so fucking hard.”

“Stop it!” My insides tighten as his intention becomes horrifyingly clear.

“Quiet. I’ll make it quick. You’ll beg me for more afterward.”

His clammy hand covers my breast and he squeezes in delight. Air tickles my inner thighs, and I know he’s seconds away from touching my center. The sound of his belt unbuckling is enough to wake me from the fear.

I remember the knife I brought with me, concealed in my combat boot.

Searching for it, my fingers tremble as I lift my leg and feel the hilt in my palm. In one swift movement I free it, pointing it at his chest—but something flashes beside us, catching my eye, and the guy gets yanked away from me.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”

I hear Julian’s deep growl rip through the air before he stands over the man. Anger seeps out of his pores. He can barely contain himself. His light eyes are now a pool of intense darkness, matching his body, which is covered in blood from the fight that ended seconds ago.

The metallic scent of iron fills the air, mixing with the tang of sweat and adrenaline, as Julian’s muscles tense and ripple beneath his stained skin.

Then the sickening crunch of bone echoes through the air as Julian’s fist connects with the man’s face, sending him crumpling to the floor, unconscious.

Just one punch. And the bastard is now lying on the ground. Where he belongs.

“Are you all right?” Julian turns to me with concern etched across his bruised and battered features. “Did he touch you?”

“Yes,” I manage to choke out. My throat squeezes shut with all the emotions brewing inside of me, threatening to overwhelm me.

Yes, I’m all right? Yes, he touched me? Yes what?

“He didn’t . . . he didn’t get far.”

Relief washes over Julian’s face, but it gets quickly replaced by a dark, wrathful expression.

“Show me where he touched you.”

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what he wants, but I comply anyway, pointing to the place on my breast where the guy’s hands violated me.

Shame and anger rush out as I relive the helplessness I felt just seconds ago. I lift my gaze to Julian’s and wait.

His eyes bore into the spot. “Where else? I want you to show me everywhere he touched.” His voice is low, the anger from before still visible as he struggles to control it.

Nodding, I feel my throat scratch as I try to swallow. Mouth parched, I move my fingers down to my inner thigh, then right up under my ass.

“No, not like that.” He grabs the knife I forgot I was clutching. “Show me with this.”

“Wh-what?”

“On me.”

A fierce protectiveness shines in his molten blue gaze. A need to make things right. And so, with trembling fingers, I take the knife back and press the tip to each spot on Julian’s body that mirrors my own violated parts.

“Here,” I whisper each time, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

And each time, Julian nods with determination before forcing my hand to drive the knife into his flesh, leaving angry red marks that weep blood.

“Remember this,” he tells me, pointing at the crimson dripping to the floor. “Your body is mine. Your soul is mine. Whatever happens to you happens to me. Especially when I should have been preventing it.”

I stare at him, bloodied and battered, and I can’t help but feel a strange sense of gratitude mixed with raw fear.

“This is what I mean when I say you are mine,” he growls.

Movement calls for our attention as the bastard whimpers on the floor, groaning in agony as he tries to regain consciousness.

Julian’s eyes light up with a twisted gleam, and he turns to me, his wicked smile stretching wide. “He’s waking up, love.”

My anger for the bastard comes rushing back, and a copy of Julian’s twisted grin appears on my lips. “He looked better when he was unmoving.”

Julian swears under his breath, his eyes darkening as they sink to me. He licks his lips, leaving a trail of red. “Fuck, you’re something else,” he whispers.

I don’t respond, my attention fixed on the molester as he struggles to get back onto his feet. I can feel Julian’s intense gaze burning into me. He’s itching to kill him, but as much as he wants to, he wants me to take the lead. Wants me to make the asshole regret what he did.

The air is thick with tension. Every muscle in my body is coiled and ready to strike.

“There’s no point in telling you not to treat a girl like that again . . .” I take a step closer to him, and he staggers, hitting his back against the wall. “Because there won’t be a second time.” I smile as I plunge the knife into his stomach.

He roars in pain, clutching at the wound in shock. His eyes round as he chokes on air. He felt so powerful just a few seconds ago, but only now does he understand he’s skin and bone, no different from me.

He went for my body; I’ll go for his soul.

Without hesitation, I stab him one more time—straight through his neck.

Blood spurts everywhere, and he crumples to the floor.

Dead.

A rush of adrenaline courses through me. Relief and satisfaction next.

Julian entwines our bloodied fingers, squeezing my hand ever so slightly before leading me out of the grimy corner and toward his matte-black Ducati parked outside.

The sleek machine seems to purr with anticipation as Julian straddles it before extending a helmet to me. I hesitate, my hand frozen in midair as I stare at it.

The events of the night are still swirling through my mind—the bastard’s hands on me, the taste of fear as he violated me, the visceral satisfaction of exacting my revenge.

“Hey.” Julian softly breaks the spell, offering me his bloodstained hand.

I look at him and see the same pain, anger, and determination mirrored in his eyes.

For a brief second I allow myself to forget about the guy and what he did to me. I place my trembling hand, soaked with blood, in his crimson one and feel a strange sense of comfort at his touch.

In one swift motion I slip on the helmet and climb onto the bike behind him. I shoot a quick text to Eleanora to let her know I’m heading back home with Julian without giving too many details. I’ll let her imagination explore what might have happened tonight. I don’t want to worry her . . . or tell her I killed someone.

As we speed through the Seattle night, the wind whipping through my hair and the city lights blurring together, I cling to Julian, feeling more alive than ever before.

Because despite everything, I know we’re similar in so many ways. Bloodied, broken, but still fighting.