Moth (Dragon Triad Duet Book 1) Read online

  Moth

  Dragon Triad Duet Book 1

  Lana Sky

  Also by Lana Sky

  The Ellie Gray Chronicles

  Drain Me

  Chain Me

  The Complete Ellie Gray Chronicles

  Beautiful Monsters

  Crescendo

  Refrain

  Mezzo

  Allegro

  Club XXX

  Maxim: Submit

  Maxim: Obey

  Maxim: Surrender

  Maxim: The Complete Trilogy

  Vadim: Control

  Vadim: Corrupt

  Vadim: Conquer

  Vadim: The Complete Trilogy

  Savage Fall Duet

  King’s Men

  King’s Horses

  The Complete Savage Fall Duet

  The War of Roses

  XV: (Fifteen)

  VII: (Seven)

  I: (One)

  The Complete War of Roses Trilogy

  Painted Sin

  A Touch of Dark

  A Taste like Sin

  The Complete Painted Sin Duet

  Standalones

  Pretty Perfect

  Crossed Lines

  Dragon Triad Duet

  Moth

  Flame

  The Complete Dragon Triad Duet

  Rockstar Rebels

  Dirty Lyrics (Newsletter Exclusive)

  Moth

  Moth By Lana Sky

  Copyright © 2020 by Lana Sky

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

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

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks so much to everyone who supported this draft along the way, including the many beta readers who provided encouragement! Please keep in mind that this story includes dark, graphic and explicit content matter that may not be suitable for readers under the age of 18—or for readers who are uncomfortable with the following subject matter: explicit sex, mentions of sexual abuse, mentions of domestic abuse, and graphic depictions of violence.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Origin Story

  A Word from the Author

  About the Author

  Also by Lana Sky

  Chapter One

  We’re lied to as children. Monsters aren’t found in the closet or under the bed, and nothing portrayed in horror movies could ever do them justice. The awful truth became obvious to me at an early age. Real monsters lurk inside of everyone—from a kind elderly grandparent down to the very people who tuck you in at bedtime.

  We all have demons inside, waiting to emerge when least expected. The only effective weapon against them is denial. Close your eyes, count to ten, and endure the worst of the assault. Suppress the pain, the anger—the fear.

  You breathe.

  Eventually, the horror fades, and you convince yourself it was all just a dream.

  Until the lies stop working. The nightmare becomes a reality, corrupting every aspect of your life.

  Your mind.

  Your body.

  Your soul.

  Until the person you see in the mirror becomes the scariest monster of all. In vain, you try running away.

  But you never can.

  There is only one choice left—live that pretty, fragile lie and craft the walls of your own ignorant little cage around you.

  Like a moth dancing on the edges of a flame.

  Music spills from the club’s brick façade, providing a fitting soundtrack for this busy city street. My nerves aside, I can’t deny that the place has its own unique brand of ambiance. Loud, pulsing notes form the bulk, grating against my eardrums. It’s not my preference, per se—more along the lines of the punky sort of stuff that Mara listens to. Vulgar on the surface, but when the chorus hits, the guitar riffs give way to surprisingly deep lyrics.

  It’s the juxtaposition, she explains whenever I raise my eyebrow at the noise seeping from her headphones during our bus rides to campus. You should study it more, Hannah. A few curse words might spice up your writing enough that you’ll make the international news next time.

  My cheeks heat at the prospect as I lean against a grungy brick wall paces away from the actual line snaking inside. I’m out of sight here, and there’s no one to stare as my hand falls to the knitted bag hanging from my shoulder. I curl my fingers into a fist just to keep from reaching inside for it—it being a crumpled article from four weeks ago. Sure, the article itself had been buried within one of the most well-read local imprints from my small town, but it featured a short story, written by none other than Hannah Dewitt. Or, in this case, Hannah Matthews. Not that using my mother’s maiden name helped obscure my identity any. Everyone from my parents to those in my hometown knew instantly who wrote it.

  The narrative conveyed in the few short paragraphs transcends any pseudo-identity I might hide behind. A spine-chilling horror or as my creative writing professor deemed it—a story of betrayal and violence.

  And death.

  Mara had snorted the first time I showed her the article. “You really carry that around with you?” she’d asked, but her voice had touched on that awed, reverent tone artists reserve for those weird universal quirks we all understand. She just got it.

  That feeling.

  That pride.

  That fear.

  After three months of being her unofficial best friend, I’m convinced she loves testing our mutual fears more than any other bonding activity. Our fear of rejection. Isolation. Of the unknown.

  Like venturing out to a club on the outskirts of downtown at a time inching dangerously close to midnight. It’s one of the most reckless things I’ve ever done, even if I haven’t gathered up the nerve to go inside yet. I’m here, and that’s the important thing. All for the sake of research—how can I write about the human experience without…well, living?

  The first step? Break free from my cage—a task easier said than done. Warily, I dig through my bag for my phone. It might not be a cage in the literal sense, but its pink case resembles nothing more than a pretty shackle, linking me to an owner, though he’s miles away. Several unread messages dance across my home screen, none of them from Mara:

  Where are you?

  Where are you?

  Where are you?

  My fingers tremble as I hastily compile a reply. At home. Like usual, lol.

  A new message flashes across the screen as if the writer knew my response by heart, ready with his own counterpoint. Is your webcam still broken?

  I swallow hard and desperately try to ignore the unease unfurling in my belly. I can do this. I went over the plan a million times, fine-tuning every detail, such as insisting the security camera he’d installed in my apartment had spontaneously combusted this mo
rning. It’s a harmless lie on the surface, but it set the groundwork for my fragile confidence. I’m ready for anything.

  Yeah, I finally reply. The battery died, remember?

  Sweat slicks my palms as I wait for a response. A heartbeat later, my phone vibrates with an incoming message.

  Call me then.

  Enjoy Santa Barbara, I insist. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine without you for just one night.

  Call me, Hannah. Now.

  I sigh and bring the phone to my ear. It barely has the chance to ring before someone picks up on the other end. “How are you doing?” my brother demands.

  “I’m fine, Branden.” I try my best to keep the strain from my voice. “Now enjoy your vacation. Promise—”

  “I can barely hear you…” Static disrupts his words. I just get shouted snippets. “What the hell is that noise?”

  “N-Noise?” My heart stops beating. As if from miles away, I interpret the music pulsing in the distance. Crap. He must be able to hear it even through the phone. Turning, I spot a nearby alley and hurry down the cramped space until a dumpster blocks my path. At least here, some of the noise fades.

  “Sorry, I was…watching something on the television,” I say, cupping my hand around the receiver. “I turned the volume down.”

  “You think you can live by yourself in an apartment and have the TV that loud?”

  I grit my teeth at the disapproval in his tone. “It’s not that big of a deal, Bran. I’m sorry—”

  “Take a picture,” he demands. “Right now. Your cell phone seems to be working okay if you can’t use the webcam. I need to see your smile.”

  “Branden.” I’m blinking too rapidly to ignore the prickling sensation building behind my eyes. It’s such a stupid reason to cry. I’ve prepared for this, too.

  “Just one,” he goads in that tone that makes the outrageous sound reasonable. Sane. “So that I can make sure you’re safe.”

  “I’m honestly fine,” I whisper in a half-hearted attempt to placate his paranoia.

  More static rattles the feed from his end as if he pulled the phone from his ear. “Kaitlin! Pack up. We’re heading back tonight—”

  “Fine.” Sighing, I hold up my cell phone and take a picture of the brick wall before me. The shutter sound echoes loudly enough for him to hear it. “Cheese,” I mutter as I flick through my recent photos and select the one I took right before leaving my apartment. My finger shakes as I hit send. “Satisfied?” I ask, knowing that within seconds he’ll be able to see the image—me, supposedly safe and sound, lounging on the couch in my pj’s while smiling wide.

  “I’m just looking out for you, Han,” he finally replies. “I still don’t get why you left. I’m just trying to protect you. You know that. And I’m sorry…for what happened the other day. You should have told me you weren’t coming sooner.” His voice hardens the way it does when he’s thinking too long and too hard. Usually, about the past and all the ways I’ve screwed up under his watch before.

  “I just want you to enjoy this time with Kaitlin,” I croak. “That’s all.”

  In theory, my moving out was supposed to be our chance to start over. Put some distance between us. Cut the cord…

  If anything, he’s started to strangle me with it.

  Only because he loves me. He does.

  “Night, Bran.” I know better than to hang up until he grunts out a muttered goodbye. Only then can I rest assured that he won’t show up outside my apartment in the middle of the night.

  Hopefully.

  But I’ve survived, and as I return my phone to my bag, I refocus on the task at hand—not chickening out of my—technically first—night out with a real live friend. Ever.

  Not even Branden can make me turn back now.

  Squaring my shoulders, I face the club entrance, no less intimidated by the sight of the line than I was before.

  What had Mara called this place? Eccentric. “It’s the best! Really grunge. The kind of place where you’ll find an underground DJ as often as a drug dealer.”

  Fortunately for me, there don’t seem to be any drug dealers among the scantily dressed women and men who make up the bulk of the line—not that I would honestly know the difference. Still, something won’t let me scurry from the alley and join them just yet.

  Fear? Branden isn’t the only reason I’m hesitant to go headlong into a nightclub, in a strange neighborhood with a “friend” I’ve admittedly only known for a few months. But part of my New Year’s resolution is to live a little. Stop dwelling in my bubble. Stop living life under Branden’s discretion.

  And, most importantly, grow as an artist…

  Inhaling deeply, I force myself to advance the few necessary steps it takes to join the end of the line. My hands shake as I rummage through my bag for a card Mara gave me. Neon blue, it proclaims the club’s name in a bold black script—Dragon’s Head. When I flash it to the bouncer, he barely gives me a second glance.

  And I’m in. Dorothy is no longer in Kansas, but the real world is a dizzying collage of neon lights and crushing music. Dark walls and a press of bodies make this realm so very different from the cloistered, closeted spaces I’m used to. One overriding thought weighs on my mind as I inch my way forward, but I’m smiling the more I mull it over. Branden would kill me.

  But at least then he wouldn’t be able to control me anymore.

  In this place, control seems to be a foreign concept entirely. Mara hadn’t been lying. Beneath the grime and decay, the venue oozes creative allure in spades. I have to physically stop myself from dragging my journal from my bag and writing down snippets of inspiration. I can’t help it. Poetry lurks in the flickers of bright light and lingering shadow. Stanzas beg to be written about mysterious figures lurking on the outskirts of the dance floor.

  Every person here has a story to be told—people watching, in less flowery terms, sure. Either way, this is much better than sitting at home watching old movies in my ratty pair of sweats.

  I do my best to meld within the crowd, craning my neck back to take everything in. The high rafters riddled with metal scaffolding. The brick walls illuminated in muted reflections of the pulsing lights. Color abounds, and I almost miss the flash of pale skin as someone grabs my wrist, spinning me around.

  “You came!” Mara Chan stands before me, dressed to kill in a black minidress that hugs her curves. Her long black hair hangs loosely down her back, and her light makeup enhances her pretty features and almond-shaped eyes.

  She could have easily chosen to be a model rather than an English lit major.

  And in her shadow, I instantly feel underdressed. “I thought you said this was casual?” I have to shout just to be heard above the music.

  “What do you mean?” She eyes me with a frown and shrugs. “You look great.”

  Great—as in boring. My beige sweater—speckled with white bunnies—and a conservative brown corduroy skirt are admittedly the most risqué items in my wardrobe. Even so, Mara waggles her eyebrows.

  “Relax! You have that sexy librarian thing going on. Now, let’s dance!” Grabbing my hand, she pulls me out to the center of the dance floor. “The music tonight is fire!”

  I spot a DJ in the corner, curating the pulsating, energetic beat that seems to switch on a dime, keeping every dancer on their toes.

  It’s an electric atmosphere far different from what I see portrayed on television. Yet my worried, niggling fears meld with the flourishes of the music…

  Branden would kill me.

  Kill me.

  Kill me.

  “Hey, buzzkill!” Mara giggles even though she’s forced to shout near my ear. “Loosen up! I’ll get us some drinks.”

  She scurries off before I can follow, leaving me adrift amid a sea of writhing bodies. I grip my bag with both hands and try not to panic—a feat made ten times harder as paranoia sets in, nibbling away at my fragile resolve.

  Branden would kill me. He will kill me. He’s on his way here, sensing tha
t something is wrong. He’ll find me here and then kill me.

  He’ll…

  Stop controlling my every moment because he is my brother, not my keeper. I mentally chant the thought as fiercely as I can until it sinks in—a little bit.

  Until I remember his explosive reaction when I backed out of the beach trip he spontaneously planned to start this week—a full month earlier than when he usually takes his vacation. You’re so fucking selfish, Hannah.

  You hate me, Hannah.

  You’re just like them.

  Like them.

  You’ll abandon me too.

  I flinch as a dull ache resonates through my right arm. I’d started to clutch it with the opposite hand without realizing it. I stop and refocus on my surroundings.

  It’s too beautiful here to worry.

  Neon lights bathe the room in alternating plumes of color. Yellows. Reds. Greens. They transform the space into an almost mythical realm where the clubgoers around me shift and mutate at random. A girl grinding against a male companion glows pink, then blue before appearing normal again for a split second. She catches me staring and winks, gyrating her hips.

  My cheeks flame as I push my way past the dancing couple, hunting for Mara. I don’t see her over by what seems to be the only bar in the back corner. Neither do I spot her long hair swaying in the nearby vicinity. Confused, I keep going, making my way through the club. On my second trip around, I spot a flash of dark hair along a section of booths cordoned off by a neon blue velvet rope. Two massive bouncers guard the opening I assume to be the entrance, and Mara stands beyond them, inside the section.