The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

My sock-clad feet sank into the muddy, marshy ground as I sprinted towards the farmhouse, each step laborious and tackled by blades of grass.

In that venturesome instance, I contemplated retreating, returning to the safety of the truck, but the memory of Royce's anger, the urgency in his voice, spurred me on.

Feeling a rush of trepidation in my limbs, I scaled the creaky timber steps to the old, run-down farmhouse.

The air carried the unmistakable whiff of ozone, the sharp tang of impending lightning. I vacillated by the slightly open door, the dim, dusky light in the hallway being the only illumination.

Royce specifically told me to stay in the truck.

Yet, here I am, disobeying orders.

My hand trembled as I clutched the cold metal doorknob and opened the heavy wooden door, revealing a dark, gloomy, cobweb-filled entryway.

A flickering incandescent light bulb hanging from the middle of the ceiling cast a sinister light on the walnut-panelled walls of sepia-toned family portraits and faded oil paintings.

A stale, foetid odour wafted from the farmhouse like it had been hermetically sealed for decades, and the metallic tang lingered on the back of my throat, churning my stomach.

I struggled to suppress a convulsive retch.

How anyone could endure such a revolting stench, let alone reside in its midst on a permanent basis, is beyond me.

My senses were on high alert. I sought to identify the provenance of the disturbance that had drawn me to the house.

However, now that I was inside, the only sound was the inclement weather conditions.

Air caught in my throat. I waited, not breathing.

Initially imperceptible, the faint, cacophonous din became louder with each passing second. I quickly pinpointed that the jumble of voices and heated exchanges were coming from the back of the house, and yet, instead of minding my business and retreating, I found myself drawn further into the heart of the unknown.

At the bottom of the stairs, a young teenage boy sat huddled in a ball, his chin resting on the heel of his hand. His messy brown hair framed his pale, drawn face, and his crystal blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy from exhaustion. His creased clothes suggested he had been sitting there for hours, but his fed-up expression was one of timeless grief.

I became immobilised, uncertain of how to proceed. After all, I was an uninvited guest, an intruder in his home. He must have been terrified.

He gave me a sour look. "Who the fuck are you?"

My mouth stammered.

I stand corrected. He was dauntless, thriving in the harshest conditions, with a contentious attitude and a tongue as sharp as a rapier.

"Olivia," I introduced myself cautiously as I neared the young boy. "Aren't you a little young to be out of bed at this hour?"

"I'm fourteen." His tone was flat and unemotional to match his deadpan expression. "I don't get told when to go to bed, Lady."

"Oh," I managed to utter, listening to the clamour of furious male voices in the next room. "It might be wise for me to check if everything is okay."

"I wouldn't if I were you." He flicked a chrome fidget spinner, the hypnotic whir of the ball bearings catching the light. "Not when they're fighting. It can get ugly really quick when Royce comes over."

Not knowing what to do or where to put myself, I decided to lower my backside to the step next to him. "Are you one of the famous brothers?"

He gave me a look of pure disgust. "I'm famous?"