Nero - Revenge never tasted better

Chapter 21: The hero vs the villain

Have you ever wondered why girls tend to gravitate towards the bad boys over the good ones? 

It's something that had always intrigued me, this inexplicable allure towards danger and rebellion. From a young age, we're spoon-fed the hero archetype, taught to root for the prince charming who swoops in to save the day. Disney movies feed us this narrative, embedding it into our subconscious until it becomes almost second nature.

But somewhere along the line, things shift. As we grow older, our tastes evolve, and suddenly, the bad boy becomes the flavour du jour. It's like we're magnetized to the darkness, to the forbidden allure of the rogue who dances on the edges of society.

I wonder why that is? Maybe those other girls have caught on to something I haven't. Perhaps I've lingered too long in the fairy-tale land of childhood, where the lines between good and evil are crystal clear. Because in my book, the hero will always be the obvious pick, the one who embodies all the virtues we're supposed to admire and strive for. If given the chance, I'd choose the hero every single time. Give me the one with guts and integrity, the one who stands tall in the face of adversity. Because in the end, isn't that what we're all searching for? Someone who will fight for us, who will sacrifice everything to keep us safe?

It's a tantalizing notion, one that's kept me up at night more times than I'd care to admit. Yet here I am, standing at life's crossroads, torn between two worlds and two loves, wondering if there's more to the story than meets the eye.

Dragging my tired self through the empty streets of Crimson Hollow, the weight of the night's chaos pressing down on me like a leaden shroud. The moon, aloof and indifferent, hung low in the sky, casting feeble light upon the worn cobblestones below. Shadows danced and flickered in my peripheral, murmuring secrets of the night that sent shivers down my spine.

The air was thick with the scent of fear and desperation, the aftermath of our daring escape still lingering like a bitter taste upon the city's tongue. Every breath I took felt heavy and laboured, as though I were inhaling the very essence of despair itself. The echoes of gunfire and bloodshed reverberated in my ears, a haunting melody that refused to fade.

Tyler and Aiyden's reckless act of defiance weighed heavily on my mind, their faces etched with determination and fear as they fought to shield us from The Clan's grasp. The memory of their blades slicing through flesh, the sound of blood spilling into the night, it all played on repeat in my head like a macabre symphony.

But despite the peril that had stalked us, we'd made it back to the safety of the den. Augustin and Georges stayed behind to tend to Augustin's wounds—a wounded cook would have raised too many questions, especially with reports of the night's events likely reaching my father's ears by now.

Approaching my home, the faint light of dawn began to paint the sky in hues of pink and gold, a bittersweet reminder of the new day dawning. I was bone-tired, every step a Herculean effort, my spirit battered by the night's trials.

And then, like a haunting specter from the darkest recesses of my nightmares, there he stood, perched on my driveway like some pompous peacock. Thomas, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored trousers, oozing that trademark arrogance that never failed to ignite the flames of fury within me. In that moment he was nothing but the reminder of the chains that bound me to this wretched city and the men who sought to control me.

"Glad to see you've finally seen reason, my love," he drawled, his voice dripping with a nauseating blend of smugness and self-importance. Each word was like a dagger to my already frayed nerves, a stark reminder of the suffocating grip he held over my life. I recoiled at his touch as he dared to plant a condescending kiss upon my forehead, the gesture leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. It was a silent declaration of his victory, a cruel assertion of his dominance over me.