The Angel And The Bastard

Prologue

Iris

My mother used to say the only thing worse than disappointment was shame.

But that was before I learned that the real worst thing was fear—the kind that twists your insides until you don't recognize yourself, the kind that makes you do things you swore you never would.

Tonight, I'm breaking another promise.

Luke Carson stands at the edge of the woods, just where the manicured Kensington estate gives way to the wild, tangled forest.

His black hair catches in the moonlight, unruly as ever, and his green eyes burn through the shadows.

He's a rough-edged dream cut out of this bleak, soulless town. My parents hate him.

The whole goddamned town hates him.

But me? I can't stop myself from wanting him.

"Iris," he calls softly, barely loud enough to reach me through the thick summer air.

His voice pulls me from the shadows of my parents' sprawling mansion, from the suffocating weight of expectation and into the night.

I know better than to be out here. My mother's voice rings in my head, her disdain like claws: He's beneath you, Iris. You could do so much better.Your a Kensington and he is nothing.

But maybe that's why I keep coming back.

I take one last look at the darkened windows of the house behind me—vaulted glass reflecting the sterile glow of chandeliers.

My family's kingdom of pristine lies. A place where my father controls everything that moves, and my mother polishes our image until we're all just reflections of what the town expects us to be.

I turn away and step into the darkness. My suede boots crunch against gravel as I cross the distance to him, my heart hammering so loud I swear it's going to wake the whole neighborhood.

But Luke is the only one who hears me.

"Hey, Princess," he says when I reach him, a wry smile twisting his lips.

There's no judgment there, no disgust, just a familiar mix of amusement and something else—something that sends a shiver down my spine every damn time.

"You know I hate it when you call me that," I shoot back, even though we both know it's not true. I like the way he says it, like he's mocking the entire world that believes I'm made of silk and glass.

I'm not.

He reaches out, his calloused fingers brushing a lock of my sandy-blonde hair from my face. "And yet you keep coming back."

I bite my lip to keep from smiling, because I'm not supposed to feel this way about him.

Not when his life is falling apart, and mine is meticulously controlled .

Not when my parents made sure he knew exactly what they thought of him the last time they caught us together.

And definitely not when he's about to leave.

"I shouldn't be here," I say, but it comes out like an apology, barely a whisper.

"Yeah, but you are." Luke's gaze sweeps over me, as if he's memorizing every detail—the way my hair spills over my shoulders, the nervous way I tug at the hem of my jacket.

He steps closer, his presence warm and solid against the cool night air.

For a moment, I let myself lean into him, breathing in the smell of smoke and cedar that clings to his clothes.