Betrayed by Truths: Truth or Lies Book 2 Read online

  Betrayed by Truths

  Truth or Lies Book 2

  Ella Miles

  Copyright © 2019 by Ella Miles

  EllaMiles.com

  [email protected]

  Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Free Books

  Truth or Lies Series

  Prologue

  1. Kai

  2. Enzo

  3. Kai

  4. Enzo

  5. Kai

  6. Enzo

  7. Kai

  8. Enzo

  9. Kai

  10. Enzo

  11. Kai

  12. Enzo

  13. Kai

  14. Enzo

  15. Kai

  16. Enzo

  17. Kai

  18. Enzo

  19. Kai

  20. Enzo

  21. Kai

  22. Enzo

  23. Kai

  24. Enzo

  25. Kai

  26. Enzo

  27. Kai

  Free Books

  Also by Ella Miles

  About the Author

  Free Books

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  Truth or Lies Series

  Lured by Lies #0.5

  Taken by Lies #1

  Betrayed by Truths #2

  Trapped by Lies #3

  Stolen by Truths #4

  Possessed by Lies #5

  Consumed by Truths #6

  Prologue

  Enzo

  My eyes open before dawn. Not because I’m an early riser or enjoy watching the sunrise. But out of necessity—survival.

  My feet hit the ground before my body is fully awake. My senses put out feelers in every direction, trying to determine any threat before it ends me. I pull the gun from under my pillow and aim it around the room. I no longer sleep without it. Not after my father’s last “test” left me fighting off a dozen men with nothing but my thirteen-year-old body’s scrawny muscles to defend myself.

  I still my breathing and heartbeat as I focus. But I know immediately there is no one in my bedroom but me. The room is silent and dark.

  I put my gun in the back of my jeans. Yes, I sleep in jeans. I’ve gotten too many early wake-up calls needing me to be ready to fight. And I’d rather fight with pants on than in my boxers. My junk feels better protected with another layer of clothes on, even if in the end it makes no difference.

  I grab the black T-shirt that lies on the chair in the corner of my room and pull it over my head before stepping into my work boots. Then I slink to the window, thumb the drapes open just enough to see out through the thin slit in the fabric to the early morning sky. The sun is hovering on the horizon bringing with it the light.

  I let the drapes fall closed, and then move with silent feet through the house—through corridors and down staircases. Through the house I will inherit someday when I become the king of evil incarnate and take over from my father.

  Demolishing the house will be the first thing I do when I take over. I hate this fucking house. I hate its thick brick walls. The cold, drafty hallways that weren’t built to accommodate air conditioning. The gargoyle statues that seem from another time, not meant to stare out over the seas of Miami. It’s like my father lifted this house from medieval France and plopped it on a hillside in Florida. It’s completely out of place here among the rows of beach houses.

  And to me, it feels like a prison I have no hope of ever escaping.

  I stumble to an abrupt stop when I reach the kitchen. My father’s eyes sear into mine, and I know my fate from the way his nostrils flare at the sight of me.

  “What are you fucking doing? You think you deserve to eat breakfast before even putting in an hour’s work?” he asks, lifting a cup of coffee to his lips.

  Yes, I fucking need to eat breakfast! I don’t know how he expects me to pack on muscle if I never get to eat.

  I don’t say that. It might make me feel better for a second, but in the end, it would earn me a beating.

  “Just awaiting your orders, sir.”

  That pisses him off more. Dammit, what did I say?

  Father stands from the stool he’s been sitting on while, waiting for me to make a mistake. His grip on the mug tightens until it shatters and hot coffee spills from the broken mug. The liquid must burn my father’s skin, but he doesn’t notice nor care.

  I eye the broken shards, knowing my father could use it as a weapon against me at any second. I count the pieces preparing for an attack.

  But I should know better than to think my father would be predictable.

  Instead, he marches to me with all his furry behind him. Oozing from his pores as steam shoots from his nose. His face darkens to a shade of red that can only be used to describe the devil. All he’s missing are horns and pitchfork.

  “Awaiting orders?” He reaches for my neck, a move he’s done countless times. I escape with ease, darting around to the other side of the kitchen island.

  “Awaiting fucking orders?! Really, Enzo? Have you learned nothing from all our years of training! No son of mine awaits fucking orders. You give them! You rule them! You never take them!”

  My father launches himself at me before I can escape. I may be quick, but he has years of experience, thick muscles, and more rage than I ever thought one man could contain behind him—while I live in fear.

  He pins me against the cabinet with his forearm shoved against my neck, and his leg shoving hard into my stomach. He grabs my gun and quickly disarms me, tossing it to the floor behind him.

  I’m powerless. He could kill me right now, and there is nothing I could do about it.

  He won’t. He needs me.

  That’s what I keep reminding myself every day.

  I can’t die. He can’t kill me.

  But sometimes, in the gloomy pain that encompasses my every day, I wish he would. Eternal sleep has to be easier than the torture I go through every day just to survive.

  I don’t flinch as his fist pounds into the side of my head. I jolt into the cabinet ensuring a dent in the wood as my head makes contact. The familiar taste of blood coats my mouth, but I don’t think he knocked any teeth out this time.

  Who needs coffee when you have dear old father to jolt you awake with a good morning jab to the face?

  “Look at me, son.”

  I whip my head back to face him with nothing but disdain.

  Dad sighs, exhaling his frustration, coffee, and whiskey. He may have just been drinking coffee, but I know his day is wrapping to a close, not starting. He was out late last night, chasing down a yacht from one of our enemies who threatened his control of the seas. From the anger waving off of him, the chase didn’t go well. But my father returned, and the only way that would have happened would be if he eliminated the bastard for daring to kill a single crew member from our ranks.

  He shakes his head as he peers into my broken eyes. “Do you want to become Black?”

  I nod my head, knowing any other answer will land me another blow to the head. Although, I’m
not sure I want to become Black. Black is synonymous with my father. And he’s the last person I want to become.

  “Then you have to put in the work. The Millers will be preparing their heir to take over. To defeat you. He will be stronger than any foe you’ve ever faced. You can’t lose.”

  I squint my eyes. My father would never allow me to come home if I lost. Good thing he’ll be dead when it’s finally time for me to do battle. That’s what triggers the next Black to take his place. And I can’t imagine a world where my father will ever die. So I don’t expect to face my opponent until I’m ninety.

  “You will be Black. The legend, the myth, the ruler. You will take my place someday. And when that day comes, you’ll be more dangerous and ruthless than I ever was. You have a better teacher than I did. You will be more prepared to take over than any heir before you.”

  If this is what I have to do to prepare, then I don’t want to be Black. I don’t want any part of it. I’d rather lose and live my life on the sea, learning how to sail, and working hard than go through another day of my father’s training course.

  “And when you become king, like me, you will be free.”

  Free.

  He said the magic word.

  The one thing I crave more than anything—freedom.

  My father grins, his eyes deepening as if he unlocked the key to the greatest treasure, instead of just finding the key to getting me to take his training seriously.

  “Good,” he says releasing me.

  I ball my hands into fists, instead of reaching for my pounding head like I want. Never show weakness. I learned that lesson when I was seven and cried when I skinned my knee on the sidewalk after riding my bike too fast. Father whipped me for every tear I shed, which only made me cry harder and earn more lashings. When my tears had finally dried up, I had changed. I’ve never cried since that day. I’ll never cry again.

  Never flinch.

  Never wince.

  Never cry.

  I am invincible. At least that is what the world thinks of me. I’m unstoppable.

  His lips curl up higher as the evil wheels in his brain turn with an idea.

  Fuck me.

  I’m screwed.

  Last time he had an idea, I was forced to run barefoot through the forest behind the house. I ran for three days straight with him hunting me on horseback with the promise that if he caught me, he’d shoot me.

  My stomach lurches thinking of what happened when he finally caught up to me. My feet were bleeding; my body was frail from not eating; I was delirious with dehydration. He should have been proud that I lasted for three days. I hadn’t slept or eaten. I never stopped moving. It took him three whole days to track me down and find me. He had the advantage of horses, scent dogs, and a weapon.

  But father wasn’t proud. I don’t know how long he expected me to last or if shooting me was the plan the entire time no matter what I did. But my shoulder will never be the same.

  He shot me without a word—only a dark stare of disappointment.

  I was in shock, so I didn’t realize what had happened until he motioned for me to follow.

  I took one step and collapsed from the pain. When I awoke, I expected to be in a hospital or at least in my bed at home. Instead, I found myself covered in dirt, my shoulder still bleeding from the wound my father caused.

  I could have died!

  The bastard.

  But I can’t die. So I pulled myself up and walked home. Father wasn’t there when I arrived, but I knew better at that point than to call a doctor. So I called Langston, one of my best friends. His father is a doctor, so I thought he could help. But all he could do was pull out the bullet, wash it clean with vodka, and then force the vile liquid down my throat until I passed out again to avoid the pain.

  My shoulder still throbs six months later. That’s when I started keeping a gun under my pillow. That’s when any spare moment I have I’m practicing shooting or deflecting. I will not let any man shoot me again. Not without fighting back.

  “Come,” my father says like I’m a dog as he walks away from me.

  I take the moment to inspect my head, but I don’t find any contusion, bump, or blood. Probably just another concussion to add to the endless list of pain my father has caused me.

  He picks up my gun before I have the chance.

  Fuck.

  I straighten my spine. I will not let him shoot me again.

  Although, that’s what I feel like I’m walking into. A shooting range where I’ll be the target.

  We descend down more stairs, and the prickling on the back of my neck tells me exactly where we are going—the dungeon.

  My father doesn’t hold very many men prisoner. And the ones he does he doesn’t keep for very long. But there are a few rooms on the premise for this very purpose. To hold dangerous men, torture them, and then kill them when he gets the information he requires.

  I swallow down the fear that begins to rise with each step.

  We pass door after door of cages meant to loosen tongues into speaking, and then we stop at the last door. My father takes a key from his pocket and opens the door to the darkness. I already know what awaits me.

  Nothing.

  Blackness.

  Loneliness.

  This won’t be a test of physical pain; it will be mental as all of his most ruthless tests are.

  I don’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I don’t take orders. Ha. He forces me to take orders every single day.

  But one day, I won’t.

  I’m already starting to get big enough that I can imagine a day when I’ll have enough muscles and skills that I won’t have to follow my father’s orders. Except he has the power of the entire Surrender crew behind him. Most men in Miami would follow his every order just to stay alive or earn a favor from the notorious Black.

  I walk into the cold, damp room. When I turn I see my father’s smirk on his face. He doesn’t want me to follow any orders, except his. He wants me to be his puppet he can control, even from the grave.

  He tosses my gun into the room. I watch as it lands on the dirty floor at my feet.

  Maybe I was wrong? Why the hell do I need a gun if he’s just going to lock me in the room for a few days?

  “This is a test of patience and self-control,” he says.

  I bend down and pick up the gun, not taking my eyes off of my father and my senses going on high alert.

  “Why the gun?” I ask as he closes the door.

  He grins, with a wicked glare. “Because before I open this door, you’ll want to kill yourself rather than survive through one more minute of the pain. And you need to learn self-control, self-preservation. You need to prefer pain to death.”

  The door latches with a loud thud. Locking me in for longer than I ever want to imagine.

  This should be an easy test for me. I have more patience than my father. I thrive on being alone. I can sleep for days uninterrupted and dream of a better world where I don’t have to handle endless nights of pain just to show I’m worthy.

  Easy.

  But my days and nights are anything but.

  I don’t get food—not even scraps.

  And my only choice for water is the occasional trickle that seeps through the walls when it rains that I’m forced to lick from the dirty bricks. I resort to drinking my own pee in hopes of getting the tiniest drops of liquid. But I haven’t peed in days.

  I’ve lost track of time. How many days have passed and how many left to endure?

  My body won’t survive much longer. It aches to move, to think, to breathe.

  So I don’t do anything.

  I’ve even learned to shut off my mind.

  I just exist.

  And then I see the flicker of the gun that rests in the corner. I could end this.

  Yes, that’s what I’ll do. End this.

  I just have to make it to the gun.

  Move body, move!

  Now that I’ve made my decision, I want it to end�
��now.

  But I can barely think, let alone move.

  Every thought becomes a struggle.

  I reach one arm out, then the other. Now pull my body forward as my legs push. I gain an inch. Then another. And another.

  Until my fingers brush against the gun.

  I smile for the first time in weeks.

  This is going to end. I’m going to end it. I’ll piss off father, leave him without an heir. That thought alone sparks my happiness. My final act won’t be to kill my father, but myself. That will enrage him more than anything else ever could.

  I grasp the gun and put it to my head.

  My hands are shaky, but it doesn’t matter if I miss the center of my head as long as I hit some part of my body. I’m too weak to handle a gunshot. I’ll die from blood loss within minutes. It will just prolong my agony.

  I keep my eyes open staring into the dark abyss, and then I pull the trigger.

  CLICK.

  Shit.

  I remove the gun from my head and pull again.

  Nothing.

  The bastard removed the fucking bullets.

  I fling the gun towards the wall, but my arms are too weak for it to even reach it. The metal falls to the dirt with a soft thud.

  That’s when the door flies open, and my father’s chuckles fill the room.

  “You failed. You’re weak. I think it’s time I teach you a lesson.”

  I should speak. Tell him how strong I am for surviving as long as I did, but my voice doesn’t even work. Nothing does.