Myth and Legend

By Angie Collins

"Legacy of Legends: Myth and Legend" unfurls a spellbinding tapestry of intrigue, where shades of gray blur the lines between heroism and darkness. At the heart of the saga is Layla, a complex figure whose journey of self-discovery leads her into the murky depths

• Language: English
• Publisher: Romance
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330386079

Book preview

Prologue

I steel myself for the next blow. Jaw locked; body braced. I will not let him break me. I will not cry. Anger builds inside me, listening to him scream, spit splattering me in my face. I feel the scrape of the wall behind me, anchoring to it to keep myself standing upright.

Just admit you took them! he rages, slamming his fist into my cheek.

His face is red and blotchy, veins bulging in his forehead, fat sloshing around with every movement. I narrow my eyes at him, imagining him grabbing his chest, gasping for air as he falls to the floor, dying slowly from a heart attack as I stand over him, watching the light go out in his eyes as his heart stops beating.

If only I could get so lucky.

I didn’t, I say through gritted teeth, and his hand flies up as he backhands me across the cheek. I know my denial and lack of tears are just fueling his rage, but I don’t care. I will not admit to something I didn’t do. Dealing with his temper tantrums is nothing new, I’ve been doing it for years.

I learned early how to take a punch.

Bullshit! he bellows and strikes again, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth as I feel my lip split, the bite of pain giving me something to focus on, to keep the rage simmering inside me from bubbling over. If I fight back, it will be a million times worse. It’s better to just let him wear himself out. He’s getting so fat it usually doesn’t take long.

I hear my brother crying in the other room. That’s right, asshole, keep your attention focused on me; leave Brennan alone, I think, as my father loses control and starts hitting me over and over again. The distinct crunch of my nose breaking rings in my ears as pain shoots through my face. He rears back and strikes me again, the impact of his fist making my eye swell, blurring my vision.

I know my brother took the candy, but there’s no way I am letting this bastard wail on a seven-year-old.

I will not break. I will not shed a single tear. My body might be breakable, but I am not. The fat fucker quickly tires, looking around at my blood splattering various surfaces of our kitchen, his chest heaving as he tries to recover from the exertion of beating me. Clean this shit up, he tells me with a look of disgust. He turns and storms away while I silently wonder what it would be like to drive a knife into his retreating back.

I grab some paper towels and clean up the mess as quickly as I can before heading to the bathroom to assess the damage. Looks like I’ll be missing a few weeks of school, I wonder what excuse he will use this time. Both eyes are already turning various shades of red and purple, the left one worse than the right, that sucker is swollen completely shut. My nose is definitely broken, and both my lips are split in a few places. I run a rag under cold water and gently try to clean it up as best I can, the coolness soothing my aching skin.

He usually sticks to hitting me in my back; that just goes to show how unstable he’s becoming. He was so pissed he couldn’t even contain his blows to places the bruises couldn’t be seen. He doesn’t give a shit about hurting me, but he does care about people seeing evidence of it.

Mom usually tells me to just stay out of his way and not make him mad. What she doesn’t seem to understand is I don’t have to do anything to piss him off, so there’s no point in trying to sit by and stay quiet. If I’m going to get a beating anyway, I might as well make it worth it.

She’s going to lose her shit when she gets home and sees my face. Despite his protests, she went back to work, and he’s been on a warpath ever since. Apparently, I am directly on that path, and he has declared war on me because he can’t on her. He’s always been an abusive asshole, but he is worse when she’s not here because she will at least intervene.

He doesn’t know, but we are pretty sure he at least suspects she is trying to save money so we can finally leave his ass.

If he doesn’t kill me first.

Some nights, as I lie in bed, I pray to God to take me in my sleep. He’s hit me in the head often enough that I thought God might grant that prayer once or twice when I would get so dizzy I could barely stand. Another time, he hit me on my back so hard it knocked the breath out of me, my vision going black. Imagine my disappointment when I woke up to his panicked face above me. He didn’t care if I lived—he just had enough self-preservation to not want to take the fall for my death.

One day, he will pay for the things he’s done. I don’t care how long I have to wait: I will be the one that sends that bastard straight to hell.

A few hours go by, and I hear a car pull into our drive, my mother is finally home. I’ve been told to stay in my room, and as soon as she walks in the door, he starts trying to make excuses for his actions. She hasn’t even laid eyes on me yet.

I march through the kitchen, head held high, trying not to smirk as I walk past him. His eyes narrow at me, and I’m sure if he thought he could get away with it, he would kill me right here and now.

My mother roars as she grabs my chin, inspecting the colorful array of bruises that mar my skin. She turns on him, and I quietly slide into the bathroom, locking the door. I don’t need to use it; I just wanted an excuse to be in her line of sight.

The confrontation goes as expected. I smile when I hear her throw a pot of boiling water, narrowly missing him. My lip burns and starts bleeding again. I welcome the sting.

That night, I lie in bed, relishing the feel of darkness over my skin. Most people fear the dark, fearing what lies in the shadows. Not me. Darkness feels like home. It calls to me. I hold up my arm into the night and I can feel the inky tendrils swirl and curl around me.

A familiar tingle pricks at my skin, an awareness of sorts that I don’t quite understand. It’s stronger than before, and it makes me curious. I can hear the power as it whispers to me. It wants me to command it, to bend it to my will. I feel a cool sensation brushing over every piece of split and swollen skin covering my face, and it eases the pain until it fades enough for me to fall into a dreamless sleep.

Not only is the bastard violent, but he’s controlling. I’m only allowed a certain amount of water for a bath. My thick black mass of hair is long and impossible to rinse well with my stingy allotment. I slowly turn the faucet on to a drip and use a cup to collect clean water. I’m well practiced at how far I can turn the tap before it makes noise. The water will be cold, but at least it’s clean.

I inspect my face in the reflection of the faucet. It looks so much better than it did yesterday. It’s a little weird how fast it seems to be healing.

A knock sounds at the bathroom door, and I freeze, heart thundering in my chest. Did he hear me turn on the faucet? Surely not. I was careful.

I need to pee, and you are taking too long. Let me in, he demands.

No, my voice portrays a confidence I don’t feel. I know he will be pissed at the flat-out refusal, but I’m not willingly letting him in here.

I hear him rooting around outside of the door and I remember there is a key on the top of the frame.

I’m not waiting; turn around and face the wall.

I know he’s coming in and I can’t stop it, so I hug my knees to my chest and face the wall, praying he gets out quickly.

I squeeze my eyes shut and lay my head on my knees, trying to cover as much of my twelve-year-old body as possible.

I hear his pants unzip but don’t hear a stream of urine. Instead, I hear a steady thwacking sound and his ragged breaths. I close my eyes even tighter and call to the night, a roaring filling my ears.

A crackling sound erupts in the kitchen.

Shit, he exclaims and rushes to see what’s going on. I quickly forget about my hair, grab a towel, and jump up to relock the door. Throwing my clothes on as fast as I can, I hear him cursing as I slip out of the bathroom. It looks like a tornado whipped through the kitchen, several small appliances sparking, close to catching on fire. He’s too busy trying to contain the chaos to pay attention to me.

Lying in bed, my mind drifts to the mess in the kitchen, wondering what happened. I feel the tingle race along my skin again, it’s stronger than before, making it hard to get comfortable. I stretch out on my stomach when I hear my bedroom door open. Keeping my eyes closed and my breathing even, I feign sleep.

I feel his presence as he creeps closer to my bed and my heart starts galloping in my chest, the tingle turning into a fire burning in my veins, making it hard to be still.

Feeling a hand on my backside, I freeze, not even daring to breathe. It slides down to the back of my thigh and starts moving inward. Panic and anger cloud my senses as I jerk up and scream at him, fury flooding my veins.

What are you doing? Get out!!! I rage. He grabs my face and throws me back on the bed, sharp pain erupting in every tender spot from the beating two nights ago.

One way or another, you will learn to heel, you little bitch, he growls at me as his hand reaches for his belt.

Panic rises, and I feel something expanding inside of me, surging forward like it’s trying to break free. I hear the night whisper for me to wield it. I know I shouldn’t, but fear is overriding everything else as he pushes me down into the bed. I reach for the voice in my mind and grab hold. Power floods through my veins and bursts free, the night exploding all around me.

Then everything goes dark.

Slowly, my eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment for my surroundings to come into focus. I stare at what’s left of my father lying on the floor in front of my bed, and my stomach heaves. It empties its contents, fire erupting from my throat, tears stinging my eyes. I keep retching long after there’s nothing left.

There are no words to describe what was done here. He lies in pieces as if something grabbed his limbs and tore him apart. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, mouth twisted in a silent, bloody scream. A rust-red color coats everything, everything except me. I look down at myself in wonder. There is no blood on me. How? I touch my face, and it’s no longer swollen or painful.

Then I start to scream. I scream and scream and scream until the dark tendrils of the night quiet me.

Prologue

Layla! Anika shouts. I ignore her, increasing my pace, hoping she will give up and go away. Layla Ravenwood! Rolling my eyes, I whirl around, annoyance lining every inch of my face.

What, Anika? I snap, my obvious annoyance not deterring her in the slightest. She stops in front of me, chest heaving from sprinting across campus to catch me.

We were supposed to study together, or did you forget? She eyes me with frustration. Anika is pretty much my only friend. She’s the only person in this damn school not terrified of me, and I can’t quite understand why.

We are exact opposites. While I’m a whopping five feet three inches, she’s five feet nine. My raven hair that cascades in waves down the middle of my back and dark eyes look bland and boring compared to her flaming red curls and eyes the shade of emeralds. The only thing we have in common is our pale complexion.

I avoid the sun, and she just doesn’t tan.

She loops her arm through mine and steers me toward the door that will take us to the library. So much for me getting to the gym to train tonight.

Torturing me for what seems like hours going over facts and dates I don’t give a shit about appears to give her some kind of sick, twisted pleasure, and I secretly wonder if she’s some kind of sadist. She’s one of those girls who never has to work for her grades and is naturally good at everything.

It’s also impossible to not like her. Trust me, I tried. She’s as bright and personable as I am dark and violent.

Blake is having a party this weekend. I think we should go. My head snaps up, and I look at her like she has lost her damn mind.

And you think I would enjoy that because why? I raise my eyebrows at her, wondering if she has forgotten who she is talking to. I don’t do parties.

A student a few tables over looks up and gives me a dirty look for being too loud. I glare back at them until they look away.

"Because it’s senior year, and you don’t do anything fun. Aren’t you worried you will look back on all of this and regret not letting your hair down every now and again and doing normal teenage stuff?"

What she doesn’t realize is that my training is the only thing that keeps the darkness inside me at bay. Being able to unleash it in small amounts on the mat keeps it manageable. I don’t have time for fun. I can’t let myself lose control. Ever. And that’s all high school parties are—teenagers drinking, doing drugs, having sex, and losing control. No fucking thank you.

She finally releases me from study hell and I head to the gym. If you can call it that. It’s more like a deserted warehouse where a bunch of shitty equipment has been thrown in, and people come to learn to fight dirty.

Rio, sorry I’m late. School shit, I yell as I throw my bag into a chair and head into the makeshift locker room to change. The place is filled with a cacophony of sounds. Grunts, the sound of skin hitting skin on the mats, the ping of weights as they hit the ground. For me, it’s the sound of home, of peace.

The only time my mind is quiet is in the fighting rings or on the mats. I can tune everything else out and my only focus is the opponent in front of me.

I quickly change and come out, wondering where the hell Rio is. Scanning the main gym, I don’t see his hulking frame anywhere. I head down to the lower level where the fighting mats are and finally hear his annoyingly loud voice thundering over the rest of the noise as he yells instructions to someone I’ve never seen before.

I make my way over, studying the new guy. He’s big. Damn near as big as Rio, who stands several inches over six feet, and he’s built like a bull. He’s unnaturally fast for his large frame and moves with a preternatural grace that makes me appreciate him in a whole different way. He moves like a predator, a graceful, sleek, and powerful jungle cat. He swiftly kicks out his opponent’s feet and pins him with ease despite Zade having a good thirty pounds on him.

Rio sees me and smiles. Okay, that’s enough boys. Caspian, I want you to come meet someone.

The stranger pops off Zade and strolls over. I get a good look at him, and all common sense evaporates. He is essentially the most astonishingly beautiful male I have ever seen. Too masculine to be called a man, too perfect to be human. His thick blond hair is sticky with sweat, which only adds to the appeal. His skin is the perfect shade of bronze, and his hairless chest and abs are composed of nothing but lean muscle. Shit, I didn’t know there could be that damn many muscles in an abdomen.

He’s also covered in what seems to be several symbolic tattoos. Miles and miles of beautifully inked skin that makes my fingers itch to trace those dark lines. The largest starts at his neck, weaves down his left arm, his chest, all the way down his side, and must stop somewhere down his hip. I briefly wonder what all the symbols mean.

My gaze is drawn up to those eyes, and I inhale sharply. No wonder his parents named him Caspian; those blue eyes must be the exact color of the Caspian Sea.

Fuck, he’s a distraction I don’t need.

Then the asshole smiles at me, flashing the most adorable dimples that somehow soften the sharply angled perfection of his face. Holy shit, my stomach does some kind of insane somersault that makes me feel slightly nauseous. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t drool over men. This is ridiculous. I force my eyes to Rio, who is looking at me like he’s never seen me before.

You okay, Layla? He smirks.

Long day, I murmur. Nope, I am not thinking about Caspian’s sinfully sculpted lips that make me want to see if they are as soft as they look. Definitely not.

Caspian, this is Layla, she’s my best fighter.

He cocks an eyebrow, his gaze roaming up and down my body, assessing me, one side of his mouth turned up in a cocky grin.

Are you serious? She’s five foot nothing and tiny. The deep timbre of his voice would have probably been a turn-on thirty seconds ago, but his comment makes me furious, and I want to smack that look off his face.

Rio sees the glint in my eye and laughs. Boy, you might want to watch it.

I’m not scared, he scoffs.

Arrogant fucking asshole.

Why don’t you get on the mat with me then? I challenge.

Let’s go. He steps back onto the mat, and I take deep breaths to calm myself.

I walk to the opposite side, feeling the darkness coiled inside of me, ready to be unleashed. It’s almost like it’s a separate living thing. I feel its excitement skitter across my skin, the rumble of it inside my bones.

I crack my head to one side and then the other and get into a fighting stance. He stands opposite me, waiting. I crook my finger in a come-hither motion, a smirk turning up the corner of my lips. He rolls his eyes and stalks toward me.

I hold my position, waiting to see what he does. He’s a foot taller than me and easily eighty pounds heavier.

I’ve fought bigger.

I see the slight tell in his movement before he strikes, giving me the time I need to dodge. I dance away, studying him. He’s good, but I’m better. He reaches out to strike again, and this time, I grab his hand and let just a little of my power loose as I sweep his feet out and knock him onto his back. I pounce, trying to pin him under me, but he’s quick.

He forces us into a roll, where he ends up on top, pinning me, his hips between my thighs. Well fuck if I’m not completely aware of his weight on me and how much I want to arch up into him.

He grabs my arms and pins them above my head. I fight down the panic. I hate having my arms pinned, but it happens on the mat, and I can deal with it here. It’s a fight, one I know I can win. I’m breathing hard, and I notice his gaze drop to my mouth, then to my rather large breasts, all but spilling out of the tight sports bra I’m wearing. Heat instantly pools in my core.

Stop playing with him, Layla, Rio says in agitation. He’s right; this should have been over by now, and I never let anyone pin me unless it’s on my terms. But fuck if I’m not enjoying this.

He’s still fixated on my chest, so I use his distraction to raise my head up as hard as I can and headbutt him. I hear a distinct crunch as blood spills over me, and he curses. I unleash just a morsel of power and roll until I am now on top of him. I lock my legs into place, calling to the darkness to hold him there and amplify my own strength.

I’m smiling down at him, arm pinning his throat. His eyes narrow at me. You’re a Shadowborn, aren’t you? he hisses.

My eyes widen with shock. What the hell are you talking about? Fear skitters down my spine.

Does he know my secret?

His eyebrows furrow. Nothing, never mind, he mumbles as I jump off of him and walk off the mat as Rio calls the match over. My mind is racing.

What does he mean by Shadowborn?

I tuck that information into the back of my mind, filing it away to bring up later. I try to concentrate while Rio is talking to me about a paid fight he wants to put me in this weekend.

It’s a new place, so they don’t know you. You’ll be fighting a man, he’s a lot bigger than you, but he’s also a chauvinistic asshole. Use your looks to disarm him. Prepare yourself mentally. He gives me a warning look. I know what he means, to prepare myself to possibly be pinned and not lose my shit and murder anyone. Wear your skimpiest fighting gear. He will be so distracted you can fell him like a tree.

I grin. I love it when he gives me assignments like that. Men are such easy creatures to disarm. I have no problem using sex as a weapon.

Oh, and Caspian will be going with you; he’s set to fight too.

Fuck.

I head home and notice a strange car in the driveway. My guess is Mom has another new boyfriend. If there is an asshole loser within a twenty-mile radius, you can bet my mother will find him. The car is rough-looking, so I can imagine what the person driving it is probably like. At thirty-eight, she’s still attractive, so I have no idea why she settles for the pieces of shit she brings home.

Taking a deep breath, I head into the house, dreading what I might find there. Sure enough, there’s a sleazy-looking guy sitting on the couch, foot propped up on his knee, smoking a cigarette.

Ignoring him, I head into the kitchen, looking for Brennan, but I find Mom first. Mom, where’s Brennan?

He’s at a friend’s house. I want you to meet my friend Steve! she says a little too brightly, refusing to look at me, which makes me instantly suspicious. This isn’t my first rodeo.

I grab her face and turn it toward me. There’s a yellowish-purple bruise under her eye. White hot rage sweeps through my entire being. My jaw ticks and my eyes darken with undiluted rage as I feel my power surge. I struggle to contain it, to keep it from lashing out, destroying everything in its path.

My mother’s face pales, and her lip trembles ever so slightly.

I’m so silly. I wasn’t watching what I was doing and ran straight into the door! she lies. It’s literally the oldest lie in the book when it comes to abusive men. It’s like there’s a manual that says when your asshole boyfriend hits you, this is the dumb shit you tell people.

In the years since my father died, she has become a shell of a person with no self-esteem, letting herself be used and abused by all manner of men. A part of me feels guilty, wondering what part I may have played in breaking her.

It may be too late for me, but Brennan needs her to be better than this. He’s only thirteen. He still needs a mom.

I stalk into the living room, concentrating on keeping my power leashed. I want nothing more than to let it consume this asshole, to let it devour him after it makes him suffer. Mom is tight on my heels and nearly runs into me when I come to an abrupt halt.

I pin the boyfriend with a glare, pure menace radiating from every ounce of my being. Mom grabs my arm, and I whip my head around to look at her. She’s silently begging me to drop it, eyes pleading, wet with unshed tears, nails biting into my skin.

My eye begins to twitch. Is it worth it? Probably not, so I turn on my heel and walk into my room, slamming my door, the anger quickly turning to frustration, then pity.

She used to be fierce. I hate how broken she seems.

It takes me a while to calm down enough to sleep, but I let the night wash over me, and my nerves settle as I finally drift off.

I’m startled awake by what, I’m not sure. I listen closely, but nothing seems to be amiss. I quietly walk out to the bathroom to pee, and when I emerge, I run smack into what’s-his-name. I go to move around him, but he stops me, trapping me in the bathroom doorframe.

Hey now, pretty lady, what’s the hurry? You didn’t even take the time to say hello to me earlier. His lecherous smile and hungry, glazed eyes from drug use send a shiver of disgust over my skin.

Get lost, asshole, I grind out between clenched teeth. He grabs my wrist hard enough to hurt, pulling me up against him as I try to walk past.

Is that any way to treat your mama’s guest? He puts