Novels by Anabelle Collins

The thud of Han Jun-woo’s body hitting the Persian rug was not a loud sound. It was soft, muffled by the thick wool, but in the electrified silence following the violence, it sounded like the cracking of the earth’s crust."Jun!" Felix’s scream tore through the air, raw and terrified.Baek Do-hyun moved before anyone else could process the collapse. His reflexes, honed in back alleys and boxing rings, kicked in instantly. He abandoned the bleeding form of Seok-jin and lunged toward the small, crumpled figure on the floor."Felix!" Baek barked, his voice commanding, cutting through the chaotic sobbing of the women. "Run to the servant quarters. Get the lead driver. Tell him to fetch Dr. Rhee immediately. Tell him Code Black. Go!"Felix, eyes wide and brimming with panic, didn't argue. He scrambled backward, nearly tripping over an ottoman, and sprinted out of the room, his Gucci loafers slapping frantically against the hardwood of the hallway.Baek reached Jun. He dropped to one knee,

The Library Study was a vacuum of sound, save for the rhythmic drumming of rain against the reinforced glass and the soft, shallow breathing of the child on Han Min-jae’s lap.Having his sister, the admirable doctor, Ji-yoon, here helped. It was a tether to humanity he hadn't realized he was desperate for. And Hana, his five-year-old niece, was a warm, living weight against his chest, her small hands clutching the lapels of his charcoal suit as if he were a life raft. The calming effect was undeniable. It smoothed the jagged edges of his nerves, if only slightly.He knew his reputation. He saw it reflected in the terrified glances of the staff, the guarded posture of his board members, and the pure hatred radiating from his step-brothers across the room. He was the "Prince of Darkness," the cold-hearted machine built by a cruel father.But as much as he hated the Chairman, and god, did he hate him with a virulence that tasted like bile, the man was still his father. The idea that the

"There is a very handsome man walking towards me," Felix muttered the words to himself, a cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers. He was standing under the stone archway of the Han Mansion’s side corridor, sheltering from the miserable, relentless drizzle that had turned the afternoon grey.He wished the man would come at him with the force of a freight train, unstoppable, overwhelming, and he’d only hope he never slows down.He took a long, desperate drag of the cigarette, the nicotine hitting his bloodstream like a lover’s kiss. He needed it. He needed about five more. He needed it and the man who was now approaching from the driveway. The air in the mansion was too thin, too expensive, and too full of ghosts.Felix exhaled a plume of smoke, narrowing his eyes as the figure was now close enough for him to make out the outline of his face.It was the man from earlier. The "No Neck" man.He was walking through the rain without an umbrella, because apparently, when you were t

The Incheon Docks smelled of the ocean, and for people who were familiar with it, knew that it smelled of something else, smelled of things that had died in it.The air was thick with a briny, chemical soup, a mixture of diesel fumes, rusting iron, rotting seaweed, and the distinct, metallic tang of industrial grease. It was a stark, violent contrast to the sterilized, climate-controlled air of the penthouse in Gangnam. Here, the world was stripped of its veneer. Here, the world was grit, rust, and silence.The armored Cadillac Escalade idled on the wet pavement, its engine a low, predatory purr that vibrated through the chassis. Outside, the sky had bruised into a deep, angry charcoal. The rain had started twenty minutes ago, not a cleansing storm, but a miserable, freezing drizzle that slicked the asphalt and turned the dust of the shipping yard into black sludge. Inside the car, the silence was absolute.Han Min-jae sat in the back seat, staring out at the labyrinth of stacked sh

The only sound in the penthouse was the metallic, rhythmic clink of a silver spoon against the rim of a ceramic bowl. It was a small sound, domestic and harmless, but in the cavernous silence of the apartment, it rang out like a gavel striking a judge’s block.Han Jun-woo sat at the kitchen island, his shoulders hunched inward as if trying to make himself disappear. He stared down into the bowl of haejangguk. The ox blood and cabbage soup was a rich, rusty red, steaming with the savory scent of sesame oil, soybean paste, and garlic. It was the ultimate comfort food, the kind his stepfather used to order for him after late-night study sessions, the kind that promised to knit a fraying body back together.It was delicious. It was perfect. And Jun hated every mouthful.Every swallow felt like swallowing crushed glass, scratching its way down his throat, because of who had cooked it.Han Min-jae sat at the opposite end of the vast island, a monolith of silence. He was reading news reports

The ceiling was the wrong shade of white. It was the first thought that pierced the thick, cotton-heavy fog wrapping Han Jun-woo’s brain. It wasn’t the warm, textured cream of his stepfather’s estate in Seongbuk-dong, nor was it the exposed industrial concrete of his loft in Manhattan. This was a sterile, predatory white, smooth as bone, framed by sharp, minimalist molding that looked less like decoration and more like a cage.Jun blinked, his eyelids feeling like they were weighted with lead. He tried to turn his head to beg whoever was tapping on his head to stop as it was sounding like a drum in his head, but the world tilted violently on its axis. A wave of nausea rolled through his gut, forcing a groan from his dry throat.="Where..." His voice was a rusty scrape against the silence.He pushed his palms against the mattress. The sheets were silky sateen, old, slippery, and undoubtedly expensive. Higher thread count than his rent. He tried to sit up, summoning the will to orient