Novels by Anastia Keyz

The low hum of the engine filled the tight space between us. Outside, city lights streaked past the tinted windows.I stared at the wad of tissues in my hand. Dark red and sticky.If this illness were to finally swallow me whole, my biological parents wouldn't shed a genuine tear. They’d likely just complain about my funeral disrupting their vacation plans before hurrying home to divide whatever meager assets I left behind.The Sinclaires? They’d buy the most obnoxious, oversized floral arrangement just to make sure the lifestyle magazines caught them looking appropriately tragic.Right, they'd do exactly that.They'd wipe me from their memories as easily as sweeping dust under a rug.I tilted my head against the cold leather seat, my eyes sliding toward the man behind the wheel.If I were going to die, I would make sure he and they never forgot me. I wanted my name to be a thorn in their throats, haunting them for the rest of their lives.Not with regret. Regret was too easy for them

[Marco Marten]The soles of Marco’s sneakers crunched over shards of champagne glass, grinding them into dust along the paved path. He had just stepped out into the front garden when the sight before him brought him to a halt.The night air, once filled with expensive perfume, now reeked of torn earth and gasoline. Decorative lights hung in broken strands, their loose ends sparking faintly over the trampled grass.But the most striking sight stood in the center of it all.The purple sports car.The hood was caved in, as if something heavy had been smashed into it again and again. The oversized ribbon lay crumpled and filthy on the ground, and one of the side mirrors dangled uselessly from a thin wire.Marco’s eyes narrowed.Hazel did this?Near the gate, Hendrik was shouting, veins bulging in his neck as he pointed toward the dark street. “Get her! Go after that bitch! What are you security guards even paid for?!”A reasonable command. Yet none of them moved.“Hendrik, enough.” Mr. Si

[Marco Marten]Marco’s grip tightened on the man’s collar until his face turned a sickly shade of purple, clashing with the bloodstain on his shoulder.“Cat got your tongue?” Marco’s voice was low, cold. “What did you do to her?”The man choked out a laugh, eyes darting for help that never came.“Shit. W-we didn’t do anything. That girl’s crazy. Besides, what does it have to do with you? She’s a nobody here—”The slam cut him off. His back hit the wall hard.“I didn’t ask who she is,” Marco said quietly. “I asked what you did.”Footsteps thundered down the stairs.“Quick! Miss Hazel went berserk. She nearly wrecked Miss Cassandra’s new car!”“And she cursed Mr. and Mrs. Sinclaire in front of everyone!”Marco's eyes widened.Hazel.He released the man like garbage and turned without another word, already moving fast, cutting through the growing crowd upstairs.******[Hazel Quinn]My vision burned. Not just because of my throbbing nose or my cut arm, but because the sight before me w

Thick, red liquid spurted out, staining the expensive white shirt of the man pressing down on my shoulder.“Bastard! Blood!” he screamed, jumping back as if he’d been splashed with acid. He frantically checked his neck and face, his eyes widening as he searched for wounds.“What happened, dude?!”But he found nothing. Of course, he wouldn’t, because I wasn’t stupid enough to hurt him, the young master of an influential family who would be a nightmare to deal with.“The fuck? This crazy bitch…” His breath quickened as he turned to me. “She cut herself.”Great. What a ridiculous, panicked expression.I lowered my trembling hand, the shard of glass from the broken picture frame still clutched in my grip. A cold sting burned along my arm. I forced myself to stand, though my knees felt like jelly. Blood from my nose and hands dripped onto the floor in a steady rhythm.I lifted my head and stared at them, my eyes probably looking unhinged.“One more step,” my voice came out hoarse, “and I’l

The steam from the large pots in front of me felt like a suffocating mist. My hands trembled as I held the kitchen knife, chopping the last of the parsley.“Ugh,”No matter how much I massaged my shoulders, the twisting sensation in that area still made me wince. Every breath I took brought a familiar ache in my chest. This illness didn’t care if I was busy; it kept eating away at me from the inside.“Enough, Young Miss Hazel. Let me get on with this part.”A wrinkled but warm hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Nura, the Sinclaire family’s longtime maid, who had known me since elementary school until I was seventeen.She still called me Young Miss, even though I was no longer the daughter of this family.“Come on, stop calling me Young Miss, it sounds ridiculous.”“Well, I can't promised,” she whispered, taking the spatula from my hand. “And this is too much for you, kid.”And still caliing me kid even when I'm twenty nine.“Right? You think it’s too much, too, don’t you?” I r

Crap.Even I knew I was being stupid. Why should I care about him? Whether he had a fever, an allergy, or even if he collapsed right in front of me, I should’ve just stood there with my arms crossed and watched.Or… had my body become too docile around him? Was my muscle memory more obedient than my pride?“Listen.” I met his eyes, so close I could see my own reflection in those dark brown pupils that looked like they wanted to swallow me whole. “You only believe what you want to believe, don’t you?”I looked away and slowly pushed myself up.Marco was still gripping my wrist, but this time I put up a fight. I tensed my arm muscles, refusing to be pulled back into his gravity.My resistance seemed to irritate him. He jerked his grip away with a cynical chuckle.“Still playing hard to get, huh?” His voice was hoarse yet sharp. “And you were so hungry that night.”Hungry? That night?What the hell was he talking about?I took a deep breath, the cold dorm air stinging my lungs. Hold it t