The Fallen

THE FALLEN BOOK 1 SEVYN WYNTERS PRAISE FOR SEVYN WYNTERS A voice for a new generation. YOUR #1 FAN Once every so often the world hears a new voice. Sevyn Wynters is the person to whom that voice belongs. THAT GUY WHO’S ALWAYS AT STARBUCKS Copyright © 2022 by Sevyn Wynters/Alexis Taft 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. Created with Vellum “Light and shadow are opposite sides of the same coin. We can illuminate our paths or darken our way. It is a matter of choice.” MAYA ANGELOU CONTENTS 1. Fml 2. First Impressions 3. Shaken but not Shocked 4. The Uninvited 5. That Was Weird 6. Sticks & Stones 7. Poor Decisions 8. Swag-less 9. Tongues 10. Repurposed 11. Help or Harm 12. Give In 13. Eclipse Of The Heart 14. Hot Plates 15. Space Egg 16. TWD 17. Truth Hurts 18. Needs 19. Crushed 20. Unbreak My Heart 21. Ghosted 22. Disgruntled Angel 23. Drop In 24. Use Your Senses 25. Campfire Stories 26. Awakenings 27. Revelations 28. When Are We Going To Hell? 29. Concessions 30. This Place Sucks 31. Jealous Much? 32. Quotes & Feelings 33. Finley’s House 34. Corn Chips & A Reaper 35. Party Time 36. Helluva Lot of Prayers 37. Tell Him Yourself 38. Oh No 39. Fucking Free Will 40. Love Makes You Crazy 41. Sacrifice Epilogue Afterword Acknowledgments About the Author FML MALEAH The steady hum of the engine and the cool breeze coming through the open moon roof is the only glue holding together my crumbling emotions at the moment. Tonight was such a crap night. Well — let’s just say, bittersweet. Yeah, I like that word better. Tonight, I reclaimed my freedom; after a two-year legal separation, followed by lengthy and, at times, ugly divorce proceedings, I’m finally free. Not that my ex-husband was a monster or anything; shoot, he’s already in a new happy relationship. No, he’s not a monster at all. We just grew apart. I always go into a relationship with the best intentions, hoping the flame of love will grow into a roaring fire. But I always end up feeling disconnected as time goes on. I’m starting to think I may have a problem with the male species. Growing up in a single-parent home my mom, (Rest in Peace), provided me with a revolving door of stepdads. So, I never had a great example of what passion looked like. But that didn’t change my longing to find a man that ignites my senses. That makes me feel alive. Unfortunately, though, the older I got, the more I realized that maybe true love and soul mates only exist in books and movies. Perhaps real-life love was just vanilla sex and two people trying their best to make things work out between them. Then, settle with what you have and be grateful you had anyone. No passion, no fire, just existing. Which is a depressing thought. I crave a love that sets my soul on fire—an all-encompassing type of love so intense that you’re almost afraid of it. But hey, maybe I’m delusional. Broken, perhaps? Maybe I was put on this earth to never find that elusive deep-rooted love connection. The tears start slipping, unwelcome as ever, down my face for the hundredth time since I drove away from the home we used to share. I meant to go to my home right afterward, but somehow, I ended up driving right past my neighborhood and haven’t stopped. So now I’m on the interstate at 2 am, cruise control set to ninety, with no destination in mind aside from mental clarity. N’Sync plays quietly in the background, effectively soothing my raging thoughts. Until my gas light comes on. Fuck. My. Life. Thankfully, I see the faint lights dotting the distance of what I can only assume is a gas station. I glance at my gas gauge a couple of times, wondering if I can take the chance to make it to the next town eighty miles or if I have to get out of the car, because this place is eerie as hell. Semi-trucks line the front of the station, and not a soul seems to be occupying the area. Just to add insult to injury, a tumbleweed blows across the lot separating the trucks from the gas pumps. Living in Texas, please believe I have a license to carry, and my gun is neatly tucked away in my glove box. But the fact that I’m a black chick all by myself, miles away from the nearest town, in the middle of the night, surrounded by semi-trucks and rednecks, makes me a teeny tiny bit nervous. It’s like the start of a bad horror movie. Whatever, I need gas. I steel my nerves, push open the door and get out. I lean against my car while it fills, watching the numbers on the pump take their sweet ass time to pass. “Your boyfriend okay with you taking his car out for a joy ride, darlin?” Says a husky voice with a southern drawl. I look over to see a man who looked like his name was probably Paul Bunion. He was tall and burly, with a thick black beard and bright blue eyes. I would have thought he was handsome if his comment didn’t irritate the hell out of me. Every guy’s opening line was always some lame comment about my bright red Dodge Challenger Hell Cat being my boyfriends or my husbands. I roll my eyes and scoff. “No more okay than that bull was when you stole his horns for a hood ornament.” He laughs and looks at the giant truck at his back with the ridiculous set of horns attached to the grill, and shrugs. The gas