Reckless Rebirth

by Netra Antionette

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Romantic Suspense; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

A dark, intoxicating thriller where a woman who built her life on control is forced to face the one thing she can’t command—her own heart—for fans of The Perfect Ruin and The Wife Before by Shanora Williams. 

Rayne Feathers learned the hard way that love is a liability. Years later, she’s built a life rooted in control. As the face behind Feathers Memorial Services, she offers grieving families dignity in death. But behind closed doors, Rayne is something far more dangerous. A handler in a deadly empire run alongside her sisters, delivering justice to men who think they’re untouchable. 

Rayne is calculated, detached, and determined to never let another man get close enough to break her again. Love isn’t just off the table. It’s forbidden. 

But when a chance encounter at an exclusive club introduces her to a man who matches her intensity in ways she never expected, the rules she’s lived by begin to blur. Known as “Metal,” he challenges her control, her boundaries, and the carefully constructed walls around her heart. 

As their connection deepens in the shadows of secrecy and desire, Rayne finds herself walking a dangerous line between power and vulnerability. Now, Rayne must decide to remain the woman who dominates, discards, and destroys… or risk it all for something she swore she’d never need again.

Release date: January 26, 2027

Publisher: Black Odyssey Media

Print pages: 288

Sample

Prologue

When you’re a triplet, you don’t really get to hide. Stormi and Skye could read me better than I could read myself. But that time…I couldn’t let them see. Mama had already been forgetting more lately—burning pots on the stove, mixing up our names, staring off like she didn’t recognize where she was sometimes. They were worried enough. They didn’t need to carry my mess, too.

So, I lied. I told them I was sick, curled up in bed all week pretending I couldn’t eat, couldn’t get up. Pretending it was just a bug. But really, I was drowning.

Of course, Isley didn’t buy it. She never did.

She popped up at my house that night, plopped right down on the porch steps next to me with a bag of Hot Cheetos in one hand, big hoop earrings catching the porch light. White as a sheet of notebook paper, but her mouth? Straight ghetto and country rolled into one. That was my girl. My sister who didn’t come out of Mama’s womb, but might as well have.

She side-eyed me, crunching loud. “Rayne, you don’t look sick. You look depressed-depressed. Like Lifetime movie, crying-in-the-bathroom depressed. So go ahead and quit playing.”

I hugged my knees tighter, staring at the cracked sidewalk. “Is, you gotta promise me something first.”

She licked Cheeto dust off her fingers, smirked. “Oh Lord, here we go. What, you pregnant or something? Did you kill somebody? Girl, you know I’m riding regardless.”

“I’m serious, Isley. You cannot tell Stormi or Skye. Promise me.”

She sobered, sat up straighter. “Rayne, I swear. Not a word to them. Not a word to nobody.”

I swallowed hard, my throat burning. “It’s Klay.”

Isley groaned loud enough to wake the dead. “Don’t tell me y’all broke up. Like, I had hope for humanity watching y’all.”

The words broke loose with the tears. “It wasn’t real, Is. None of it. He only acted like he cared when you or my sisters were around. All that sneaking, not talking at school? He told me it was to protect us from people trying to ruin what we had, but it was all a lie.”

Isley froze mid-chew.

“He made me fall in love with him. And once I gave him everything—once I gave him my virginity—it was like I disappeared. He got what he wanted, and I was just…stupid enough to believe it meant something.” I dropped my head into my arms. “I’m so stupid.”

Isley slammed the bag of chips down like she was about to fight the air. “First of all, you ain’t stupid. He’s stupid. Matter fact, he’s dumb, broke, and probably got ashy ankles. Second of all, if you want me to, I’ll pull up to his house right now, bust his window with a can of Sprite, and tell his mama he got shrimp—”

“Isley!” I choked out, halfway crying, halfway laughing.

She leaned in closer, her face serious now. “No, Rayne. For real. He don’t get to break you like this, you hear me? You’re my best friend—my sister. And I don’t care what you tell your sisters or don’t tell them, I know you. You don’t deserve this.”

Her words dug into me, and something shifted. I sat up, wiped my swollen eyes, pushed my locs out of my face.

“This is the last time,” I whispered. “I’ll never let anybody play me like that again. From now on…I’m not the prey. I’m the hunter.”

Isley nodded slow, a little smirk curving her lips. “From now on…dominate, discard, and destroy him. That’s the new Rayne.”

I let out a wet laugh, but my chest still ached. “It don’t matter, Is. It’s not just him. It’s all men. Look at my life. My mother’s husband tore her down so bad that Stormi had to put an end to it. My own dad couldn’t even man up and be in our lives. Every man that’s supposed to love us, protect us—they disappear or destroy us. Every. Single. One.”

I sat up straighter, wiped my swollen eyes, and let the words spill out with venom this time.

“Men are stupid. All of them. And from here on out, I’m done playing nice. Love? That shit don’t live here and never will. They get what they deserve, and it’s nothing. If they’re smart, they’ll learn to stay out my way.”

I smirked through the tears, finally feeling something solid in my chest instead of hollow. “Matter fact, they better start investing in umbrellas because from this day forward, their safest bet…” I tilted my chin high, staring out into the night. “…is to be hidden from the Rayne.”

Isley’s eyes went wide, then she grinned slow. “Oh, bitch. That’s hard.”

I hooked my pinky with hers. “Promise you’ll never tell Stormi and Skye.”

She squeezed my pinky tight. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to fight.”

That night, I buried the soft part of me. And just like that, sixteen-year-old me was gone. The hunter had been born.

Chapter 1

Rayne

By twenty-nine, I had built a life that sixteen-year-old me would’ve never believed. My name was painted in gold script across the sign above my funeral home:

Feathers Memorial Services

Eternal Love. Gentle Farewell.

People in my city called me the woman who could make the dead look better than they did living. Families trusted me with their hardest goodbyes. My hands stitched dignity into grief. My business thrived because I knew how to keep my distance—professionally and personally.

So imagine my irritation when I pulled up to my building preparing for a long day and saw a man leaning against the front steps like he belonged there.

“Rayne, we need to talk,” he said, stepping forward before I could even cut the car off.

Lord. Another one.

I slid out my ride, smoothed down my black blazer, and looked him dead in the eye. “You need to lower your voice and remember who you talking to. Didn’t I already tell you this wasn’t that?”

He ran a hand over his head, frustrated. “So that’s it? After everything we did—everything we shared? You just gonna throw me away like I’m nothing?”

I tilted my head, lips curving slow. “Baby, I didn’t throw you away. I recycled you. There’s a difference.”

His face fell.

I stepped closer, my heels clicking against the concrete like a countdown. “I told you from the start: It was fun, it was nice, but it was never love. You caught feelings after I told you not to, and now you standing here acting brand new. This isn’t my problem. It’s yours.”

He tried again, voice breaking. “You don’t mean that, Rayne. I know you feel something—”

That made me laugh. Low, cruel, the kind that stung. “The only thing I feel is annoyed that you’re still here.”

I pulled my phone out right in front of him and tapped the screen. “Congratulations. You’re officially blocked. And let me make this real clear for you: If you ever pull up on me unannounced again, two things can happen: If I’m feeling nice, I’ll call the cops and get a restraining order. If I’m having a bad day…” I leaned in close, my perfume wrapping around him like a warning. “…I’ll make sure you’re my next client. And trust me, baby, no one does a homegoing like me.”

His mouth opened, then closed. He believed me. They always did.

I brushed past him, my locs swinging down my back, and unlocked the funeral home door like nothing happened. Before I stepped inside, I glanced over my shoulder with a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Choose wisely.”

I pushed the door open, and the scent of fresh polish smacked me before anything else.

“Bitch, you seen him on the steps?” I asked, setting my bag on the counter.

Isley didn’t even look up, her blond hair falling over her face as she blew across freshly painted nails. “Yeah. And I didn’t feel like being bothered with his crocodile tears, so I kept the door locked till you made your grand entrance.”

That was Isley—ride-or-die since we were kids. Thick as thieves didn’t even cover it. She wasn’t just my best friend; she was family. I had two blood sisters, but Isley had been stitched into my DNA, too. We went through mortuary school side by side, every certification, every training, every class—together. I was the rain, Isley was my lightning.

I dropped into the chair across from her. “What’s our day looking like?”

She finally leaned back, waving her nails dry like she had all the time in the world. “We have two viewings, a family consultation, and you gotta sign off on some paperwork before the weekend.”

I smirked. “So…a normal day.”

The truth is, Feathers Memorial Services wasn’t just a funeral home. To the outside world, we were professionals offering eternal love and gentle farewells. And we were damn good at it. Families came to us broken, and we sent them away comforted. Many people thought we were workaholics who preferred to handle most of the load ourselves. They didn’t ask too many questions.

But the funeral home was only half the story.

Because I’m not just a mortician. I’m also a handler.

Every job—every contract, every name, every dollar—came through me first. I vetted the clients, planned the executions, and if things got messy? I cleaned up the aftermath. It wasn’t hard to make a body disappear when the city already trusted you to bury their dead.

Stormi, my sister, was the blade. She’d studied the human mind, learned how to crack it open and make people spill their darkest thoughts. She wore her counselor badge by day, but when it came time to eliminate a target, Stormi didn’t hesitate. She was as precise as a scalpel and twice as lethal.

And then there was Skye. On paper, she worked for one of the biggest tech companies in the country. But by night? She was our ghost in the machine—hacker, money launderer, information broker. She could breach a man’s entire life with two keystrokes and leave him exposed before he even knew we were watching.

We weren’t just running a funeral home. My sisters and I were running an empire. Some men deserved to die, and we made sure they got what was coming.

I leaned back, my locs falling over my shoulders, and glanced toward the locked door. He was probably still out there, nursing his pride.

“Men,” I muttered.

Isley snorted. “Say it louder for the people in the back.”

We both laughed, the sound sharp and dangerous, echoing through a building that smelled like lilies but hid secrets darker than any grave.

The embalming room smelled like antiseptic and roses. I pulled my gloves on, snapping them against my wrists while Isley rolled her stool closer to the table where Mr. Thompson’s body waited.

“You done with that man out on the steps, for real?” she asked, slipping her hair behind her ears before picking up a scalpel.

“Been done.” I leaned over the body, checking incisions. “These men don’t listen. I said casual, I meant casual. Not ‘let me blow up your phone like I pay your damn bill.’”

Isley smirked. “Girl, he was lookin’ like a lost puppy. All he needed was a leash and some kibble.”

“Exactly. And I don’t do pets. When I say I’m done, I’m done.” I slid a needle through the skin, clean and steady. “Why do men always mistake sex for love? Just because I let you touch me does not mean I want you forever.”

Isley let out a loud laugh. “Sex ain’t a synonym for soulmates.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Men love to make rules they don’t follow. They swear they want honesty, then cry when you give it to them. All I want is sex, peace, and eight hours of sleep. That’s it. Simple.”

“Eight hours?” Isley raised a brow. “Baby, you ain’t had eight hours since 2012.”

I chuckled, shaking my head as we finished suturing. “Point is, I’m comfortable with my life. I run my business. I take care of my family. I handle my side…ventures.”

“Ventures,” Isley repeated, mocking my serious tone as she wheeled a tray away. “Baby, you assassinate men and make them look pretty for their funerals. That’s not a venture, that’s a talent show.”

We both laughed and talked until the body was prepped, dressed, and ready for the family viewing. Business as usual.

Afterward, I slipped into the back office, where a plain brown folder sat waiting on my desk. Client. Another name. Another request for elimination. I opened it, scanning the details while Isley plopped into the chair across from me, drinking her coffee.

“You know what your problem is?” she said, crossing one leg over the other.

I didn’t look up. “Enlighten me.”

“You need to join that club.”

I finally glanced up. “What club?”

“The VIP underground sex club.” She said it like she was offering me a Costco membership.

I barked out a laugh. “Girl, please. What do I look like walking into some secret freak circus?”

Isley leaned forward, eyes wide with mischief. “First of all, it’s not a circus. It’s organized. Strict. Masks at all times, so nobody knows who the hell you are. Boundaries enforced like the Ten Commandments. And they require STD tests—mandatory and often. No dirty dick demons allowed.”

I dropped the folder and laughed so hard my stomach hurt. “Not dirty dick demons.”

“I’m serious!” She slapped the desk. “You get everything you want—no love, no strings, just pleasure. No messy breakups, no men crying on your steps talking about ‘but I thought we had something.’ You would thrive in that club.”

I shook my head, still laughing. “Isley, you been watching too much TV.”

Isley sipped her coffee again. “Nah. I’m tryna save you from dealing with another man who doesn’t understand basic directions. It’s freedom, Rayne. Straight freedom.”

I shook my head laughing, but somewhere between her grin and her details, I started to feel the itch of curiosity.

“So what you tryna tell me?” I finally asked, side-eyeing her. “I just walk in and sign up like it’s Planet Fitness?”

Her grin widened. “I’ll get you all the details. But this isn’t a beginner’s playground. This club ain’t for the weak.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

I started back looking over the contract. But my mind wasn’t on the paperwork—it was on that damn club Isley wouldn’t shut up about. And maybe…just maybe…she was right.

Chapter 2

Legend

The OR lights still burned behind my eyes as I stripped off my gloves and mask. Another surgery. Another life saved. Applause would come later, in the form of some grateful family who would probably never understand just how routine it was for me.

At Winslow Memorial, I was Dr. Steele, a celebrated surgeon. I was the miracle worker with a scalpel, the one they whispered about in hallways and bragged about in glossy hospital brochures. That was my legal life. The part insurance companies could document.

But that wasn’t where my passion lived. Not even close.

Because when the scrubs came off and the hospital badge hit my desk, I was the Modifier. The one who carved secrets into flesh and rewrote stories that weren’t supposed to exist. My underground clinic didn’t advertise, didn’t market, didn’t need to. People with enough money and desperation found me—people who needed faces adjusted, scars erased, implants placed where the government would never approve, or bodies that needed to disappear entirely.

That was my art.

“Great work in there, Dr. Steele.”

I glanced up. Amanda—or was it Amelia? Hell if I remembered. One of the nurses hovered near the door, eyes bright with the kind of hunger that had nothing to do with medicine.

I gave her a polite nod, already halfway past her.

She bit her lip, tilting her head. “You don’t ever slow down, do you?”

I stopped, exhaling slowly. That tone again.

She’d been a problem the last few times I came in—smiling too hard, talking too much, watching who I left the hospital with. As if it mattered. As if there was something to claim.

I turned, leveling her with a flat stare. “You want to know the truth?”

Her eyes widened, just a little.

“The sex wasn’t anything. Not special. Not memorable. Not even worth repeating.” I slid my watch back onto my wrist, my voice low, sharp enough to slice. “So don’t make the mistake of thinking there’s more than what it was. I don’t do jealous. I don’t do drama. I do my job, and I leave.”

Color flushed across her cheeks, shame and anger fighting for dominance. I didn’t wait for which one won.

Walking out of the surgical wing, I loosened my tie, already checking the coded message glowing on my private phone. Another request. Another job waiting for the Modifier.

The hospital was just a mask. My clinic, my underground world—that was where I truly lived. And soon enough, it would bring someone new to my table.

By the time I made it to my office, the noise of the hospital faded. My sanctuary. Four walls, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and just enough distance from the chaos to remind me I didn’t belong there.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Come in.”

Ebony slipped inside, carrying her tablet, neat as always. She was efficient—quiet, sharp, no questions asked. That’s why I kept her.

I didn’t know much about her beyond the whispers she never confirmed—that she’d left her kids behind in Westin Hills, Antionette; signed away her rights because she couldn’t give them what they needed. That she was starting over. But that was none of my business. She came to work, and she did her job well. Everything beyond that stayed locked behind her eyes, and I respected that.

“You’re all set for tonight,” she said, tapping her tablet awake.

I leaned back in my chair, loosening the last knot of tension from my shoulders. “Close the door.”

She did, quiet as a shadow.

“Now, walk me through it. You know I’m a detail person.”

Ebony sat down across from me, flipping her screen. “Okay. The VIP club is called…” she paused, eyes flicking up, “Vault Velour.”

I raised an eyebrow. Fitting.

“Your application was approved,” she continued, professional and smooth. “All your health screenings came back clear. Membership is ten thousand a month—I went ahead and paid the first three months in advance. If it’s not to your liking, you can walk away without a second thought.”

I nodded once. Practical.

“Rules are strict. Masks are mandatory. Real names and identities stay hidden. At the start of the night, there’s a mixer. You mingle, you talk, you feel out the vibes. If you already have a regular partner that you meet there, you can skip the mixer. Otherwise, you find someone that fits your requirements.”

She swiped again, scrolling through the packet. “Each member has their own private room, fully stocked with whatever you might need—food, drink, protection. Room service is also available. You don’t leave unless you want to. If you make a connection, you decide whether to let them into your room or go to theirs. No pressure, no obligations. Just choice.”

Her voice was even, steady. “Arrival and departure times are staggered. They’re serious about privacy. No exceptions. That’s everything in the welcome packet so far, and you’re squared away to attend tonight.”

I tapped my fingers against the desk. I leaned back, letting it settle in. It wasn’t just some club. It was order. Boundaries.

Because truth was, I’d grown tired of women who thought sex meant possession. The nurses at this hospital proved that enough times. One night, and suddenly I was theirs. Jealousy. Tears. Whispered drama like I’d ever promised more than the moment.

It was cool when I was younger. A headache now.

I didn’t want strings. Didn’t want attachments. Didn’t want to hear my name whispered like a prayer when all I’d given was a night.

Vault Velour was the perfect solution. No names. No faces. No messy aftermath. Just the experience. Just the release. Just the control I could always count on.

And that was all I wanted.



At home, I moved like clockwork. Showered. Shaved. Tailored charcoal suit pressed sharp enough to cut glass. The mask waited on the counter—an onyx black design, sleek, breathable, and expensive as hell. Ebony found it for me, probably spent more than she should have, but she got it right. I could do anything in this mask and not worry about exposure. Not a single angle of my face gave me away.

In my bar room, I poured a glass of Yamazaki, the good kind—the kind I usually saved for surgical milestones. It wasn’t nerves. I don’t get nervous. It was the unknown. The unknown always comes with a hum, a little electricity under the skin. One sip to take the edge off, one more to let it slide into confidence.

The garage lights blinked on when I unlocked the car. A machine that cost more than some homes purred as I pulled onto the road. My arrival time was precise—7:26. Vault Velour allowed a ten-minute grace window. One minute past, and you were locked out, forced to schedule another time for the night. The rules were strict, but that was the point. Order. Control. Privacy.

The valet greeted me without words, just a nod, and drove my car to whatever undisclosed location they used to make sure no one could trace who was there. Inside, the air itself smelled like temptation—leather, subtle cologne, something rich and decadent threaded in. They handed me a key. No names. No questions. Just a room number.

When I unlocked my room, it was like stepping into the kind of place sin itself would rent by the night. Vault Velour wasn’t just a name—it was a brand. A promise. Every detail in the suite whispered luxury and sex in the same breath. Satin sheets. Dim gold lighting. A stocked bar already set with the liquor I’d requested in my profile. Even the air was tuned to comfort—warm enough to strip you down before anyone laid a hand on you.

The welcome packet lay on the bed, heavy cream cardstock with the rules embossed in gold. Rules I already knew, but they were clear about expectations. Discretion. Boundaries. No compromises.

The mixer didn’t start for another hour. Enough time to get comfortable. I loosened my tie, poured a drink, and let music spill into the room—something low, pulsing, designed for bodies to move against each other. I sat back and waited for the night to begin.

Chapter 3

Rayne

Skye was sitting on my bed, laptop balanced on her thighs, eyes glowing from the screen. That girl never went anywhere without that thing. It was basically an extension of her body. Researching, hacking, digging into the shit most people couldn’t find on the first five pages of Google. Vault Velour was the subject of tonight’s obsession, her fingers tapping quick as if she was about to uncover national secrets.

Stormi, meanwhile, stood in my doorway giving me the side eye like I was out of my damn mind. “Why can’t you be normal, Rayne? Just get you a fuck buddy like everybody else instead of doing all this extra chaos with an underground sex club.”

I stopped mid–lip liner, turned slowly to face her, and arched a brow. “Stormi, I never judged you and Spencer’s little situationship when you knew he had a girlfriend. Matter fact, I even smiled in her face with you, so please don’t judge me.”

Skye snorted from the bed without looking up.

Stormi’s hand flew to her hip. “That’s different. I was his best friend before she came into the picture. Stopping our little extra benefits wasn’t even necessary.”

“Yeah, all right,” I muttered, turning back to the mirror. My lipstick dragged across my mouth in a clean, sharp stroke. I leaned back, giving myself one final look before twisting toward them again. “How do I look?”

Red. Always red. It was more than my favorite color. Red was sex, red was power, red was blood, and my sisters swore it was the blood thing that made me gravitate to it. Maybe they weren’t wrong.

I grabbed my mask from the dresser and held it up proudly. Isley and I have been searching for the perfect one for weeks. This is it.”

Stormi rolled her eyes. “It’s cute, but you can’t even see your face.”

“Duh.” I smirked. “That’s the point.”

Skye finally glanced up, lips twitching. Stormi folded her arms. “See, it’s so stupid, I forgot the rules that fast.”

I glanced down at my phone. The time made my stomach dip, not from nerves, but from urgency. “Shit. I gotta go. My arrival time is 8:06.”

“Damn specific,” Stormi muttered, still shaking her head.

“Yeah. People been arriving since earlier today at their assigned times. I just picked a later slot.” I slid into my heels, grabbed my bag, and started for the door. “Love y’all!”

I kissed Stormi’s cheek, smacked the top of Skye’s laptop, then headed for the stairs. “Pray I come back tomorrow limping from some good dick!” I called over my shoulder.

Their laughter followed me out the door, and I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips as I clutched my mask tighter. The night wasn’t about love, or forever, or any man’s empty promises. It was about me.

I eased my car down the highway, headlights cutting through the night. My sisters’ laughter still echoed in my head, but it only made me smirk harder. They thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. But crazy kept me alive. Crazy made me rich. Crazy made me untouchable.

Red dress hugging every curve, mask in the passenger seat, and heels sharp enough to slice a man’s ego in half. I didn’t feel nervous. Not even a little. Just focused. Excited. Hungry.

I never begged a man for anything. Not attention, not affection, not love. Especially not love. Love was a lie they wrapped in pretty words to get what they wanted. I learned that at sixteen, and I never forgot. Men gave their worst when they realized they had your heart. So mine stayed buried. Untouchable. My body, though—that was mine to weaponize. And I was walking into a playground built just for people like me.

I pulled up right on time, 8:06 sharp, because rules were rules, and I loved precision. A valet in a black mask opened my door like I was royalty, and I handed over my keys without a glance back. My heels clicked against polished marble as I walked inside. Every move was deliberate—my sway, my gaze, my silence. I wasn’t there t. . .