I stand there, my gaze fixed on her with a detached expression completely at odds with the emotions inside me. The ones brought to life because of her. She’s my weakness. My little raptor.
“Stand up straight,” I say. “Hold completely still.”
Her inner fire warms the coldness of her fear, the sparks flaring in her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I fucking said so, bride.”
Without moving, I flick my gaze to the body nearest to her. Now, I wonder if they’re targets who tried to flee instead of dead recruits. Delilah tracks my eye movement and returns her attention to me with the barest of nods. Pride washes over me at the sight of her lifting her chin and pressing her back flush to the wood behind her. She balls her fists at her sides, keeping her arms straight.
Delilah stares at me and nowhere else, as if tethered to me body, mind, and soul. Her absolute trust nearly brings me to my knees.
After this, I’m going to lose it. And any hope of her loving me.
I raise the knife, knowing I only have one chance to get this right. The years of practice flood my memory and strengthen my grip. I focus on her abdomen, specifically the area void of vital organs, near the outer edge. There’s less risk of permanent damage.
And death.
I can’t hesitate or I won’t put enough power behind the throw and immediately fail. I’m confident in my skill, but, fuck, am I reluctant.
If I don’t hurt her, they’ll know I love her.
And she’ll be killed.
Breathe. Aim. Release.
Delilah’s scream rings out, along with the thud of the knife striking wood. I fist my hands to refrain from going to her as blood spreads from the wound, covering her dress. She lifts a hand, her flingers fluttering over the knife’s handle as she stares at it with disbelief.
Then she whispers my name.
It’s a broken sob, one that guts me where I stand.
After a lifetime of torture, nothing has ever wounded me more than the look of betrayal in Delilah’s eyes.
The story continues…
Vicious Society
AppendixTHE FOUNDING FAMILIES
Donovan - Weapons
McKenzie - Technology
Ames - Media & Pornography
Gage - Narcotics
Kent - Medical
Shipley - Real Estate
Felton - Finance & Banking
Emerson - Human Trafficking
Paine - Natural Resources
Barnum - Oil & Energy Sources
Once You’re Mine
POSSESSING HER BOOK 1
Hayden
I killed him.
The senator isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. There’s a satisfaction in this, yet it’s fleeting, similar to a flame that’s quickly put out. Dead and gone.
Like my victims.
Justice is a mistress that calls my name and pulls me into her embrace to fuck me. And leave me bereft. Empty. Wanting a closure I’ll never possess.
Rain falls in a light but steady stream, landing on every surface in the cemetery.
The grass.
The gravestones.
The faces of the mourners.
Precipitation collides with tears to stream down the cheeks of those viewing the casket. Sorrow is everywhere, permeating the atmosphere like a dense fog. I let it cover me, envelop me, bring me peace. It’s rare to feel this serenity. The funerals of my victims are one of the few places I experience this, which is why I always attend.
To complete the ritual…
End a life.
Give justice.
Begin again.
I sweep my gaze over the attendees, a sea of black amongst the green backdrop, an ink stain on an emerald field. They congregate, huddling together to provide and receive comfort, some weeping quietly while others sniffle loudly. All of them broken.
Except for one.
The very person who should be shattered stands tall. But not for lack of caring. No, she loves the deceased. Deeply. Each of her breaths is a challenge as if she’s being strangled, and she winces in pain every time her hazel eyes land on the mahogany casket.
Without a display of tears.
Not yet. But they all do eventually. Another part of the ritual I enjoy.
Although, I still can’t understand why people mourn evil. They should be relieved there’s one less murderous individual in the world. One less man who preys upon innocent women and children. I suspect it’s because they’re not aware of the vile acts their loved ones committed. If they did, they’d express fear, not sadness.
Calista Green is exquisite in her melancholy.
This woman is the perfect example of what a politician’s daughter should look like. Pristine and pressed clothes, flawless makeup, and her long, dark hair curled and piled atop her head in a way that accentuates the beautiful slope of her neck. What really sells the image is the string of pearls she wears, the ones she occasionally runs her fingers over to soothe herself.
As the only living relative, she’s my focus. Not because the woman’s young and attractive, although you’d have to be dead not to notice. Grave humor from me. How rare… and amusing.
Regardless of her beauty, Miss Green is the one I watch with bated breath, my chest rising and falling in time with hers, my body leaning forward whenever she moves. She’s the one I’m connected to at the moment.
There's poetry, a sharp irony in taking the life of the man who’s responsible for the vitality flowing through her veins. Making her heart beat. The subtle flickering of her pulse along her throat snatching my attention again and again.
Most women are delicate, in need of protection. But only in the physical sense. Emotionally, they are more intelligent, more in tune with the feelings that tend to dominate their lives.
The same ones I’ve destroyed within myself.
Specifically, the soft, tender ones: adoration and compassion. Whether that’s caring for another, or even love. Whatever the name, they lead to weakness. Which results in pain and suffering.
And the arrival of darker emotions.
These are the ones in which I indulge, the ones that dictate my actions and fuel my ambition. Frustration. Anger. Disgust. Even desire, if it’s through selfish acts; the gratification of it, both mentally and physically.
These things I understand and control, lest they take over me—as they try to do on occasion.
I’m not a perfect man. Only my intentions are.
The pastor asks everyone to bow their heads in prayer and they do. Except for me. And her.
Miss Green simply stares ahead, unblinking, her gaze sparkling with thought, her eyes becoming crystalized honey. I continue watching her. Scrutinizing her. The longer I do, the more piqued my interest becomes.
What is she thinking about?
And where the hell are the tears?
The petition to an unseen deity ends, and everyone lifts their heads. A middle-aged woman, the former manager for the Green household, covers her face with both hands. Her round frame shakes from the force of her sobs. Real or fabricated, I’m unsure.