Cruel Black Hearts: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance

by Candace Wondrak

  Cruel Black Hearts

  Candace Wondrak

   2019 Candace Wondrak

  All Rights Reserved.

  Book cover by Victoria Schaefer at Eve’s Garden of Eden – A Cover Group

  Chapter One – Stella

  Chapter Two - Lincoln

  Chapter Three - Stella

  Chapter Four - Edward

  Chapter Five – Stella

  Chapter Six - Stella

  Chapter Seven – Lincoln

  Chapter Eight - Stella

  Chapter Nine - Stella

  Chapter Ten - Edward

  Chapter Eleven - Killian

  Chapter Twelve - Stella

  Chapter Thirteen - Lincoln

  Chapter Fourteen - Stella

  Chapter Fifteen - Edward

  Chapter Sixteen - Stella

  Chapter Seventeen - Lincoln

  Chapter Eighteen - Stella

  Chapter Nineteen - Killian

  Chapter Twenty - Stella

  Chapter Twenty-One – Lincoln

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Stella

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Edward

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Stella

  Chapter Twenty-Five - The Angel Maker

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Stella

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Lincoln

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – Stella

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Killian

  Chapter One – Stella

  What makes a killer?

  I’m not talking about a man’s skin and bones, but rather what shaped them—what led them down the dark and bloody path they took. We are the same, universally, technically, but no one can deny there is a stark difference between the good and the evil. The killers and the saviors.

  And of course, you know me. This article isn’t about crimes of passion, because we’re all capable of angry fits of violence, some worse than others. When I say what makes a killer, what I really mean is, what makes a serial killer. What makes someone kill multiple people in a premeditated manner on multiple separate occasions, usually in the same gruesome way?

  Serial killers have always been fascinating to the public eye, and I myself would freely admit to being one of those people. The newscasts, the court hearings—I’m obsessed just as much as the next American. Like an addict, I can’t get enough, which I suppose is why I always submit articles like these for the Wednesday issue of the Local Tribune.

  But it doesn’t matter much, because here you are, still reading. That means you are just as much a slave to this as I am. It’s good for you, really, because I’m going to tell you something the psychologists won’t, something the media would never dare to air on their news stations. It is a truth that might rock your imaginative foundation of serial killers, though if you’re like me, you’ll find it not so surprising.

  Here is the truth most don’t want to hear: serial killers are just like you and me. They are us, and we are them. You could not pick a serial killer out of a lineup, couldn’t sense a serial killer stalking you on the street. They tend to blend, which is what we, as humans, are so good at. Avoiding the public eye, pretending not to be interesting. Serial killers are masters of disguise, masters of their bloody craft. It’s why some of their sprees last decades.

  Sure, some of them may have had bad childhoods. Some of them may have been abused physically, mentally, sexually. Some of them are outcasts, the weird one in the class as you were growing up. But I bring to you this point—not all bad childhoods shape children into would-be serial killers, and not every quiet, weird kid in your class turned out to be someone like Jeffrey Dahmer or Ed Gein. It is, almost scarily, hard to point and predict who will grow up to become the next BTK.

  And if you’re somehow able to, head on over to the FBI. I’m sure they’d love to have you.

  Psychologists would say there’s an imbalance in their brains, that they’re missing a key component to human life, to human emotion—empathy. And logically, we all agree because it makes sense. Who could end someone else’s life—who could peel skin from bone and make lampshades out of the dried leather? Surely not someone who feels empathy for their victims.

  Again, I’m going to play the devil’s advocate and say that we, as a society, lack empathy. We shame each other, we blame the victims of violent crime, tell our homeless it’s their fault they’re living on the streets. We do not take responsibility for anyone else, and I would go so far as to say we don’t care about anyone else besides ourselves.

  Am I wrong?

  Can you prove it?

  What makes a killer? Research and the news stations would have you believe it’s all figured out, but I’m here to tell you it’s not that simple. I’m here to tell you the answer to the question.

  We don’t know.

  The laptop screen was a little too bright for me, so I tapped the brightness button a few times, dimming the screen as I reread what I wrote. I sipped my coffee—black, no sugar, no cream. Its bitter taste was still hot as it fell down my throat.

  I sat in the coffee shop I always sat in when I wrote my articles for the Local Tribune. A small-town store with only a dozen tables and old machines that were loud and rusted. The new Starbucks down the street had nearly put them out of business, but there would always be people like me, people who refused to change.

  Change was not always a good thing, I knew from past experience.

  After saving the document, my eyes checked the time. Shit. I had exactly ten minutes to email the article to my boss and make a run down the street and across traffic to the Tribune’s offices. I quickly did what I had to, shut my laptop and finished the last few sips of coffee. As I worked to shove my laptop in my messenger bag, I felt someone’s eyes on me.

  I looked up, meeting the light green eyes of a man sitting a few tables away. He didn’t look much older than me; if anything, he looked a year or two younger. I was only twenty-five, still a baby by today’s standards. But hey, at least I wasn’t living with my parents anymore; I rented a house in town with my best friend from high school. We weren’t too far from our hometown, but far enough we didn’t have to worry about seeing anyone we knew from high school while we went out and shopped for groceries. People didn’t like me, usually. For whatever reason.

  But back to the man.

  I wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, and my brown hair was just thrown up in a messy bun. I had no cleavage showing, as I wore a simple black T-shirt that came up to my neck and covered my arms. Jeans and boots. A normal outfit for the sometimes warm, sometimes cold weather we had here. My mom always said I was pretty, unique, but I didn’t think so. Other than my one defining characteristic, I thought I was average all around.

  It was my heterochromia. My left eye was a warm, amber brown, the color of milk chocolate. But my right eye? It was a startlingly bright and luminous blue. When people looked at me, they often commented on my unique stare, how pretty it was.

  It was ridiculous and infuriating how much a single blue eye could change people’s perspective of you. But then, of course, when they got to know me, I wasn’t just some pretty girl with strange eyes. I was strange all around, which worked out well, because I didn’t like most people. I was nice and friendly to them, but did I want to hang out with them? Not necessarily. Callie was the only friend I needed.

  I locked eyes with the man. He was cute enough, but he didn’t call out to me. Short brown hair, a few shades lighter than my own. He seemed rather skinny, but maybe it was because he was sitting.

  Once our stares met, it was a wordless battle. Who would look away first?

  Me, because I had a meeting to get to.

  Scooting out o
f my seat, I slung my bag around my shoulders and went for the door. I threw out the coffee cup, using my back to push on the glass door. It was…so annoying, having people look at me like I was some circus freak all because my eyes were different. Granted, doctors have said the difference in color was nearly unheard of for anyone with heterochromia, but it was just an excuse to me.

  A doctor’s excuse for other people to stare at me.

  I didn’t like being stared at. The inherent intrusive nature of being stared at never sat well with me. Just like the killers in my articles—and the ones in real life, I suppose—I wanted to fly under the radar, have no extra attention on me. It wasn’t too much to ask. Let me be just another cog in the machine that was human society.

  The sun was bright overhead as I hurried down the sidewalk, jaywalking once no cars were passing by. The homey coffee shop was at the edge of the business district of town, and the Tribune’s offices were somehow smack dab in the middle, nestled between the banks and the restaurants and the big department stores. It was nearly one, which meant I had to take it up a notch, otherwise I’d be late, and then Killian would never let me hear the end of it. He always tried to hold me to higher standards than the others, for whatever reason.

  It was annoying.

  I hurried along, practically running by the time the Tribune’s office building came into view. A small one-story building, nothing impressive at all about it. At one point in time, it used to be another bank, but the bank went out of business. However the hell that worked. But, anyway, the Tribune bought it, did a little construction to make its interior a wide-open space, and boom—the local newspaper was moved from an old, outdated building to an actual business establishment.

  It happened like twenty years ago, so I wasn’t quite sure of the story, since I was a whopping five years old at the time, but it’s what Killian said.

  The front doors to the office gave me little resistance as I pushed inside, meeting the messy interior of the building. Desks, desks, and more desks, all with computers and stacks of papers, were arranged in the front area. Filing cabinets lined both sides of the walls, Killian’s private office in the back. There was a separate part of the building where the newspaper was printed, but I never went back there. I didn’t need to.

  I went to my desk, hanging my bag’s strap against the back of my chair, pulling out my laptop as a woman walked past me and muttered, “You almost didn’t make it.” Sandy, I think her name was? A nice enough woman. Middle-aged, recently been through a divorce if the white band of skin on her ring finger was any indication. Ever since taking the ring off, she’d opted for low-cut and tight clothes, along with makeup that even Callie wouldn’t have worn back in high school.

  “I’m here now,” I muttered, following her and the other part-time employees to the conference area in the back. Basically just a large round table with swivel chairs, right in front of the glass walls that encased Killian’s office. Not an actual private conference room—that would’ve been too much.

  Everyone went to their chosen seats. I knew most of their names, and they knew me, but they didn’t often talk to me. Which was just fine, because like I said, I didn’t need friends. Friends were just people who you gave the opportunity of disappointing you. It was the sad truth I’d learned in my life. Callie was more than enough.

  Some people worked on tablets, others just notepads. I was the only one on a laptop, one that was a few years old, at that. Didn’t have the money to replace it yet, so hopefully it lasted. Right now, most of my money went towards rent and the utility bills. Didn’t even have a car. Didn’t need one.

  As I set my laptop down and lifted the top half, Killian came out of his office. He wore fancy black pants and a dark vest over his button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up like he was a fancy high roller in Vegas. He was a cute enough man, mostly Irish, if his red hair, light eyes, and the enormous number of freckles on his face meant anything.

  “Stella,” Killian drawled out my name, saying it slowly, much like he always did, “glad to see you’ve joined us.”

  How I hated being called out in front of everyone. Being singled out, plucked from the nameless masses, was the one thing I hated above all else. He knew it, yet he still went ahead and did it every time we had a meeting. It was the one thing I could count on from him, and it made me uneasy each time.

  I shifted in my seat, feeling immensely uncomfortable as I muttered, “I’m always here.” It was true—I never missed a meeting. I was always here, right on time. Never late, never early. Why would I spend more time here than I had to? I never understood the people who arrived at their jobs fifteen minutes early. It was fifteen whole minutes they could’ve used to do literally anything else.

  Killian was not done with me yet. “And your article for this week’s paper?”

  “Sent it ten minutes ago.” My response must’ve been amusing, because everyone at the table started to chuckle—and then they immediately tried to hide their amusement. I did my best to ignore them. My life did not revolve around other people or their approval, and that included Killian’s.

  All Killian did was nod along, keeping the of course you did to himself. At this point, he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s what I did, what I’ve done since day one of this job, and it was what I would continue to do until I quit or was fired—turn in my articles at the last possible second.

  The meeting droned on, and I found myself trying to take notes about what the goal was for the next week’s papers—the Local Tribune put out a Wednesday paper and a Sunday paper, so it wasn’t like I was ever short on work. But I was only part time, just like everyone else. A way the company got around paying for health insurance.

  It didn’t much matter to me, though. I didn’t have insurance. If something happened to me, I just wanted to die. Don’t waste time trying to save me, you know? I wasn’t important.

  I was just…me.

  When the meeting was over and everyone was packing up to either leave for the day or go back to their desks, Killian caught me. “Stella, can you hang for a bit? There’s something I want to talk to you about.” He meandered back into his office, wordlessly asking me to follow him, knowing I had to because he was my boss, even though he wasn’t too many years older than me.

  I never had a problem with Killian. He was a good enough guy, I supposed, but after last year’s Christmas party, when he got so drunk he practically threw himself on me…and then threw up on my shoes, well. It was hard to look at him the same way after that. At the time, he’d just gotten over a really bad breakup, so I left it alone, didn’t make a big deal about it. Everyone was entitled to their own mental breakdown every now and then. Life was hard.

  No, not just hard. Life was an absolute bitch.

  I closed my laptop, grabbing it as I stood. Had to hide the blog post I’d started to write instead of taking notes during the meeting. I was finally getting enough internet traffic on my blog to start making some money off it, and I wasn’t about to give it up for a part time job. It was a blog I’d started back in high school, when blogging was actually cool.

  Although, I was sure there were people out there who never considered it cool. Callie was among them, but she was supportive all the same. Usually.

  As soon as I went into his office, he closed the door and shut the blinds. A little weird, and it would surely get the others talking, because they already thought Killian and I were in some sort of secret relationship, but I didn’t say anything. I sat in one of the two leather chairs facing his desk, waiting for him to walk around and sit in his large, expensive chair.

  He didn’t sit in his chair, though; he leaned between me and his desk, like he was trying to be cool or something. If only he knew his efforts were wasted on me.

  “Stella,” Killian started, crossing his arms. Arms that were, I noticed, a bit more muscled than I thought they were. He was stronger than he first appeared. “I know I gave you permission to write what you wanted to write, but…”

&nb
sp; Ah, so this was where he tried to get me to write about other things. Things besides serial killers and the banes of human society. I immediately tuned him out, because nothing else interested me. If he wanted to try and force me to write about the new playground at the local park or the construction zones, he had another thing coming. I’d walk out that damn door and not look back, even though I enjoyed this job. Life was too short to be miserable.

  Who the hell knew how long he went on, but he eventually stopped and asked, “Are you even listening to me?”

  What could I do? Lie? I wasn’t a liar.

  “No,” I said, holding my head up high, even though I was in the inferior position on the chair.

  “I know your…articles have gained a bit of a cult following—they are our most visited articles online, but…” Killian seemed to have difficulties talking.

  I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. “Are you firing me?” It was the last thing I needed, but I’d be able to find a job somewhere else fast, especially if the boss was a man. Men always fell for my eyes the hardest, always had the most trouble seeing past them. I was not above using my one defining feature to my advantage when I needed to. I hated to do it, but I would.

  “No, no,” he quickly said, reaching an arm out to me. He didn’t touch me though, because that would’ve been inappropriate. I was pretty sure he was afraid to try to touch me again, after how he’d acted at the Christmas party. “No, I’m not firing you. I’m just…I’m asking you to try to find something else to write about. At least for the printed paper. You can keep writing your killer articles for our site, but our print subscribers are mostly elderly. I don’t think they want to read about serial killers twice a week.”

  I was slow to nod. I supposed I could try to think of something else to write about, but I would not promise him anything. There was hardly anything else that kept my interest, and if I wasn’t interested in what I was writing about, my articles would be shit. The words just didn’t flow when my fingers hovered over the keyboard.