Goddess of Pain

by Katie May

  GODDESS OF PAIN

  BLOOD MOON RISING

  KATIE MAY

  EXPRESSO PUBLISHING, LLC

  Copyright © 2020 by Katie May

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by CReya-tive

  Edited by Expresso Publishing, LLC

  Proofread by Meghan Leigh Daigle with Bookish Dreams. Editing

  This is a Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance and is not suited for those under the age of 18.

  To Rosie! Love you, my sweet little fur baby.

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Katie May

  Charming Devils

  FOREWORD

  This is a fantasy reverse harem romance and is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. It contains strong language, psychotic males, and sexual situations. If such material triggers or offends you, please do not buy or read this book.

  CHAPTER 1

  Growing up in a male-dominated household made me insane.

  Quite literally.

  And while dating was a pain in the ass, I learned a few very important things—how to fight and how to survive. The twins, only two years older than me, ensured that I knew how to throw a punch. My eldest brother taught me how to take one. And my father? He taught me everything else.

  As I tug on my purple skirt, I’m painfully aware of the footsteps echoing behind me, barely audible. Oh, this person is good, there’s no doubt about it.

  But I’m better.

  Feigning oblivion, I make a right instead of the left that would normally take me to Georgie’s Bar—a sleazy restaurant that I bartend at part time.

  Rule number six: Change up your routine.

  The element of surprise is crucial in these first few moments. If an attacker believes they know everything about you, they’ll become complacent. The random change in your routine will have them scratching their head.

  I keep my pace deceptively light as I dig around in my purse. Unfortunately, I left my phone back at the two-bedroom apartment I share with my best friend, Avery. If this attacker has been following me as long as I suspect, he knows this.

  I stop abruptly in front of a storefront window and begin to reapply my pink lipstick. The footsteps behind me stop as suddenly as my own, but I’m not fooled. He’s somewhere behind me, lurking like an ominous shadow.

  With a sigh, I recap my lipstick and continue my trek towards the bustling street with numerous streetlights.

  Rule number two: Find a crowd.

  I don’t run. The last thing I want to do is clue this person in to the fact that I know he’s following me.

  Finally, I reach the street and am immediately engulfed in the bright lights. It’s unsurprisingly crowded, the asphalt teeming with people of all ages. I spot a couple that appears to be in their mid-thirties arguing with a younger girl, who is more than likely their daughter. A group of men up ahead laugh raucously as they push and shove at one another.

  I only breathe easier when I no longer feel the eyes searing the skin on the back of my neck.

  With sure steps, I cross street after busy street until my stalker’s presence is nothing but a lingering nightmare.

  THE LIGHTS ARE off when I step into my apartment, comfortably situated on the third floor. The open floor plan allows the kitchen to bleed into the living room and the living room to transition into a dining room. There’s a single hallway immediately to the right of the main entrance with two bedrooms and two bathrooms branching off.

  “Baby girl, is that you?” a familiar voice queries from the living room. When I switch on the light, I see Avery’s head tilted over the back of the couch to smile up at me. His dirty blond hair is incredibly tousled, a few strands curling in front of his eyes, and his dimples make an impromptu appearance. “What are you doing home already? I thought you had to work.”

  “Called in sick,” I fib as I kick off my shoes and move to sit beside him on the settee. Immediately, he places his arm over the back of the couch, and I snuggle into the warmth of his embrace. The relationship between us is strictly platonic—it always has been—but even I can appreciate how incredibly attractive my best friend is. His body appears to be chiseled from the gods themselves, every inch of him pure masculine perfection.

  “Are you okay? Do you have a fever?” he asks anxiously, placing his hand on my forehead to test my temperature.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “But what are you…?” I gesticulate wildly towards the television, just as a sledgehammer hits the side of an unsuspecting female’s head. Blood gushes from the wound as she falls to the ground, eyes glazed.

  “What am I watching?” He begins to idly draw circles into the skin of my upper arm as he focuses back on his movie. “Killer Cheerleading Part Three.”

  “Oh…wow,” I murmur absently as a second female races across the street, topless. Her larger than normal breasts bounce as she attempts to run from the—you guessed it—second naked cheerleader who follows behind her, holding a machete. “They made a part one and two?”

  “And four, five, six, and seven,” he clarifies as the first girl predictably trips over a branch and falls onto the ground. The murderer’s finally able to catch up with her victim and hovers above, machete raised and naked chest heaving. The camera zooms in on the girl’s berry-colored nipples rimmed with red blood—because of fucking course. What horror movie would it be without tits?

  “This is garbage,” I say as she brings her machete down and cleanly slices off the victim’s head. The camera pans to it rolling down the side of a hill.

  “This is cinema,” he counters immediately.

  “You’re such a dork.”

  I’ve been best friends with Avery since high school, when he was the quarterback of the football team and I was the awkward cheerleader. Actually, he was better friends with my older brother Henry than me. We’ve never dated, despite the numerous rumors circulating around, though Avery is often even more protective of me than my own brothers. Honestly, I can’t even remember the last time this man dated. Maybe when I was a sophomore and he was a senior? I believe her name was Rachel or something, but that relationship only lasted a few months.

  Avery pauses the movie abruptly and shifts on the couch until I’m forced to face him. His green eyes, flecked with gold, ensnare my own.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks intently, and I momentarily lose m
y capability of speech.

  No, I’m most definitely not okay. I’m pretty sure I have a stalker who’s been following me for the last couple of weeks.

  Instead of saying all that to him—who would no doubt put me on lockdown—I manage a wobbly smile. “Just tired. I haven’t been feeling the best the last couple of days.”

  He still seems unsure, a furrow to his brow that hadn’t been there prior, but he nods carefully, trusting my words.

  “You should go to bed then.”

  That sounds fucking perfect. A slow, languid smile curves my lips upwards as I stretch like a contented cat.

  “And a nice, long bubble bath,” I say, straightening my spine and yawning.

  “Don’t prune,” he deadpans. “Your brothers will have my ass if they show up and discover you’re now a raisin.”

  “Oh shit. That’s this weekend, isn’t it?” I fork my fingers through my pitch-black hair as anxiety tightens in my stomach. I love my brothers, I honestly do, but they can be a bit…overbearing.

  I never knew my mother, but according to Henry, I look a lot like her. I think that alone ratchets up their overprotective tendencies. When my father died two years ago, my brothers began to take it to an extreme. They had to personally do background checks on every guy I ever dated—at least, the ones that they know about. They literally beat the shit out of Avery when they discovered we were moving in together, despite my reassurances that we’re only friends.

  “Nervous?” Avery teases, knowing damn well that I am. They’ll pick apart every aspect of my life—from my shitty job, to my diminutive apartment, to the guy I went on two dates with a month ago, to the F I received in my biology class. It’s not that I can never be good enough for them; it’s that they only want the best for me. They believe I deserve more than what I have, and while it sounds flattering to some, it only makes me irritated. They don’t see my demons and darkness the way I do.

  “Nah.” I wave my hand in the air dismissively. “They’re massive teddy bears who just happen to like stabbing the men in my life. No biggie. Now,” I drop my hand to his knee and give it a squeeze, “I’m going to take a bath, study for my French exam tomorrow, and drink tall glasses of red wine.”

  “Hug?” Avery quirks a brow, and I can’t help but roll my eyes before complying. They call it the ‘signature Emily hug.’ Because, yeah, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s hugging.

  “Come here, you big galoot.” I grab at his broad shoulders and pull him to me, the hard planes of his chest resting snugly against my soft curves. His arms tighten around my middle as he exhales deeply, shoulders sagging as if a flood has physically washed away his tension. Releasing him, I hop to my feet and blow him a kiss. “Now, excuse me while I go bathe and forget about the rest of the world.”

  Avery salutes me, eyes indecipherable, and I hurry towards the wing of the apartment that houses my bedroom and the en suite bathroom. I grab the fluffiest towel from the cupboard next to the sink, unplug my iPad from the wall, and then strip down as I wait for the tub to fill up with steaming water. I check the temperature with my finger, ensuring that it’s not too hot, before flicking the faucet off and sinking into the mind-numbing warmth. I decide against bubbles this time, and my bare breasts breach the surface of the water, my nipples already hardened nubs.

  Resting my head on the folded-up towel, I flip on my iPad.

  I lied to Avery earlier. Not that I intended to, but he couldn’t possibly begin to understand what I’m going through. I don’t even understand it. It sounds insane to my own ears.

  Chewing on my lower lip, I click on one of the tabs I saved on the homescreen. Immediately, an article pops up from over five years ago, detailing the brutal murder of Brett Farkley, who was a senior in my high school. He was killed when I was a sophomore, but no suspects have ever been apprehended. According to the article, he died of blunt-force trauma to the head…the day after he cornered me in the bathroom and touched my boob without my permission. I hadn’t told anyone about that incident, so his death had been nothing more than a horrific coincidence.

  Until Ali Burke was killed three months later, two days after she slapped me in the face when she accused me of sleeping with her boyfriend—which I didn’t.

  Heart hammering in my chest, I continue to pull up the various articles I saved to my iPad. Each murder depicted is more gruesome than the last—everything from severed heads to slit throats to beaten bodies. All of them occurred a day or two after an altercation with me.

  When I first made the connection, I’d been overcome with guilt and fear. What the fuck was happening? Could I prevent it? I even went to the police that very day, explaining my theory. They only laughed in my face. An older gentleman, and the only police officer worthy of that title, had sat me down and explained that all of the deaths appeared to be done by different perpetrators. He assured me that I had nothing to do with their deaths and it was nothing but a horrible coincidence. I’d believed him…

  Until a bomb erupted in the precinct, killing the four officers who had laughed.

  Could the stranger who followed me today, the stranger whose presence I feel as keenly as a blade sliding down my neck, be the murderer?

  Could he be back?

  I continue to sift through the articles—the articles I’ve already memorized—as the water cools around my pruned body. This has been my obsession for years now, since Brett was first killed in such an atrocious manner.

  Someone is killing these people, and it’s my job to discover who that person is.

  CHAPTER 2

  I tap my pencil against the edge of my desk impatiently as Professor Whitmore finishes his speech at the front of the class. As an English major with an emphasis on journalism, the majority of my undergraduate classes consist of reading classic pieces of literature and analyzing them. It’s not horrible work by any means, but it’s definitely not what I want to be doing with myself. Oh no. I’m a writer first and foremost—my happiness comes from being in front of a computer screen and typing out the various voices in my head.

  “Don’t forget you have your literary analysis on Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven’ due by next week’s class,” he says, running his fingers through his wispy, pure white hair. He moves to his briefcase and begins packing up his own papers as the rest of the class hurries out.

  “Bye, Em!” my classmate Maddy says with a wave. Justin and Garret both nod in solidarity as they exit as well, and I smile back at them.

  “Ms. Lopez, one moment, please.” Professor Whitmore doesn’t bother to look up from the papers he’s shoving haphazardly into his brown leather briefcase. I can’t help but wince at the poor state of those essays.

  “Yes, Professor?” I query as the remaining students filter out, leaving us alone.

  I’ve never had a problem with Professor Whitmore before. He has a distinct, grandfatherly appearance with his thinning hairline, pudgy belly, and the light gray beard dusting his chin. He’s a damn good professor and demands the best out of each and every one of his students.

  “I just finished grading your most recent report on the literary styles of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.” With the pad of his middle finger, he pushes up his wire-rimmed glasses. “Tell me. What was it about her that interested you?”

  He nods towards the desk in the front room, and I place my backpack on the ground as I sit. He moves to sit next to me, my graded paper in his hand. Pleasure rushes through me at the bright red A at the top.

  “She’s inspiring,” I answer without preamble. “As a woman during her time, it never ceases to astound me the bravery it took to write a story like Frankenstein. It’s a literary masterpiece and one of the novels that shaped modern-day horror.” I shrug my shoulders once as I release a sheepish laugh. “I don’t normally write fiction, but there’s something…inspiring about her words. Something that calls to me.”

  Maybe it’s the darkness she depicts—the monsters we can’t help but love. There’s something poetic in t
hat savagery, something I can’t put into words.

  Professor Whitmore smiles indulgently as his hand goes to my thigh, clasping down. Immediately, I tense, my spine straightening as his thumb leisurely strokes circles on my skin.

  “That’s amazing to hear, Ms. Lopez. You always should find someone who inspires you.” His hand raises, going underneath my skirt, as icy terror steals the remaining warmth from my body.

  “Don’t…don’t touch me.” I’m grateful when my voice doesn’t wobble.

  Rule number three: Don’t show fear.

  “We’re just having a conversation,” he says lightly as his hand climbs higher and higher, lightly caressing my panties. Rage consumes me, coating my vision like a bucket of spilled red paint, and I grip his wrist, wrenching his hand from between my legs. He releases a pained wheeze, eyes widening in horror, as I grip his fingers and twist them to the side. The resonating crack is music to my ears.

  “I said…don’t touch me,” I repeat, my voice low and deadly. At that moment, I’m not the sweet college student the rest of the world sees me as. I’m not the friendly, smiling, laughing schoolgirl. I’m a predator, and this man has just become my prey.

  When fat tears begin to streak down his cheeks from the pain, I release his hand with a huff of disgust.

  “I’m so sorry that you tripped and broke your fingers,” I say with mock sympathy. “It’s a real shame, isn’t it?” His mouth opens, closes, and then opens again, eyes continually spewing disbelief and raw, animalistic hatred. “Goodbye, Professor Whitmore. I’ll make sure to have my next essay ready for you by next week.”

  Without a word, I get to my feet and storm out of the classroom. My entire body is shaking with adrenaline and anger. It practically thrums through me as if there are thousands of intricate wires expanding the length of my body. I can still feel his disgusting, slimy hand on me, pressing down on my thigh. I can still see the hungry, malicious gleam in his eyes. But I refuse to cow before someone like him, someone who thrives on making others feel weak. I’m a survivor first and foremost.