by Zoe Blake
There it was, that fear all men had deep down when they were ripped open and exposed. He knew, the visceral animal part of him that brayed when he came down his sister’s throat all those years ago knew every word I spoke was true. “What… do… you… want?”
This was where he’d offer me money, should I give him the opportunity. More money than he’d been willing to spend on my perfect angel’s dinner.
“It’s simple.” My grip loosened just enough that I could assure he heard every last word that I snarled in his ear, yet remained tight enough he was on the cusp of passing out. “Leave. Now. Never so much as speak to Greta Larson again. No calls. No texts. Should she approach you in public, she does not exist.”
“She’s just some chick I want to fuck. I don’t even know her!”
My future wife was so much more than this pig would ever know. “Your sister started cutting after you used her mouth. She never became popular like you promised.”
“Jesus…” Buck’s voice cracked.
My biceps once again bulging, I made sure his world began to spin. “When you wake up, take your piss soaked self out the back door. Disappear from Greta’s life or yours will be this town’s greatest laughing stock.”
Had she not deserved the punishment, my heart would have ached at the scene of the manager approaching my angel an hour later to demand payment for her bill. Those minutes had stretched between us, her honey eyes shifting from glittering with excitement over a Valentine’s date in our town’s best restaurant to darting side to side with shame when Buck failed to return.
He’d already ordered them a chocolate soufflé. It takes at least thirty minutes to make, costs a small fortune as the chef makes the best in the state, and there it sat before her. Puffed, ready to be savored by a discerning palate.
Wasted.
A slow trickle of tears on her face had come long before management began to bark.
Humiliated was not a strong enough term for what she was going through.
I knew she could not afford to pay the bill. Her accounts I monitored daily. My darling angel gave the majority of her paycheck to cover her narcissistic mother’s mortgage.
That cunt would be rotting in the ground by Christmas.
…though I’d make it seem natural and easy. After all, I didn’t want my wife to mourn.
“Please… Buck will be right back, let me just call again. I’m sure he’ll answer.” That voice I loved with my whole being, that rich voice that sang of sex and longing while remaining somehow virginal and innocent, begged.
Breath pushed from my chest, I sighed. Yes, I knew such loud breathing was uncouth, but who could resist when their dearest was so undone?
She was in emotional pain.
She was publically mortified.
“I can… umm”—she fumbled for her grandmother’s watch, offering the dated thing as if it might be worth something. It wasn’t—“maybe wash dishes? Please don’t call the cops.”
Oh, they would. And when they did, I’d call in a favor to a man whose mother I kept out of his hair.
The maître d' took her roughly by the elbow and hissed, so loud all could hear, “Others are waiting for this table.”
In a day or two, I’d break his arm.
My angel began to cry in earnest. The kind of tears one tries to hold back so they come out so much louder. After a terribly cute hiccup, she confessed. “I can’t afford the bill.”
Oh, what a sap I was…
Standing, the broadness of my shoulders and the trim cut of my waist emphasized when I buttoned the top button of my jacket, I strode from the shadows and smirked just the way she liked. “Greta, what a pleasure seeing you here.”
That delicious confusion on her face. How it blended with abject shame and made the tears ruining her mascara all the more beautiful. “Dr. Chaucer? I, umm… hello.”
In the lightest of elegant reprimands, I said, “Rodney? Remove your hands from my friend. Can’t you see she’s upset?”
The snap, the way the peon jerked to attention at my call, I could not suppress the twinkle in my eye and let her see how I commanded the room. My darling angel, Greta, sucked her lush lower lip between her teeth in hope, in total remorse… in confused desire. All the room had turned to stare at the tableau, now they stared because the most eligible bachelor in town had come to smile at the impoverished beauty begging for reprieve after her date stood her up.
Spirit aglow with all that I knew would grow between us, I covertly ran a hand over the pocket that housed her engagement ring and gave her my full smile. “May I join you? It would seem my dinner partner never showed.”
How I prized that angry, unguarded look in her eye on my behalf. In her mind, we two were kindred spirits trapped in the disappointment of the expectations of Valentine’s evening. “I’m sorry, sir—”
Yes. She’d called me sir, and I was rock hard as I tossed Buck’s slimy napkin aside and took his abandoned seat. I offered her the first boon between us. “Call me Fredrick.”
“—but I am afraid I can’t—”
“Never mind that.” Hand waving the buzzing maître d' away, I offered as if it were nothing, “Put it on my tab.”
“Dr. Chaucer—”
“I told you to call me Fredrick.” That tone, it was the same I used with patients to give them their first warning. How it worked. Her shoulders snapped back, her pupils went to points, and Jesus, her nipples grew hard.
But not from desire.
This was something else. Something I would foster in her, break, and control.
“I’ll order us a bottle of Opus One, 2013.” That would have to do for her palate. My angel had yet to deserve her favored cab franc.
“That’s a $500 bottle of wine!”
“And?” This temperament would not do. My future wife, my angel, must take what was given. Whether it be my throbbing dick down her throat, or a finely aged wine I’d been waiting to share with a kindred soul.
“Fredrick.” She tested my given name on her tongue. “I… you don’t have to do this.”
But I did. I had to do everything for her. Always.
Such as chain her to my bed, fuck her until she learned to scream my name in delight. Kill her mother. Her former lovers, her irritating best friend.
That one would be my favorite. Lucy Bryant would be the first to go.
Not that I would do it myself.
No, I would watch the glory of that moment later on my phone, my bound and sated woman sleeping in my arms, my semen running out from between her battered thighs.
Lucy’s murder would be perfect end to the perfect night.
About Addison Cain
USA Today bestselling author &
Amazon Top 25 bestselling author
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Addison Cain is best known for her dark romances, smoldering Omegaverse, and twisted alien worlds. Her antiheroes are not always redeemable, her lead females stand fierce, and nothing is ever as it seems.
Deep and sometimes heart wrenching, her books are not for the faint of heart. But they are just right for those who enjoy unapologetic bad boys, aggressive alphas, and a hint of violence in a kiss.
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Also by Addison Cain
Branded Captive
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* * *
The Golden Line
They call me brutal. They call me unrepentant. They call me possessive. I am all these things and much worse. But to her, I will be conqueror.
* * *
Dark Side of the Sun
Greedy, cunning, cruel, Gregory claims to love her, offers to kill for her… but lies come easily to his tongue.
Becoming
By Celia Aaron
The curl doesn’t lay quite right. I pick up
the iron and re-wrap my hair around the hot rod and wait. Counting backwards from ten, I stare at the offending lock of hair in the mirror. Once I reach zero, I release the strands. The curl bounces along my shoulder. It’s perfect. Because it looks just like hers.
I grab the next lock of hair and do the same, waiting the required ten seconds that it takes my hair—dyed to match hers—to act appropriately. I try to remember if she did a good job curling the back today. I don’t think she did. So, I only give the strands in the back five seconds, and hold the iron a bit askew.
Curling my hair is a real pain, but Greta did it, so it only makes sense for me to do the same. Just like it makes sense for me to use her blush, highlighter, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and mascara. She just changed to the new Fenty foundation, which works pretty well on my skin. I wished she’d gotten something with more coverage, but of course she only bought what worked for her and her perfect skin tone. It took me weeks of bleaching my sun-damaged face to match her shade. Not to mention how hard it was to find contacts that matched the shade of her golden eyes. But, as I stare in the mirror, I realize it was worth it.
If she could see me, she’d probably think I was copying her. That I wanted to be her. Of course not. I laugh, my mouth quirking at one corner just like hers does. I know I’m better than her. I always have been.
I pluck a hair from the shoulder of my dress and toss it to the floor of her bathroom. The dress? It looks better on me. Just like everything of hers. All of it should be mine. Even that dope Buck Cummings who she’s on a Valentine’s date with right now. It’s why she curled her hair and wore this dress. I know what you must be thinking, but give me a break. I just happen to have bought the exact same one. We have similar fashion. So similar that my closet could be hers. But it’s not. It’s better.
Am I jealous that she chose to go out with Buck instead of hanging with me for Valentine’s? No. I only tolerate her presence. I don’t enjoy it. Don’t crave it. I can’t let her know any of this, though, so I try to indulge in my habits when she’s not around. But I can quit anytime I want.
I unplug the iron and carefully replace it on her vanity, then grab my phone. I open the tracking app and squint at the screen. (Greta has perfect vision and never has to squint at anything. That’s because she’s a spoiled cunt.) Where is she? I zoom in on the map. She’s supposed to be at a restaurant with her date. She isn’t. She’s in a residential neighborhood in the ritzy area of town. Buck doesn’t live there. I already researched him right down to his knockoff Calvin Kleins. No, she is somewhere she shouldn’t be. Somewhere I don’t know about. And I know every-fucking-thing about that bitch Greta.
This will not stand.
I flick through my contacts, then call Bradley.
“Yeah?” Greta’s older brother answers on the second ring.
“Do you know where she is?”
He sighs low and heavy. “It’s creepy the way you keep tabs on her, you know that?”
“Where is she?” I keep my tone even.
“It’s Valentine’s, Lucy. She’s probably on a date. Like me. Let her have one night without you.”
No. “So you don’t know?”
“No, Lucy. Look, I gotta go. My date is waiting.”
“Fine.” I hang up with an angry finger stab at my screen. He can’t help me—or maybe he won’t. And I don’t know what’s going on. There’s only one option.
I hurry into the hall and pull on my heels. It’s important to note that these are not the same as Greta’s. Hers are far more whorish and impractical and I would never wear them in a million years. Also, the store didn’t have my size.
***
I park in front of a gothic-looking mansion straight out of a high-end horror flick nightmare. It even has gargoyles perched around the front entry. How did Greta end up here? The place must have cost millions, and then some asshole spent even more money to make it ugly. I would never understand rich people.
Closing the door to my car quietly, I edge up to the front door. It’s wooden and heavy looking with a little glass porthole covered in an iron cage at eye-level. I peek through but can’t see much of anything besides a dark entryway. No Greta.
A chill winter wind sweeps by and up my skirt. I wish Greta had thought to wear a jacket before she went out. Of course she didn’t. So now I’m the one who has to pay the price. I wrap my arms around myself and step off the stoop.
Creeping around the house, I peer into each window I see, but the shadowy interior doesn’t tell me anything except some stuffy rich asshole lives here.
I push through a fence to the back of the property. A well-manicured flower garden surrounds a sparkling pool. It steams a little in the moonlight, and the lounge chairs around it are arranged neatly at perfect angles.
A long row of windows span across the back of the house. I’m exposed, but I can’t stop now. Not until I know what Greta is doing. I’m her best friend. It’s my place to know. Just like it’s my place to check her apartment for any changes each night as she sleeps. I hate her, but I’m also the only thing keeping her safe. I’m the one who decides when she isn’t safe anymore. Her life hangs by my thread, no one else’s. So why the hell is she somewhere she isn’t supposed to be?
The back door beckons, the glass panes glinting in the light from the pool. I turn the handle. It doesn’t move.
Fuck. I continue skirting the back of the house until the walls turn to that dark gray stone once more. Smaller windows appear at intervals. I check each one until I realize that whoever owns this house is a stickler for locks.
I circle back around to the wide windows near the pool. Out of options, I grab a stone from one of the planters and take aim at the back door, then stop. This is going to be so loud. I bite my lip in the way I’ve practiced for months—the same way Greta does it, her front teeth just barely pressing into her plump bottom lip. I hurry to the pool and snatch a cushion from one of the chairs, then go back to the door with the brick wrapped in the fabric. Kneeling, I smash the pillowed brick into the glass. It cracks but doesn’t shatter. At least the sound is muffled.
Another hit sends a shower of glass into the house, the tinkling noise shockingly loud to my ears. I stop, hold my breath, and wait for the lights to turn on or someone to come running. I count backward from ten, waiting for the scene to settle. When no one shows, I breathe again and knock a little more glass out of the way so I can open the door. It swings inward on silent hinges.
Rich wood floors spread out before me, and fancy furniture and art decorate the space. Though nice, the house has a distinctly masculine feel, right down to the leather upholstery. That slut Greta came home with some man—not even the one she was on the date with! All this time I’d believed her when she’d said she was a virgin. I even abstained from sex because of it. But no, she went home with a stranger. Goddamn whore. And where the fuck is she?
I creep around the glass and ease farther into the house. Something thumps above me, and I freeze. And then I hear it. Her voice in a high-pitched scream. I hesitate for a moment and quietly try to mimic it. But I can’t quite hit the same note. Damn. I’ll have to practice it, I suppose. The scream comes again, this time followed by the baritone of a man’s voice.
I hurry through the downstairs, the empty feel of every room telling me that no one’s home. Just the people upstairs. And one of those people belongs to me.
I find a wide stairway near the front door and creep upward like a cat. More thumps, another scream, and the man’s voice grows louder.
“—everything for you, my pet.”
She’s crying now. I would be disgusted with her weakness if I weren’t taking notes on just how her voice catches when she sobs. “P-please—”
“You are my perfection, the one I’ve been searching for. Submit to me, and everything you’ve ever wanted will be yours.” He sounds reasonable to me. Too bad he’s coveting my most prized possession.
I reach the landing and edge down the hall. It’s decorated with even mor
e art, the paintings growing darker and more macabre as I approach the closed door at the end. Greta would hate this décor. The bitch still hangs unicorn paintings in her house. Hell, the one I got her for Christmas is in her bedroom, the camera hidden in the horn and giving a perfect view of her while she sleeps.
“Your tears only excite me, my perfect one.” His voice is raspy now, as if he’s been exerting himself. “Look what you do to me.”
“No, please don’t hurt me anymore—”
“Look!”
Her whimpers send a jolt of delight through me. The only problem is that I’m not the one eliciting them.
I reach the door and turn the knob slowly. An agonizing amount of time goes by as I ease the door open millimeter by millimeter until I can see.
The room is huge with a bed against the far wall and a cage, some sort of leather horse thing, and a rack of whips and restraints in the center.
Greta is naked and on her knees, her hands tied behind her back. The man stands beside her, one of his hands stroking his hard cock, the other wrapped in her hair. He’s familiar somehow, though I can’t place him.
“Open your mouth. I want to feel that soft tongue.” He sounds more angry than turned on – which makes my stomach clench and heat bloom between my thighs. It doesn’t hurt that his body seems to be chiseled from some sort of unrelenting stone. He’s a sick fuck, but a hot one.
She shakes her head and sobs some more.