Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Yes, you did,” I fume, crossing my legs and glaring at Sal. “Why don’t you guys go for a few minutes?”

  Randy readily accepts my request, but I sense Sal’s reluctance to leave. “Come on. We’ll go shoot the practice dummies.”

  Sal doesn’t break his cold, diabolical snarl at the man. I genuinely believe he could rip his heart out and eat it. “I would love to fire off a few rounds at a live, moving target.”

  Randy taps him on the shoulder. “Come on, Raniero. Let’s go blow off some steam.”

  I wait for the men to leave. “Let me make this abundantly clear to you. Sal left you alive. I will not. I have a bloodthirsty piranha swimming in a swamp. And he’s hungry…so hungry. Tell me what you did to Noah Granger, and don’t say it didn’t happen because I was working with Cesario Raniero at the time. Remember, I was supposed to kill that bastard son of his.”

  He paces, tightening his web, and understanding the flood is imminent. And if the waters don’t kill him, the gust of wind bashing his head repeatedly into the ground most certainly will.

  “Noah is a v3.0. He is still under development.”

  I slide from the barstool, forget the rules, and jab the syringe in his arm. “What did you say?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just a little cocktail,” I assure, zip-tying his wrists together as the multiple rounds go off in the backfield. “Answer the question.”

  “He is being constructed by a select group running out of Washington.”

  My focus doesn’t falter as I demand, “Who leads this group?”

  “I don’t know who is leading it,” he nervously mutters. “I only know who the contact is.”

  “Give me a name, Atticus,” I yell, stepping closer. “Stop wasting my fucking time.”

  “Stone O’Rourke,” he stutters out. “You have the keys and codes, but Sal is the password. You will never crack into the triggers locked in your head fast enough to disable them. The uploads in your brain aren’t stable.”

  Flicking my blade, I run the razor-sharp edge across the fleshy part of his arm. Blood splatters over my hands and shirt as I pluck the tiny chip out before dropping it into the clear plastic tube. “I am very aware of how unstable I am, Spider. And you can thank Kaci Hope for your new scar.”

  “She told you! Iris…don’t do it! You won’t live through the re-entry. And if you do make it, you will destroy everything that you have become.”

  Walking away, I turn around and whisper, “I guess that is up for me to decide, isn’t it, asshole? Your time of reign is over. This is for all the little boys and girls out in the yard whose lives you stole.”

  “They aren’t done…”

  I step closer. “What did you say?”

  “They’re trying to find appropriate candidates, mostly women along the border between the United States and Canada.”

  Dropping Sal’s sunglasses over my eyes, I nod. “The Storm will be here soon. I suggest you say your prayers.”

  The Master

  “You were always a hell of a crack shot,” Randy praises as I notice Iris coming out of the house. Her shirt is soaked in blood, and my first inclination is to run until she lifts a flat hand for me to stop.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Without any semblance of attachment, she robotically gives the rundown. “There is a secondary group who has taken up his experiments. They’re based in Washington, and the only known contact is Stone O’Rourke. Noah Granger was v3.0, and I’ve known about him since he was a baby. I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  I freeze in shock as I hear a rumbling sound ping-ponging in my head. “Noah…”

  “Yes,” she informs. “The Bordertown Murders are occurring because the group is searching for new recruits. I do not know who is funding them.” Holding up a small vial, she informs, “And this is the chip that I would assume contains the codex of our programming. Well, mine, yours, and Diablo Cruz.”

  “How…how do you know all this?”

  “I fucked your wife good, Raniero.”

  “Jesus, fuck!” Things spin out of control as I maddeningly blink several times not trusting my eyes. Deacon comes around the corner of the house like the All-American biker boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. He waves and gives an unmistakable devilish grin.

  “… Why is he here?”

  “Because somethings need to happen,” Iris excuses. “If I were you, I would call a janitorial crew and do it quickly.”

  “You texted him,” I mumble, knowing she still doesn’t fully trust me. Not like him. I shake my head as I want to howl in her face—I am man enough. “How could you?”

  “He was in New Orleans,” she whispers as the commotion from the house ensues. Dragging the mad scientist out by his collar, Deacon marches into the woods with a determined swag. “And you need to keep your hands clean.”

  What the actual fuck?

  “Watch her, Bianchi!” I furiously hiss. I’m so damned angry with Iris. “She doesn’t get to see this!”

  “Sal!” She grabs my arm. “You do not need to do this!”

  “Let me fucking go!” she shouts, fighting against Randy’s grip as I rip away. “Right fucking now!”

  “Stay, dammit!”

  “Do something!” I hear her pleading as I stomp towards the trees. “This cannot happen! He cannot do this!”

  I stop and twist back to see Randy holding onto my girl. Iris won’t hurt him. She came equipped with a moral compass Deacon and I do not possess.

  With a calm resolve, I question, “Do you have everything you need from The Spider?”

  “Yes!” she cries. “But you do not need his blood on your hands. We have Cruz for this purpose.”

  I wickedly grin and point out, “He’s not the only one capable of racking up bad boy points, pretty.”

  “No!” she bellows. I overhear her explaining to Randy, “Sal’s doing what they built him to do, but he doesn’t see how this will trigger him and start a landslide. He doesn’t rebound from being a monster.”

  “Let him go, Iris,” Randy soothes. “He’ll be okay.”

  “He’s not a killer.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, he is…”

  I hike into the woods to find Deacon with the metal in his hand and Atticus bound to a thick tree. Gazing over the few cuts on Atticus, I snarl, knowing the party is just getting started, and I’m not even fashionably late.

  Our brotherly bond over blood is lassoed with the fine silken threads of a spider. Together, we are impenetrable. We are a fortress of damnation.

  “What is the deal with you and crowbars?”

  “I like the sound when they crack the skeleton,” Deacon mutters, nailing Atticus in the face. Spitting blood, he groans.

  Good, he is still alive.

  “You won’t make it out either, Sal,” The Spider warns. “And you are a breathing target for your twin.”

  “Fuck,” Deacon roars, swinging at his torso with all his might. The crowbar impacts with a grotesque thud against his rib cage. “You!”

  “Ughhhh,” Atticus moans. “Stop him…please.”

  Over and over, Deacon bashes the metal against his body. Dripping with blood, he heaves. “You are the reason everything is so fucked up! You are the reason all of this happened! We can blame everyone else all we want, but you caused this. You put that fucking shit in her goddamned head! And those who got hurt at the wedding can blame it on you!”

  “I’m not the creator.”

  He’s defending Iris.

  Just like I knew he would.

  Not me. Not his tribe.

  Iris.

  “Give me a sec,” I interrupt, grabbing Deacon’s toy. He looks like a madman as he steps away and spits. “Who is funding the program, dickhead?”

  “If I told you…”

  “You aren’t getting out of this alive,” I warn. “No matter what you say or do.” I put the crowbar under my arm and light two smokes. I’m cool and calm as I hand one to
Deacon.

  “Thanks, babe.” It’s a sweet notion in the middle of our mayhem that strikes my heart and ignites my incinerator. The bad people need to leave our girl the fuck alone.

  I nod to Cruz and get in Atticus’ bludgeoned face. “One more time, who is bankrolling your cognitive chem lab?”

  “Torrente started our private investments,” he mumbles. Without a doubt, he means Carlo, Jas’ father. “And Gennaro bought in when we went to v2.0 after witnessing all the changes in Iris.”

  “Changes?” Deacon spews.

  I stare at Cruz, grinding his jaw as his nostrils flare. He’s got blood on his face, in his hair, and all over his clothes, and I realize he isn’t CAE—he’s an au naturale monster.

  “Raniero invested with v3.0 because he wanted Noah to be the youngest killing machine we created. He doesn’t have the flaws of you and Diablo.”

  “You mean the side effects.” My jaw tightens as I close my eyes. “Who is The Creator?”

  “You know…”

  “No, I don’t, or I wouldn’t be standing here yelling at you,” I point out, taking a drag and blowing smoke in his face. “Who came up with the original idea?”

  “I only took their initial idea and created the mental framework. Phillipe Kerris and his wife, Desirée brought about the plans when we met with Delarte Cristos. He wanted to harness absolute power, train the kids, and solicit their services. We never planned on things getting…so out of control.”

  With the ferocity of a thousand hurricanes, Deacon churns. “Looks like I have a whole family plus one ready for annihilation.”

  Rage consumes my mind as I become the slayer. My fist impacts his cheekbone. I hear the shattering, but I pummel on, jab after jab, as I struggle to awaken from the nightmare I’m in.

  The demons rush after me.

  I run faster.

  In rapid succession, I pound my fists like the trained weapons they are into his flesh, not caring about the consequences or retaliatory actions. I don’t fucking care anymore. All I care about is justice.

  Unholy justice.

  Screw avenging Trudy’s rapist.

  We’ll take the Kerris bitch and Cristos.

  Suddenly, the small fish don’t matter as much as the baddest polar bear in the arctic circling around and threatening everything I have with a voracious bite.

  Catching Cristos is the trophy prize—if I make it out alive.

  And he has always been the ultimate goal.

  Ruthlessly, I soak the leather and threaded bands on my wrist in slick and sticky crimson as I butcher his being with the flesh of my own.

  “… What did I just do?” I mumble from the black-out like state my insidious beast resides in. “What did I just do?”

  “Something I haven’t seen you do in a long time.”

  I’m off the rails, but I look down to find the track is collapsed. I’m floating, guided by my own crippling insanity.

  I don’t fear falling.

  I don’t fear losing.

  I fear the unknown.

  I fear the lost passages, so interwoven with parables that I cannot find my way out. I’ll fly with sparks into the tomb, musty and damp like the grotto…sanctified in the dark cavern of our love explosion.

  We’re surrounded by the slough, held only by the anchor, as we involuntary succumb to the erosion. The tension tightens in the chain until the ground gives way, and we plummet into the hell of our creator.

  I am a fucking God.

  “How dare they…”

  Bending over, I search for the resources of fuel. I can’t exist this depleted. I can’t fight the incubus. I shift on my feet, slightly unstable, as the Pixie’s voice fills my mind.

  She’s in my blood; she’s in my spirit.

  She is the essence of me—the globule I chase. My heart thumps in my cage like the hypnotic bass beat of a davul as I swagger back and observe Atticus unconscious against the tree.

  Life is a blur, and the only enigmatic cure of the hazy, acid trip gone awry is love.

  “Stormy…” I whisper, understanding how invasive her roots were in my life. I hysterically laugh. “Her fucking safeword was Stormy…”

  “... Her who?”

  “My dead fucking wife.”

  Uncontrollably spasming, I crouch low as my fingers brace the ground. Catch the ball, Cruz. Take it fucking, nowala. And ride off into the wind…your gales…your storms…stormy.

  I grip my hair as his ring-laden fingers covered in blood lay on my shoulder. “Bayou, baby. Come back to me.”

  But it’s too…late.

  And I emit a guttural scream like a monster as the terrorizing demons rear their heads.

  “Now, you understand why my father was never on your kill list. He didn’t need to be, because, in the end, he would be the only one that mattered.

  I never wanted you to go after my father because I knew he’d eventually come to the surface, and you would realize who you could trust. You would read between the lines.

  Who was standing next to who?

  And what were their motivations?

  Those four schools are like hubs for the criminal underworld to network and misbehave. And don’t ever think there isn’t a fight for those sanctuaries.

  When the day is done, all they want is a clean blade, a drink in hand, and a girl to suck their dick. Don’t mistake their mark or yours.

  Control the four; control the game.”

  Without any remaining heirs, Anna Ford’s estate, including Juliet, was originally going to a solitary owner, Kacilyn Mae Hope Raniero. If by fluke accident, Kaci and Anna passed at the same time, her parents – Cristos and Serene – could’ve made an argument for it.

  “She married me…she married me…she married me…so he wouldn’t get it…”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  The repetitive ping—ping—ping—ping…of a rifle defibrillates my rusted cage from the flat lines of a haunting ghost to the snaky terrain of violence as I glare with wide eyes at Cruz and he howls, “Fuck!” Pulling his piece from his belt, he struts up to the man and shoots him square in the forehead. “We need to go!”

  “Tell me about it,” I agree, regaining my momentum. We’re covered in blood and debris, haggard like we just got home from the war. “I guess I was done conducting my interrogation.”

  “You were off in the nether zone, man.”

  Nice way of putting it.

  Carefully, we make our way out of the woods and spot Iris, wearing safety goggles and holding an assault rifle. “That’s either scary as fucking hell or the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ll take option A and B, please.”

  She hastily hands the long gun over to Randy as she rhythmically pulls shivs from her belt one by one, and hits the target with a precise throw. Every single one of them. We tread closer with a sense of disillusionment.

  “We don’t know her anymore, do we?”

  “No,” I mutter, stripping out of my stained shirt and lunging towards my badass girlfriend.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Deacon yells as Randy lifts a hand. “Nero!”

  Iris and I topple our towers to the ground. Not anticipating my siege, she flails her arms against my chest as I hover over her delicate frame and easily pin her down. “Now what?”

  “… You really want to know?”

  “Yes!” I snap, gripping her wrists in my palms. Her knee comes hard and fast to my balls. I see golden stars. “Jesus, Mary, and Ma...”

  Lil girl is mean.

  “Fuck!” I gasp, feeling my schnads in the back of my throat. She twists out from underneath, trying to crawl away, but I grab her calf, mounting her back, and pushing her cheek into the grass before lifting her head back and pressing my sheathed blade from my hip to her delicate neck. And then, I kiss her cheek cause I’m a gentleman. “… Are we done?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You’re good, damn quick, but you need some more hand-to-hand,” I assess, hoppi
ng up. I help her off the ground. “Is this what you meant by cold chambers?”

  She nods.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got a molten cage,” I admit, coming to a mutual understanding of all we have been through. And for the first time, I honestly think about dropping on one knee and proposing, but the ring is in the lockbox of my truck. I scoop her up and she straddles her legs around my waist. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop,” she whispers. “I told you to do it.”

  “You two are fucked up,” Deacon raves as he comes closer to hug Iris in my arms. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  I know she isn’t.

  She isn’t and I am not.

  And the sad blue-eyed and golden threaded storm isn’t either.

  With a grin, Randy asks, “Round of beers and shots?”

  “Please,” Cruz and I say as we walk back to the house.

  Sweating all over Iris, I complain, “I need a fucking shower.”

  “You ain’t alone, brother,” Cruz concurs.

  “Bathe me, boys.”

  And that is the best thing anyone has said all day.

  23

  Darkness Overload

  His Ride

  “She’s passed out cold,” Sal mutters after checking on Iris. I cooked some pizzas I found in the deep freeze, and we took a shower. Her belly was full, she was clean, and Sal and I were here. Sleep came easily for our flower because Sal injected a “magic elixir” to calm her down. I watched the needle go in, tried not to cringe, and resisted the urge to lay him out. “You want to go have a drink?”

  “Yeah,” I say, reluctantly getting up from the chair in Randy’s cabin.

  I’m relaxed and not wanting to move, but I know what Sal wants—to get high and forget. I can’t blame him. We need to take the edge off. I rub my hands over the gray sweatpants I borrowed and zip the Reckless Rebellion hoodie up over my bare chest.

  We’re spending the night before they go to Atlanta, and I return home to Nola. Iris texted me to come, and like a good man, I came running. Not like a good little bitch. I know it seems like that. She cries. I come.