Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1)

by K. V. Rose

  I understand it, but I don’t like it. I hate loud noises. Even screams. The tears I can deal with, silent sobs held back by stronger girls.

  But the pitiful moaning and sniffling? It pisses me off. It only makes me want to hurt them more.

  I sometimes wonder if I owe Oliver for my love of silence. He was on the spectrum, non-verbal. I enjoyed his company more than anyone else’s.

  But as much as I might like to pretend otherwise, I know it wasn’t just Oliver.

  When I was a child, our father took a knife to my side every time I cried. A blade against the ribs hurts more than most anywhere else on the body, save for maybe the eyelid.

  I’ve got a dozen scars lining my ribcage.

  It took me twelve times to learn that crying doesn’t get you love.

  I’m glad Addison already seems to have figured that out. After the second day, when she foolishly tried to escape, I think she learned all of her lessons rather quickly.

  I stay hidden in the shadows of the basement, against the wall as I watch Ben work with her. The room is empty, save for a wooden table opposite me, with one leather chair in which Ben now sits. The gleaming hardwood floors are polished to shine even in the dim light over the table, the only light in the room.

  Neither Ben nor Addison know I’m in here.

  I’ve always been taller than most people I know, but I learned to walk on silent steps at a young age. I had to, for Oliver. Our silence saved us many, many times. And sometimes hiding in the shadows is the best course of action in general. Not announcing your presence allows you to see things you wouldn’t otherwise, because when people know they’re being watched, they wear a mask.

  Right now, the masks are off.

  Save for Addison’s, of course. She’s playing a role to survive. But eventually she’ll drop the mask too, because the mask will morph into her face. A submissive playacting and a slave broken don’t take long to become the same thing.

  I force myself not to think of Oliver right now. Of where he’s been the past eighteen years. It doesn’t matter. It’ll be over soon.

  Addison is kneeling at Ben’s feet, hands on her thighs. She’s in the same white tank and white shorts she was wearing last night when I came to visit her.

  The leather whip is on the table, curled up tight, which means Ben hasn’t used it yet. What a good girl she must be.

  He’s got something between his fingers from the plate in front of him. Bacon, it looks like. He’s holding it up like a treat for Addison, and her curtain of golden-blonde hair is blocking my view of her face, because she’s looking at the floor.

  Like she should be.

  In the dim light, from this distance, I don’t see any marks on her body, the bruises nearly healed from her fall down the stairs. Although I do know she has some wounds on her back from the whip. I’ve felt the raised flesh beneath my fingertips in the night.

  “Look at me.” Ben doesn’t call her any name, which is par for the course. Sometimes men give their pets degrading names, sometimes affectionate ones. I wanted her to be nameless when Ben trained her, so her new owner can decide what he’d like to call her.

  I have to bite down on my cheek to stop from thinking what Oliver’s been called. Doesn’t matter. It’s almost over.

  Addison ensures it.

  She doesn’t look up at Ben’s prompting.

  Smart girl.

  Ben sighs, like he’s pissed, and I think he might actually be. She’s doing exactly as she should—no eye contact—but I know Ben. He thrives on punishment. Corrective behavior. He won’t be satisfied unless she slips up at least once.

  Seems like a headache to me, always looking for an error where there isn’t one, but some men thrive on that. My father certainly did.

  I slide my hands into my pockets, smooth my thumb over the king of hearts.

  “Look at me.” Ben’s voice grows angrier, and part of it is for training purposes, but there’s that itchy whip finger he has.

  Addison doesn’t move.

  I’m not even sure if she’s breathing.

  Sometimes she holds her breath in the night when I come to console her. Sometimes she arches into my touch like she wants nothing more than for me to fuck her.

  The doctor who looked over her couldn’t tell me if she’s a virgin or not. I haven’t yet asked the question, because of all the ways it’ll terrify her. Either way, I have no interest in fucking her. She’s product, not pussy.

  Her buyer likely won’t care if she’s pure, but he wouldn’t want me banging her. As lenient as he’s been in his demands of her, I understand his interest must be personal—perhaps he hates Christopher London. Maybe he just has a thing for blondes with green eyes. I don’t care what his interest is, as long as I get what he’s promised.

  I sent her photos around as soon as Christopher fucked up my coke deal down in Miami.

  There’s a lot of money in coke.

  A lot of people get pissed when it doesn’t go where it’s supposed to. They get pissed enough to kill, and some of my people were murdered for Christopher’s fuck up. It’ll cost a lot to replace their skills and expertise.

  His daughter is the least of what he can pay me with.

  Little does he know, in fucking up my business, he’s given me something much better than money.

  Still, he thinks he has time to come for her, and if he could match what I’m getting from her buyer, I’d give her up.

  But he can’t.

  She’s never going home again.

  Ben drops the bacon on the plate with a sigh, bringing my attention back to them. I cock my head, wondering where he’s going with this. Addison didn’t look at him, hasn’t made a sound. Hasn’t moved a muscle.

  She needs to eat, because she’ll be in the gym midmorning. I personally like to fast before my workouts, but I eat enough in the evening to compensate.

  Addison, according to Ben, doesn’t eat nearly enough, even when he feeds her. But right now, he’s not feeding her. I wonder when the last time she ate was. Probably the dinner I had Mamie feed her.

  I watch as Ben grabs her chin, lifts her head. Her long hair falls down her back and I can see her side profile. She has a straight, small nose, sharp cheekbones, a slender neck. I know all of this by feel, but seeing it is incredible.

  She’s the perfect pet. And she keeps her gaze averted, not willing to give in to the mind game Ben is playing.

  He runs the palm of his hand over her face, and I see a tremble move through her body. Still, she keeps her eyes on the floor.

  I glance at the bacon on Ben’s plate, wondering if that was the final test before he feeds her.

  Letting go of the playing card, my hand shifts to the gun on my hip, even though I’m not sure why. It’s a habit to carry a gun everywhere, even in my house. A habit to reach for it instinctively, even if my mind doesn’t register the reasoning.

  One evening I came home from school and slipped on my mother’s blood on the bathroom floor of our one-bedroom apartment, a year after she had taken me and Oliver to the States, away from my father.

  Oliver was nowhere to be found.

  Since then, I’ve never gone without a gun.

  I brush my thumb over the grip as Ben rubs her face once more, in an almost tender gesture. But I know men like Ben. Men like me.

  We are anything but tender.

  And when he lifts his hand, I know I shouldn’t be surprised. When he hits her in the face and her head spins to the side, I know I shouldn’t so much as blink, but I do.

  I blink, and I move. Because she followed the rules, and he broke them.

  My hands are around Ben’s throat so fast, I don’t even remember putting them there. I shove him against the wall beside the table, hear his head crack as it connects with the wall.

  His blue eyes are wide, surprise written all over his face. For a man like Ben, I imagine he doesn’t get surprised by much. But his boss’s hands around his throat? Guess that’ll do it for him.

 
; I don’t ask him anything as I squeeze his neck so hard, I wonder if I could actually pop his head off. His face turns red, but the best part is he doesn’t lay a finger on me.

  He knows if he does, he’s dead.

  I don’t like to be touched. I do the fucking touching. Choking. Killing. Whatever.

  He opens his mouth to speak and I loosen my grip marginally, so he can get the words out. “She was defying me,” he rasps.

  People lie to my face a lot. Comes with the business. Usually, I blow their brains out afterward, but Ben is good at his job. My clients never complain about the pets they get from him. In fact, they spread the word in our underground world so fast, sometimes I have trouble filling demand.

  “Max, her eyes weren’t on the floor—”

  Before he can finish that sentence, I let go of him, grab my gun, hold it under his chin, and pull the trigger.

  Two lies are just two too many.

  My ears are ringing, and bits of blood and bone and brain are all over me as I step back from Ben and his body crumples to the floor with a dull thud.

  Glancing at my bloody suit, I squat down, wipe my gun clean on Ben’s shirt. Then I stand up, stow my weapon, and turn to look at Addison.

  She’s still on her knees, and maybe I just didn’t hear her because the gunshot was so loud that close to my face, but I don’t think she even screamed.

  Her big green eyes are on me, her face ashen, mouth open.

  But she’s still kneeling, her hands on her thighs. Even after I shot a man’s head off, right in front of her face.

  Amazing.

  Pieces of Ben landed on me.

  I don’t notice it until Max comes to stand in front of me—also covered in what used to be Ben—and says, “We’re going to shower.”

  I glance down at my once-white tank top and notice it’s…decorated with red. Thick globs of something that I’d rather not look too closely at.

  I suddenly feel very cold.

  Turning my gaze back to Max, to his steel and blue eyes, a small part of my brain tells me I should look at the floor.

  But another, bigger part tells me Max just shot Ben’s entire head off.

  I just watched someone die.

  Despite all of the horrors I endured at my home for the past eighteen years, I had somehow escaped seeing that.

  Abuse? Assault? Mind games? I’d experienced all of it to varying degrees. I had the torture of feeling the pain of living prolonged. But to see it end…

  My mind feels very dull. Everything is…slow.

  Max snaps his fingers, getting my attention, even though I’m staring right at him. I wasn’t really seeing him. But at his snapping, I flinch.

  Then I see Ben’s head explode in my mind.

  Over and over, on a loop.

  My lips start to tremble. My ears are still ringing. I see the gun on Max’s hip. He drops his hand, and I’m still staring at his gun, but I can’t think.

  Can’t breathe

  I can’t breathe.

  I reach for the collar around my neck, a high-pitched keening sound coming from my mouth, but I barely recognize that I’m making it. I scratch at the collar, standing to my feet, backing up until I hit the wall opposite what used to be…Ben.

  I can’t get the collar off.

  I spin it around, feeling for the loop with my fingers but my hands are shaking, and my stomach convulses.

  I’m freezing cold, but a sweat is breaking out on my neck and—

  “Addison.”

  I keep pulling at the collar, knees trembling until I can’t hold myself up anymore. I sink to the floor, hear footsteps approaching me and I throw my arms over my head, dropping the collar, tears springing behind my eyes.

  “Addison.”

  A sob tears through my throat, raw and guttural, and it doesn’t sound like me. It doesn’t sound like me, but it can’t be anyone else.

  Ben’s head…his fucking head…

  “Addison.” There’s a deadly warning in my name, in that tone, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop the heaving sobs that steal my breath before it all comes out in a rush, my lips trembling, my chest rising and falling as I try to gulp in air but there isn’t enough and—

  Hands come around my wrists, yanking my arms from my head. Then those same strong hands move to my throat.

  Over my collar.

  It’s unbuckled, tossed to the floor with a clatter, but hands quickly come back around my throat.

  I take a deep breath. Register that Max is on his knees in front of me, his eyes boring into mine as he squeezes me, his fingers overlapping around my neck.

  I can’t breathe.

  Panic replaces my fear, and I press back against the wall, but of course, I don’t get anywhere.

  “Addison.” Max’s voice is calm, but his fingers squeeze me tighter.

  Spots pop in front of my eyes.

  “Calm down.”

  My hands go to his forearms, digging into his skin, but Max doesn’t let go.

  He just fucking… he just fucking killed someone.

  My head spins, my brain sluggish from the shock and Max’s hands around my throat. I scratch harder, try to pry him off, but he exerts no effort as he keeps choking me.

  “Are you going to be quiet?” he asks when my panic reaches a crescendo. My fingers feel numb and I can’t fight him anymore.

  I can’t think. Can’t see. Can’t move. I’m completely at his mercy.

  “Are you going to be good, Addison?”

  I nod my head with the last ounce of strength I have left in my body, white spots clouding my vision from the lack of oxygen in my brain.

  He lets go of me.

  I gulp in air, eyes flying open, throat sore.

  Max has blood all over his face. His face, his suit jacket, his shirt, and his hands…

  There must be blood on my throat, too.

  I rub at it, panicking again, but he moves faster than my fear. He grabs my knees, pulls them apart. My breath catches in my throat as he takes my wrists in one hand, holding them by my side. He nudges closer, his body forcing its way between my knees, which are still up to my chest.

  He reaches for something on his hip and when I see the gun he just used to shoot Ben, my heart hammers so hard, my entire body shakes with my pulse.

  He holds up the gun, held between the palm of his hand and his thumb, like criminals do when they’re lowering them slowly for cops.

  “Look at me,” he commands me.

  I can’t take my eyes off of the gun.

  “Look at me, love, or this is going to hurt.”

  I tear my eyes away from the weapon, hold his gaze.

  “Good girl.” His torso is against my knee, and he’s positioned himself so I can’t close my legs. I don’t know what to do, what to say, but when he lowers the gun, I start to shake again.

  “Don’t look away from me,” he says softly, then he caresses my knee with the grip of his gun.

  I don’t look away, even though my body wants to run. Even though my mind is screaming at me to bolt.

  I don’t move, and I don’t look away.

  “This will only hurt you if I want it to,” he says, nodding toward the weapon he’s using to run up against my inner thigh. “It’s harmless without my touch, Addison. And right now? I don’t want to hurt you, baby girl.”

  I focus on breathing. I focus on the grey in his eyes. The light, pale blue. The dark lashes that frame them.

  “Right now, I want to make you feel really, really good, Addison. Because you deserve that.”

  I bite my lip, so many words on the tip of my tongue but none that I can say.

  “I need you to do something for me, okay?” He only speaks like this in the night. But it’s morning now, proof that everything is all fucked up in this prison that’s my own personal hell.

  There’s a fucking body just a few feet from us.

  My legs lock up, muscles going rigid, and Max notices. He rolls his eyes. Before I can think, before I can take
my next breath, he yanks me away from the wall, then pushes down on my chest, so I’m flat on the floor.

  Pinning my hands above my head with his fingers circled around my wrists, his eyes rake over my body, pulled taut beneath him.

  “I need you to look at me, and only me, until I tell you that you can look away, do you understand?” His gaze finds mine again.

  I think about Ben.

  Ben’s body.

  Ben’s brain.

  Max presses the barrel of the gun to my temple.

  I’m not thinking about Ben anymore.

  My breath leaves me as my eyes cross, focusing on the warm steel against my forehead.

  “You’re so pretty when you’re scared, baby girl,” he whispers. My eyes find his, past the gun, and I see that he means it. He means what he’s saying.

  He likes this.

  He likes this.

  “But you don’t have anything to fear from me. Not right now.”

  I’m still not sure I’m breathing. I’m not sure my heart is beating. I’m not sure of anything but this gun against my head and Max’s voice. His eyes. His fingers circling my wrists, painfully tight, but keeping me grounded all the same.

  “Trust me right now, love.”

  I want to tell him I don’t have a choice. He has a gun to my head. He has total control. And that’s what he likes.

  We never have a conversation in the night. If I tried to talk, he’d clamp his hand over my mouth. On the drive here, from Danik’s, I was blindfolded. I don’t even know where we are.

  The blindfold didn’t come off until I was inside his house. That’s when I panicked. That’s when I fought. That’s when I was drugged.

  He wants me to submit to him, but he doesn’t even give me the choice. Just like with Ben. When I rebelled, Max fed me to the wolves.

  “Trust me, and I’ll take care of you.”

  I don’t trust him. I don’t believe him. But I have no other option.

  “Keep looking at me.” Slowly, he trails the tip of the gun down my nose, over my mouth, my chin, my throat.

  I want to see if his finger is on the trigger, but I don’t look away from his eyes. Cold, but beautiful. Menacing but in this moment, comforting. If I don’t look away, he’ll take care of me.