Charles
I stalk my way over to my wife where she’s seated at her make-up table. When she attempts to speak, I place my finger over her lips and shake my head in denial, daring her with the intensity of my gaze to defy me.
I never break eye contact with her as I reach down to untie the sash that holds her robe closed. I push her knees apart and wedge my body between her legs. Bending down, I grip the back of her neck firmly and pull her to me until we’re nose to nose.
“I need to check my brand, and you need to be very still.”
She chews her bottom lip, nodding her head with a wary look in her eyes.
“I bet if I slip my fingers between your legs, I’ll find that you’re already wet for me.”
I speak to her as I gently remove the tape around the gauze. I make certain the pad hasn’t stuck to the wound too badly before I rip it free. My cock jumps when she screams out in pain. There, on her chest, is a perfect heart I carved with my knife. It’s fucking beautiful. She’ll have my scarred heart on her chest for life.
“Shh,” I console her. My fingers trace around the raised edges that have already begun to scar. “It’s so fucking beautiful, my love. I’m so proud of you for being my brave little canvas. I want to make you feel better.”
I bend down, widening the space between her knees, so I can taste the woman I crave every minute of every day. She groans and grabs the sides of her chair as I dip my tongue inside her opening.
“Look at me, baby. That’s a good girl.”
I look up at her through hooded eyes as I spread her open, slowly running my tongue the full length of her sweet slit. I take my time and savor her taste, making sure to lick every part of her, from the front all the way to the back. Slowly dipping in and out of her and sporadically flicking around her clit, I drive her higher and higher until her fist is clenched so tightly in my hair that it stings. I can feel her need all the way down to the roots of my hair follicles.
“You taste so fucking divine, baby girl. I want to taste you, baby, all of you. I want you to come for me.”
I pull at her clit with my lips and flick the bundle of nerves with the tip of my tongue until her body is quaking. She calls out my name as her release savagely rips through her.
I tear out of my pants and lift her up, taking her place in the chair and setting her on top of my cock.
“That’s it, baby. Ride my cock while I look at that brand I gave you.”
I’m as turned on by the heart she now permanently wears as I am by the way she’s moving up and down on my cock like she wants to become a part of me. The familiar clenching in my lower abdomen lets me know she’s taking me over the edge.
“I love you, girl. I love you so fucking much.”
I run my finger around the scar as I speak.
“You have my heart, baby. My fucked-up, dark, scarred heart belongs to you, my love. You’re the one with the power, baby—the power to break me in two.”
“I carry it with pride, husband. It’s a treasure I’ll take with me to the grave.”
I know my form of love is an obsession. I’ve always known I’m obsessed with this woman I rescued years ago. It’s at times like these, though, that I realize the truth of the matter. I know it isn’t me who rescued her; it’s her who rescued me.
Chapter Nineteen
The Killer
One good thing about being a man concerned with reputation is I learned how to fake it a long time ago. In my world, everything is always okay. Everything around you can be falling apart, but it’s still fine. At the very least, you make sure the appearance that everything is going well is prominent.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this angry. If I knew the identity of Black Rose, I’d kill him myself. Since I can’t get my hands on him… well, let’s just say that I’m not about to let this little blog matter go. Pulling me from my thoughts, a woman who’s attended a seminar I’m holding approaches me and begins speaking.
“Oh, I’m so inspired after hearing that lecture on making a difference in the community. I can’t remember a time I’ve ever been so motivated to help.”
The woman standing in front of me just finished listening to one of my lectures. I was giving her my signature smile and had planned on just tuning her out, but then she suddenly says something that catches my interest.
“I’m a nurse at the hospital, and I know a lot of my colleagues would love to be involved in volunteer work. I can’t wait to tell the other nurses about this seminar.”
“How interesting, you say you work at the hospital? I’ve always been so intrigued with medicine.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. That Evelyn bitch who saw my face is a nurse at the hospital. She has ties to Black Rose whether she knows it or not. I wonder… when her husband died, did she hate Black Rose for killing him? Or instead, did she bond with the man who took his life? Is she visiting his site in search of some kind of sick solace? Perhaps she was simply trying to sate some form of morbid curiosity.
One thing is for certain now; my curiosity is piqued. Black Rose was responsible for the death of Evelyn’s fiancé. The media spilled those beans, though it wasn’t difficult to ascertain who was responsible since he left a black rose on the body. I want to know if she hates him for killing her would be husband or if there is a relationship between the two I need to be aware of. Regardless of her personal feelings toward my new enemy, I have the perfect mind-fuck in store for that puffed-up piece of testosterone.
Chapter Twenty
Melanie
I’m looking at my husband’s website, or rather Black Rose’s website, and I’m in shock. The man who left a comment under his last blog post was pissed, and I have to say it was with good reason.
“You purposely antagonized him?”
Even though I’m phrasing it in the form of a question, it’s pretty clear my husband implied Richard ordered his men to rape his victims because he was impotent. Attacking a man’s ability to get an erection is a surefire way to piss him off, especially if that man is a local celebrity.
“Yes, ma’am, I did. Getting rough when it’s consensual is one thing, but terrorizing a woman and gang raping her is absolutely detestable. I want this son of a bitch to pay!”
My phone rings, interrupting our conversation. When I look down and see it’s Evelyn, I hold up my finger to signify that I need to take the call. Before I can even say hello, her panicked voice comes over the line.
“I can’t put it into words, but I feel like I’m being followed. It’s like there’s someone lurking in the shadows, watching me and just waiting for a chance to make a move.”
“Do you think it’s Richard Roundtree?”
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Melanie. I’m beginning to doubt that guy was even trying to choke my patient.”
“You need to stop doubting yourself. Have you forgotten that she identified him as being one of the men who assaulted her? This guy isn’t getting off that easy. You’ve got to stay focused. Somewhere out there is a woman who’s willing to step forward and testify against this guy.”
I feel like I spend a lot of time giving this girl pep talks, but I am walking a fine line right now. I need to buy some time so my husband and I can commit my first murder.
“Do you think this feeling you have that someone is following you could just be your imagination playing tricks on you? You’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“I guess it could be.”
“Look, as cliché as it sounds, you know the things you should do: be careful, look over your shoulder, don’t park next to vans, stay in well lit areas. You know all the crime prevention tricks. Has he shown back up in the hospital?”
“No, I haven’t seen or heard from the guy.”
“Then it very well could be that you’re just being paranoid. If you get freaked out, I’m here and I’m just a phone call away.”
Even though I do think Evelyn’s probably being overly suspicious, I do care about her and
don’t want to see her go through any more suffering. I certainly don’t want the poor girl in any danger! Oddly enough, we’ve bonded over the years. I was the one who helped her get through the scandal of when her husband was outed as a serial killer.
“Okay, you’re probably right.”
I hang up the phone and eye my husband.
“Is this guy dangerous?”
“Very… he’s extremely dangerous.”
“Then we need to hurry up and kill him.”
“Killing isn’t something you hurry up and do. I’ll put someone on her to make sure she’s safe.”
His eyes cut through me as he makes his next statement.
“Don’t allow a time constraint force you into doing something that gets us caught or, worse yet, killed. I think you’re forgetting we aren’t dealing with one killer; we’re dealing with four. These are men who will do anything to keep from getting caught. You need to be patient. It’s their addiction to killing that will hasten their demise. You don’t do anything without clearing it with me. You’re operating on emotion, and I’m not. In this line of work, your emotions will get you killed. I want these sons of a bitches dead as badly as you do, but I don’t want their ghosts coming back to haunt me.”
Chapter Twenty One
The Killer
No matter how much I turn up the music, that fucking bitch kicking around in my trunk is making too much noise. I hadn’t planned on abducting anyone, so I don’t have any of the normal things I would carry. Every time I’ve taken a woman in the past, I’ve always knocked them out with drugs. Hell, half the time, the dimwits I have working for me just drugged a woman at the bar where they worked and brought her back to me unconscious.
In this whole sick, fucked-up game I play with my victim’s lives, it really isn’t about the women; it’s about control. The way I wrote the rules, I not only control the women hostages, but I also control the men who do my bidding. I dictate their every fucking move, and they obey me. I wonder about the guys who work for me. What in the world would make them submit to my depraved games?
Having power over three men and a woman at the same time is like a drug I have come to crave. Sitting in a chair in the corner of the room and lording over them while I mandate orders is a euphoric power high. It excites me to see the fear in a victim’s eyes. They’re all different. Some of them started out so angry—so determined to survive—but by my hand and in my time, they eventually break. They all do. No matter how strong they are when it all starts, by the time I’m done with them, they’re completely demoralized. The only problem with that is that it isn’t any fun after they get to that point. What fun is there to be had when there is no more fight? I like it when they fight back. The object of the game is to gain control over an unwilling victim. I guess by the time I’m finished playing with them, as mentally and emotionally fragmented as they are, I am really doing them a favor by putting them out of their misery. I’m saving them thousands of dollars and years of counseling. They should be grateful. It’s like I’m a God, and they’re my minions. I hold the power of life and death in my hands. In that moment, I am omnipotent.
I stop at a light, willing it to change as a man with flowers approaches my car. Having the music blaring isn’t going to prevent someone from hearing that bitch in the back, kicking in the trunk of my car. He’s right beside me by the time the light turns green, and all I can do is hope like hell that he hasn’t heard her. I can’t even fathom the possibility of going down over something as simple as a street vendor overhearing that woman’s screams. Logically, I know he probably didn’t hear anything, and even if he did, he more than likely didn’t have time to get my plate number. Even so, no matter how hard I try to convince myself, the nagging thought still bugs me. It’s the small foxes that spoil the vine.
The close call changes my plan. I can’t risk driving the route I’d have to take to get the woman to my warehouse. There are just too many stoplights and, therefore, too many opportunities for that bitch to make her presence known. I decide to pull off on a side street and take the back roads home. I’ll be able to pull into my garage and get her out with no one the wiser.
Chapter Twenty Two
Charles
Looking at the picture of the woman on my blog is bothering me for a few reasons. First and foremost, I hate the fact that she had been subjected to these animals. Second, the killer is openly making a threat to kill someone else because he is angry with me for calling him out. Third, I don’t like the idea that he came onto my turf and posted the vile picture. In a sense, I am responsible for making sure those who follow my page aren’t subjected to the heinous reality of my work. I know they glorify Black Rose. I am doing what others have always wanted to do but can’t or won’t because of social circumstances. The ugly truth is that as much as my readers believe in the concept of what I’m doing, they have glamorized it. The public likes the idea of being avenged. They like the idea of someone else being willing to do the dirty work. People don’t sit around looking at crime scene photos, taking in the ugliness of the world I live in, and I don’t want to be the one to subject them to it. Richard Roundtree came onto my turf and made that decision for them. He fucked up when he did that. I’m pissed. He crossed a line, and he’s going to find out I’m not the kind of man you want for an enemy. As odd as it may seem, I care about my readers, and I have a very protective streak concerning anything that involves them. My enemy would have been better off coming against me head on than to cross the line of fucking with my followers. If he wants to do that to people, then he can go start his own blog. I have no intention of letting him defile mine and get away with it. Call me territorial and controlling, but that is just how it is. At least, that’s how it is in my world.
I toss around the options I have and decide the best thing I can do is take the post down and not give the son of a bitch a platform to use to get the attention he’s craving. I push away any guilt I feel about his next kill being my fault. Regardless of whether I pissed him off or not, he’s going to continue killing until somebody stops him.
I know enough about the psychology of men like Richard Roundtree to know that ignoring him, after I have reeled him in, is not only going to confuse him, it’s going to turn him into a petulant child who will throw a temper tantrum to get a reaction. I have succeeded in what I wanted to do, and that is getting under his skin and knocking him off balance. He’s going to do anything to get my attention again, and it’s going to cause him to make a mistake. I’ll be there when he does.
Let the games begin…
Melanie
“We’ve got problems, major ones.”
I watch my husband’s eyes as I make my way into his office, and it’s like he can read every one of my thoughts. Even at the threat of death, he has a way of making me feel like he can fix it. I hope, for the sake of the woman who has been abducted, that he can.
“Another woman has gone missing,” he answers.
How does he always do that? It isn’t a question; it’s a statement. Somehow, he knows what’s happened. For years, I’ve known my husband has the ability to predict the moves of men with criminal minds. He thinks like a killer, and it will take someone who can read the thoughts of a madman to save this woman. I feel so sorry for her. She has become nothing more than a pawn in a serial killer’s sick battle of wits. The only reason he took this woman was to challenge my husband. This is just a game to Richard Roundtree, and anyone who gets in his way is in danger of becoming a victim in his sick, sadistic scheme to outwit my husband.
His voice interrupts my thoughts.
“How did you find out?”
“Evelyn called me and said one of our nurses hasn’t made it in.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s in trouble or missing.”
“I believe it does, Charles. You have to know the mind of a nurse. We aren’t late, and we show up when we’re supposed to be at work.”
His laughter softens my serious state of mind.
&n
bsp; “You’re late all the time.”
“I’m not the norm, Charles.” I roll my eyes at him.
“I’m well aware of that; it’s why I chose you and made you mine. Has Evelyn been by the woman’s house?”
“Yes, and nothing seems out of order.”
“According to Evelyn.”
I watch as he gets up and grabs his suit coat. He winks and walks out of the office with me trailing after him. I don’t need him to tell me what he’s doing. He’s going to the nurse’s home to find what Evelyn missed, and I am going with him. I don’t just want to work with a serial killer; I want to learn how to think like one.
Chapter Twenty Three
Charles
I pull out a pair of gloves from my pocket and hand them to my wife.
“I won’t ever assume you know anything because even the smallest of details must be addressed. Even things that seem trivial, if overlooked, can mean prosecution or death. There is no room for error. Do you know why I’m here?”
I look around the secluded area where the nurse’s home is located.
“I assume you’re here to look for any evidence of where the nurse could have gone the day she went missing?”
“Exactly… Evelyn would just look for disturbances, like if the house had been broken into or ransacked.”
The house is located on a quiet street and has the appearance of a quaint cottage. The greenery growing like a canopy leading up to the large wooden door will serve well as camouflage to hide us from any curious onlookers or nosey neighbors. I have made certain we’re wearing latex gloves that will not hinder our dexterity during our search for clues. They will also allow me the nimbleness needed to pick the lock with the kit I’m carrying in my back pocket.
My wife instinctively serves as a lookout while I work at the lock, and after a few seconds, we’re able to gain entry. I’m grateful there isn’t an alarm on the house. I assume she feels safe enough in this quiet neighborhood to not see the necessity.
Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) Page 7