Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2)

Home > Other > Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) > Page 10
Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) Page 10

by Steele, Suzanne


  I back into a driveway and start driving toward the river. Out of everything I anticipated my fellow serial killer might do, involving law enforcement never crossed my mind. Why would he betray me like this? How could he break the unspoken code of silence amongst criminals? We don’t snitch; it’s just accepted as a rule. What happened to honor among thieves? As mad as I am that I’ve been forced to run, the predominant emotion I’m experiencing is betrayal.

  Right now, I know they have me on abducting the woman, but they don’t have proof I’ve killed anyone. I just need to get somewhere and find my bearings. If they have a case on me, then there’s always the option of getting out of the country. From all appearances, it looks like I might actually go down on the word of a killer. Oh, the fucking irony! Maybe I can pin this whole killing spree on my partners in crime. Even though I have been the one to take their final breaths, they’re the ones assaulting and beating the women. Well, I have done some torturing, but no one needs to know about that. No jury is going to believe one man could hold that much power over three men. They’ve done such heinous things to those women at my direction, but in the end, they are the ones who did them. As for me ordering them to? It will be my word against theirs. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do. Should they come to light, I’ll pin the crimes on my partners.

  I pull into the underground garage I had constructed to hide my vehicle and head toward the entrance of the house from inside the garage.

  I just need time to wrap my head around all of this and figure out how much the police actually have on me. I don’t want there to be any surprises, finding out there’s a whole lot more going on that I’m not aware of… yet. I need to calm down, watch the news, and hope for the best. Maybe I’m just overthinking this. No matter how much I try to talk myself down from the panic, it isn’t overriding the gut feeling that’s telling me the one thing I’ve always been scared of has come to pass—scandal.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Black Rose

  I circle my wife as I eye her nude body. She’s strung up in my playroom and completely at my mercy. Nothing will ever change the fact that killing and torturing people sexually excites me. My thought processes are unlike those of a normal person. I am and always will be a serial killer, and no amount of time ‘cooling off’ from my escapades will ever change that. Rehabilitation for a man like me is a joke. There’s no deep, dark secret to why I kill; I don’t fit any textbook psychological profile. I simply watched a man get beaten to death in an alley one day and made up my mind, then and there, that I wasn’t going to be an innocent bystander anymore.

  I whisper into my little blindfolded victim’s ear.

  “Was it everything you thought it would be?”

  Her arms are spread out, held by chains hung from the rafters, causing her breath to come in short, labored pants. She is splayed out, spread eagle fashion, with manacles around her ankles that spread her legs as wide as her arms.

  “It wasn’t as bloody as I presumed.”

  “But it wasn’t his blood I craved. My craving is for you.”

  Though I only whisper this in her ear, the tremors that overtake her body clearly reveal how frightened she is. Her fear is almost palpable which, of course, only makes my cock harder. She’s well aware that tonight will be a journey only I can take her on. Even more importantly, it will be a journey only I can bring her back from. When you’re engaging in edgeplay, like I’m doing tonight, you had better be damn sure you know what you’re doing because it can result in the loss of someone’s life if you don’t. I continue speaking as I begin working on the surprise I have in store for her.

  I begin the task of looping 3/16 elastic cords at the base of each of her breasts. The result will have each of them slowly swelling until they become hypersensitive. I gently apply an adjustable clamp to each nipple, tightening them just enough to result in a pleasurable pressure.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I have a surprise for you.”

  “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

  I lean in to growl in her ear, “You don’t have a fucking choice.”

  I have a small box that contains a 555-control circuit, a series of RCA female plugs, and a small toggle switch. I plug in an assortment of light gauge wire leads to the control box and then plug four of the leads into the vibrator I have rigged up between her legs. I top it off with plugging two leads into each nipple clamp. I step back to admire my work of art and turn on the power to the control box. I’m held captivated as I watch it work its magic. The vibrator turns on, and at first, my prey can barely sense it, but it gradually increases in strength.

  Small electrical surges pulse throughout her body, and the vibrator attached between her legs by the waist belt steadily increases in intensity.

  I’ve set up a table in advance with an assortment of toys, and I pick up the feather duster to start gently caressing her entire body. The result is a combination of sensory ascent—a slow build that I’m controlling. In taking away her sight, I’ve heightened her other senses. Because she can’t see, she is forced to rely solely on her other four senses. Every sound and feeling has, therefore, been magnified until it’s a keen sensation, alternating between pleasure and the torture of being taken right to the edge of climax, but not over. The process is known as edging for just that reason. When pleasure becomes torture because no release is allowed, it’s the ultimate form of control. I determine when and if she comes, and that kind of power is delicious. It’s good to be king.

  I use my lips, tongue, and teeth, randomly assaulting her body with my mouth and focusing on every one of her pleasure points. Behind her ears, the front of her throat, on her neck, down her thighs, on her breasts, even the back of her knees—I get them all, licking, kissing, and biting.

  I begin to randomly increase and decrease the stimulation to her clit and her nipples through manipulation of the 555-box.

  I watch, completely intrigued, as her breathing becomes shallow and rapid. Her body starts a sensual dance in which her hips gyrate, trying to gain more contact with the elements I’m purposely using to keep her on the edge of ecstasy.

  Giving her no warning, I rip the blindfold from her eyes. I’ve placed a full-length mirror in front of her, and at her first glimpse of her wired and rigged up body, she lets out an audible gasp, her expression one of utter shock.

  I look at her reflection, wanting to view her body in the same way she’s seeing herself. She’s standing with her arms and legs spread almost painfully wide, fighting and struggling against the chain restraints. Letting out a soft moan, she thrusts her hips forward, obviously aroused by what she sees.

  “If you want to come, you’ll have to ask nicely, darling.” My voice is gravelly in her ear. “If you come without my permission, I will hurt you,” I whisper. The soothing, calm nature of my voice only adds to the gravity of my statement.

  I know the vibrator on her clit is relentless. I hear her desperate cries, her pleas, but I’m not finished making her beg.

  “You will have to do much better than that.”

  Her body is shuddering uncontrollably, and she starts to beg me in earnest; now she’s afraid of coming without my permission. Any pride she may have had is buried under her need for release. I soothingly whisper in her ear, “Climax for me, baby girl. I want to watch your face in anguished pleasure”

  I look at the state I hold my prey in. She’s begging me, pleading with me, agonizing for me. I watch as her muscles involuntarily clench. I study myself, along with her expression, in the mirror as I place plastic wrap over her mouth and nose. Her eyes are wide with terror, and I can feel my cock stiffen to the point of pain.

  I clutch the plastic wrap and the hair at the back of her head, watching as the adrenaline dump courses through her body. It hits her like a freight train, and the explosion of her climax suddenly rages through her at the same time. For twenty or thirty seconds, the mixture of terror and arousal collide as her body thrashes against the
restraints. I rip the plastic wrap away from her face. She inhales deeply, desperately filling her lungs with the life giving oxygen I’ve deprived her of.

  I can no longer resist being inside her. After all she’s been subjected to, I gently release my wife from the manacles and make love to her. When we are both spent and satisfied, I pick her up and take her with me to the master suite. The rest of the night will be spent ministering to her as I see to her aftercare.

  Even though the things I have just subjected my wife to are dangerous, there is no place safer than where she presently is—in my arms.

  Chapter Thirty

  The Killer

  Feeling numb, I sit in a recliner and pull a long drink from my bottle of beer. I’m in a state of utter disbelief. My eyes are glued to the television while a reporter informs me that one of my best friends in the world has been murdered. I listen incredulously; it’s as if the news broadcaster is speaking directly to me.

  Though it was previously believed the serial killer vigilante known as Black Rose had either been imprisoned or was deceased, the crime scene behind me bears evidence of his return. Though law enforcement won’t confirm or deny that the infamous Black Rose is making a comeback, I was able to get close enough to witness that a black rose and a note written in ransom font were left on the body of the victim. Could this be a copycat, or has the man known as Black Rose returned to avenge the community? Only time will tell…

  For the first time I can remember since my childhood, I feel the clenching talons of fear wrap around my heart. The person responsible for killing the man I’d grown up with had come in like a ghost, and he’d left no evidence behind, not even a hint as to who he was beyond that damn flower. He had the advantage because he knew who I was, and he obviously knew the identities of the men who did my bidding.

  This isn’t the way things were supposed to go. I had purposely antagonized him to bring him out to play, but now it’s blatantly clear to me that I may have pulled the wrong tiger’s tail. This guy is crazy.

  I take a moment to ponder what kind of man I’m truly dealing with. He’s organized; I know that to be true since he had been able to subdue my buddy with no issues. I pride myself in the fact that I am the smartest in our group, but my guys are by no means stupid. We’ve all received the benefit of private school education and attended the best universities. They’ve been working with me for years, learning everything I could teach them about serial killing.

  This guy, Black Rose, has to have some serious money or powerful connections to even find out who we are and that we’re working together. The thought crosses my mind that my adversary might even be a cop.

  Yes, I had wanted to play a game with a fellow serial killer, but now it seems I have gotten much more than I had anticipated. In a sense, I guess I underestimated my playmate. I had been hoping for a battle of wits, a game of sorts, to see who could pull off the perfect murder. What I have done, though, is piss off a man who is clearly on a mission to avenge the women we killed. I down the rest of my beer and head into the kitchen to grab another, trying to dull the fear lodged in my chest by drowning it in alcohol. How long will it be before he comes after the rest of us? Will he save me for last, making me endure the guilt of knowing I’m the cause of my best friends’ deaths? Only time will tell…

  I never counted on this game of wits turning into a mind-fucking prank on me. He’s put me in a position where I’m overthinking all the what ifs involved—what if this happens; what if that happens? I want to stop the questions in my head, and the only way I know to do that is to dull them. I never thought I’d be the type of man who would self-medicate with booze, but I’ve reached an all-time low. This is the first time in my life of crime I’ve ever been made to feel even an inkling of what it was like for the women I abducted—what it’s like to be made a victim.

  Chapter Thirty One

  Agent Turner

  I quit trying to fight the conflicted feelings I have about this serial killer years ago. I also quit fighting the connection we share. Some bonds in life are sealed by fate, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

  Even during the years he’d been missing, he was always in the back of my mind, popping up at the most inopportune times. No matter how many years of police training I have ingrained in me, telling me all the protocols and due processes of the judicial system, I respect Black Rose. He’s able to do what I would love to do myself if my hands weren’t tied by the law. He kills off the scum of the city who prey on the weak. Despite the professional, emotionally detached façade I choose to publically display, deep down inside I’m just like everyone else—human. I need to believe in something higher than the human race. Call it karma, or whatever else you want to term it, but shouldn’t people get what’s coming to them?

  “You know, there are some things that are bugging me.”

  I turn my chair, giving my partner my full attention. I learned years ago to listen to her gut feelings as if they were my own.

  “When we interviewed Becky Woodrow, there were a couple of things she said that didn’t make sense to me.”

  “Like what?”

  She has my complete attention now. I want to break this case before any more women die.

  “Well, remember when she said he would go off on screaming tangents?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding my head as I listen intently.

  “I believe what she said about him boasting to her that he beat a woman so badly she was in the hospital. Also, she said he kept threatening her about bringing his friends over so he could watch her be tortured. What if this guy isn’t working alone? It’s feasible he was telling her all his dirty little secrets because he planned on killing her. In his mind, dead men don’t talk, so why not use his past crimes to scare the shit out of her?”

  “You think Richard was working with the guy Black Rose killed?” I ask her.

  “His note on the body, warning us that he’d go after the other three, sure implied it.”

  “So, if there is a woman in the hospital who matches the same MO, she may be able to identify the two unknown suspects.”

  It isn’t a question; it’s a statement. I grab my standard black FBI suit coat and make my way towards the door.

  “Let’s go.”

  She doesn’t ask where because she already knows. I’m going to the hospital to find that woman.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Melanie

  I squirm under my husband’s penetrating gaze. Visions of the night before come to the forefront of my mind, and I blush under his intense scrutiny. His copper colored hair, piercing blue eyes, and fit physique make a wickedly handsome combination, and I still catch myself staring at him in awe. I’m flattered by the way other women fall all over him to get his attention, but still, after all these years, he only has eyes for me.

  “As much as I would love to sit and stare at you, my lady, we have business to tend to.”

  I know he can immediately see the reluctance on my face; I’d grown accustomed to his ability to read me like an open book years ago.

  “What?” I cock my head, eying him with skepticism.

  “Well, an important part of killing successfully is to not develop any MOs you don’t mean to establish. For example, I leave a black rose and a note written in ransom font. That’s my signature though, not my MO. The cops and the other two men are going to be looking for a woman who came into a bar and picked up a guy. I wouldn’t be shocked if they’ve already viewed the security tape footage and seen you.”

  My stomach knots at the thought, but he answers me before I can ask.

  “Nobody would ever recognize you in that trashy getup you were wearing.”

  “Trashy? Geez, thanks,” I facetiously reply, rolling my eyes.

  “I’m not saying anything derogatory about you. What I am saying, however, is that it was the polar opposite of the sexy innocence you normally portray. I like that about you. With your streaked, chestnut brown hair, your big brown eyes
, and your freckles, you are seriously sexy. You’re so pure, baby. I love you, girl.”

  “I love you too, but I want you to finish; I’m here to learn.”

  “Very good, grasshopper,” he teases. “Basically, what it boils down to is that we’ve got to come up with a different plan to lure these guys.”

  “Well, you already know the guys work at that bar, and when they’re not working, they’re usually there just hanging out. Let’s go and stake it out until we see the men matching the pictures you got online. When they leave, we can follow them home. Nothing says we have to torture them. We can make our move in the middle of the night, sedate them, and then shoot them full of sodium pentothal just like we did the last one. You may not get the pleasure of torturing them, but you will ensure no more women die. Dead men can’t kill, right?”

  “You’re right, and that, young lady, is the ultimate goal.”

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Agent Turner

  My partner and I immediately head for the nurse’s station. We both know the person we need to talk to because we have dealt with her before. The poor woman had been engaged to a serial killer and didn’t even know it. It had taken years for her to get her life back on track after the scandal. Even though they never had the chance to marry before he was killed, she had to legally change her last name in an effort to escape the media. There was a lot of public backlash from the mayhem her fiancé stirred up. Everybody just assumed she had to have known what he was doing. After all, how could you be dating a killer and not be aware of it? Unfortunately, it was an assumption she suffered greatly for. What most people don’t realize is many serial killers are married and have children, and their families never have a clue about the double life they lead. The ruse of having a family serves to make them look normal, and many killers actively pursue starting one for just that reason.

 

‹ Prev