“You gave Bree an allowance, never gave me anything. You always took her to get her hair done, never took me. You took her shopping for dresses, paid for everything—” I started to rattle off the little things, for it was the little things that had slowly added up over time to become something unbearable.
“That’s because your sister enjoyed those things! What did you like, hmm? Your serial killers? Your blog? I tried to get you into piano playing—”
“You’re right, if I would’ve stuck with the piano, I would’ve grown up normal.”
Margaret glared. “You know that’s not what I mean. You had no interest in anything else, Stella. Why would I waste money and time forcing you to get your hair done, take you to go dress shopping, when you never once showed any interest in any of it? You never even went to any dances, despite my insistence, never went on any dates—though I see that’s changed now.”
I felt the barb in my heart in spite of my best efforts at not caring. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, don’t play coy. After your little outburst, I went after you. I saw you in the car with your boss in the parking garage, Stella,” Margaret's voice was like venom. “I know what you’ve been up to, what a little slut you are now. Should’ve known Callie would rub off on you eventually.”
For a moment, all I saw was red. On the floor behind her, I imagined Callie’s body, the blood pouring from her neck from the wound I’d accidentally created. “Don’t talk about Callie like that,” I said, taking a page from Lincoln, sounding like I was growling. I didn’t care.
“Why? It’s true. Callie’s always been looser, but I thought she might be good for you. Get you out, help you to find another hobby.” Margaret shuddered. “Apparently she wasn’t the right one for the job. I haven’t even spoken to her in months. Is that her car outside? Is she here?” She started for the hall, but I stopped her.
“No. She’s not here.” Not anymore, because Killian had her body. I wasn’t even mad my mother had seen us in the parking garage, mostly because I’d been too lost in the moment, I didn’t give a shit then. I knew someone could’ve walked by, but I didn’t expect it to be my mother. No, the thing that bothered me most was the fact that she’d insulted Callie.
Callie didn’t deserve to be insulted. She was dead. You didn’t insult the dead. It was bad etiquette.
“Where is she?” my mother demanded. “Did she change her number? It was rude of her to not tell us, considering—”
“Considering the fact that she was your little spy, sent to make sure I was taking my meds?” I was, mostly, at the time, though I did stop after the incident. The guys would never let me stop again.
My mother frowned. “You know she wasn’t a spy for me. We hardly talked, but yes, I did expect her to let me know if you ever went off.” Shaking her head, she went around the couch, plopping herself on the same cushion Lincoln had been sitting in, not too long ago. She crossed her ankles, making herself comfortable. “Ever since that whole Angel Maker debacle, your father and I have been worried about you. We don’t want you…obsessing over these serial killers anymore, and we both think it’s best if you leave your job at the Tribune.”
Leave my job?
I stood there, behind the couch, staring at the back of her head for the longest while. For hours, it felt like. Disbelief surged through me, and my mouth was open, though I could not speak any words.
She wanted me to quit my job? The one thing I liked about my life before finding Edward, Lincoln, and Killian? First she insulted Callie, now this? She was ticking every box I had, pushing every button available.
I wanted to kill her.
“Stella, come over here so we can have an adult conversation about this,” Margaret said, patting the cushion beside her. “This is important. For your well-being, honey, it’s best for you to quit and never see that Killian again. He’s not a good influence on you.”
She had no idea.
She had no fucking idea.
As she went on and on about what was best for me, about how I could move back home and be under their roof again, under their watchful eyes, I felt my resolve harden. My will to fight the anger I felt dissolved, and I soundlessly went into the kitchen, sliding out one of the big knives from the knife stand. The same knife I’d used to kill Callie, as unwilling and accidental as it was.
This time, this kill, would not be accidental.
I didn’t care about what happened after this. All I knew was that I had to end this once and for all. I had to stop my mother from talking ever again, because the words that came out of her mouth were just mean. Awful. Truly, the world would be a better place without my mother in it.
“You can take your old room back. Your father just uses it as a second office now, but we’ll get you a bed in there, get you more clothes—you can’t be looking so homeless when you’re back home again. We’ll help you find another job closer to home, something part-time so we can keep an eye on you—”
I stood behind her, glancing at the knife in my grip. Without waiting a second more, I grabbed the back of her head, catching her so off-guard she couldn’t even cry out before I plunged the knife into her skull. Right above the ear, straight into her brain. Her skull didn’t give me too much of a hassle, mostly because my adrenaline had kicked in the moment I decided to end her life.
My fingers were slow to release her hair, and I moved around the couch, standing on the opposite side of the coffee table as I gazed at my handiwork.
My mother’s eyes were blinking rapidly, her mouth trying to form words. I wasn’t sure if it was because she wasn’t quite dead yet, if maybe I’d impaled a part of her brain that she could possibly live without, or if it was just her body’s reaction to being stabbed. If she was already dead, kind of like how guillotine victims tended to blink after decapitation.
I tilted my head, studying her, watching as she slumped over, the knife hanging out of the side of her head. There wasn’t much blood; I’d learned from my mistake with Callie. I wondered how much of it she felt before she died. Did she feel the metal sliding into her brain, or had she died the moment the sharp point broke into her skull? Was she aware that her eldest daughter was killing her?
I hoped so. I hoped she felt every ounce of pain before dying. I hoped she felt the knife pushing against the soft pink tissue of her brain as I held onto her hair with rough, strong fingers. And as terrible as I was for it, I hoped she was aware that I was killing her. That I wanted her dead. All of those years, growing up hating my life, it wasn’t all because of her—but a good portion of it was. I owed a lot of shit to my mother, and finally, I repaid her exactly what she was due.
Actually, I gave her more than she was due. My mother deserved to be in pain for a while. I should’ve dragged it out, made her scream. I should have made her regret saying those things, trying to control me even though I was twenty-five fucking years old. Calling Callie a slut. Telling me to leave the Tribune and Killian. Who was she to demand these things of me? Who was she to judge anyone?
I knew the answer now. She was no one. She was dead.
“Stella, what…” Lincoln’s voice from the hall only grew louder when he rushed to my side, pulling me away from my mother. I didn’t see why it mattered now, seeing as how she was already dead. There was no saving her. No resuscitation for a knife to the head. My mother was dead and gone.
And I loved it.
“What did you do?” Lincoln asked, his hand gripping mine with intensity. “Stella, what…” Even he was at a loss for words, probably because my mother was ten times more beautiful in death than she was in life. The knife sticking out of the side of her head was a fantastic addition to her wardrobe.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” I asked, already knowing the answer. I met Lincoln’s dark eyes.
He watched me for a while, examined me for a long time before sighing. “What are we going to do with you, hmm?” Lincoln asked, giving me a smirk. A smirk that made my lower stomach burn with desire.
I slowly unentangled my hand from his, reaching for the bottom hem of his shirt, my fingertips grazing his hard abdomen. I then ran the same hand down until I cupped him, squeezing until I felt the stirring of his dick beneath his dark jeans. He wouldn’t stop me. This was supposed to be our night, and it still would be.
We’d just have an audience, someone who wasn’t Edward, for once. That audience was dead and my mother, but neither of those things mattered.
I helped him out of his shirt then worked to undo his pants as I got to my knees before him. When he stepped out of his pants and his boxers, his cock sprang free, thick and hard and veiny. All ready for me. I gripped the base of the shaft, my eyes flicking upward, meeting his. We were only two feet away from my mother’s corpse, but I didn’t care. If anything, I only wanted to please him more.
After licking the tip, teasing him a bit, I took him in. I took every inch of him in my mouth that I could. Lincoln let out a guttural moan, a sound he only made when his dick was in my mouth and I was giving him head. It was not something I was used to before meeting him, but he liked to be pleased by whatever hole necessary.
His hands found their way to my head, fingers weaving through my hair. Lincoln started to set the pace, his hips bucking and rocking back and forth. He always lost his mind a little in the moment, a habit of his I would miss.
Even after all this time, I still enjoyed being used. Thinking of myself as nothing but a body for him to use up and discard turned me on, made me soaking wet. I let him fuck my mouth, and when I felt his balls tighten, when his body shuddered and released a spew of seed into my mouth and down my throat, I swallowed him up just as I knew he liked. I did it for him, because I loved him.
My big, psychotic monster.
Lincoln pulled out of my mouth, his breathing hard and his cock still raring to go, and I was about to drag him to the floor with me when another series of knocks filled the room. We met each other’s eyes, and I had the strangest sense of déjà vu as I wiped the corners of my mouth to catch any stray cum that had escaped.
Well, I’d already killed my mother. Might as well see who the hell else was here. Why not? What more did I have to lose? I wasn’t thinking about consequences right now, only the spur of the moment. Only right here, right now. And whoever was fucking knocking was ruining yet another sexy moment between me and one of my men.
I got to my feet, taking my time to turn and move around the couch. Past my mother’s corpse, still slumped over with the knife protruding from her head. Whoever was at the door wouldn’t see it, unless I invited them in, or unless they barged in just like my mother had. At least the knife was in the left side of her head, so it wasn’t completely obvious. She could just be sleeping.
My hand went to the door, and I checked myself for blood splatter before opening it.
Who the fuck could it be now?
Chapter Twenty-Three - Killian
I let Stella go home a little early. Tonight was the last night Lincoln would be here for who knew how long, so I knew she was dying to spend time with him. I, myself, tried not thinking too much of it, because out of him and Edward, I liked him the least. He was a dick, an asshole, and an uncreative one at that.
I mean, ginger. Really? How juvenile was that nickname? Yes, I was Irish. Yes, I had red hair. Get the fuck over it.
It was as I was locking up the Tribune for the day, for the weekend, actually, since it was Friday. More specifically, it was as I was turning to the sidewalk, right after locking up, swinging the keys into my pocket as my feet started to move toward the parking lot when I felt…something. Uneasy. A gut feeling. I had no idea what had happened yesterday, what Perry had gotten called for, but it wasn’t over the news, so I hoped it was nothing.
I should have known better.
I should have done better.
After I got in my car, I was about to turn left out of the parking lot to go home, but a certain black car drove by, and I felt my anxieties shoot through the roof. I had no idea if it was Perry’s black car, but it certainly looked like it, and it looked as if he was speeding, too. I changed my turning signal and went right.
Right was the way to Callie’s house, which was exactly where he was going, apparently.
It was Perry. It was that fucking FBI agent who just didn’t know when to keep his nose to himself.
He pulled up behind a car parked in front of Stella’s house. Lincoln’s vehicle sat in the driveway, and though I was at least two hundred feet behind Perry, I couldn’t help but wonder who that other car belonged to. What was happening at Stella’s house?
I pulled up after Perry had gotten out of his car, after he was already at the door, knocking. He wore the same kind of suit he always did, but even from the distance, I could tell something weighed on him. Something heavy. He didn’t look happy at all.
Stella answered the door, letting him in. Mistake number one.
As I got out of my car and hurried up to her house, I corrected myself—mistake number one was thinking I could get rid of John. If this was because of my mistake, I had to correct it. I wasn’t exactly sure how the hell to correct it when Perry was a federal agent who had an entire branch of the American government behind him, but I’d figure something out.
I had to.
I was at the foot of the door when I overheard Perry saying, “I came to talk to your roommate today, Stella, not you. Is Callie home? This is listed as her address. You wouldn’t know anything about her brother, would you?”
“Sure, I know John,” I heard Stella say.
“A farmer just found his body in a field not too far from here, and I—”
I closed my eyes for a second, hating that this was my fault. As noiselessly as I could, I entered the house and closed the door behind me. Perry was busy talking about John, but he trailed off the moment he spotted a woman sitting on the couch. A woman who looked precariously slumped over, as if she was dead.
Stella’s mother, I realized, and she was dead. Deader than a doornail.
Stella stood between Perry and her mother, looking oblivious. As if she didn’t have a dead body ten feet away from a federal agent. Perry, though, noticed, and he reached for the gun hidden by his suit.
I didn’t wait for him to grab it. I lunged for him, taking him in a wrestler’s hold; one arm around the back of his head, one arm before his neck, stifling his breath and catching him completely off-guard. He’d been so wound up in interrogating Stella that he hadn’t noticed me at all.
He struggled; he was stronger than he looked, but he was old and I wasn’t. I was at the prime of my life, and he was at least fifty, maybe older. He’d seen his better days, and today was not one of them. I knew Perry would have to die, but I didn’t think it would happen quite like this.
A third person got to his feet; Lincoln. He’d been crouching on the other side of the couch, hiding against the armrest. He was naked, totally unashamed at his swinging dick as he went for something sticking out of Margaret’s head.
A knife.
It came out with a sickening, juicy sound, half of its stainless steel coated in red.
Perry, though I was choking the fucking life out of him, started to laugh. He must’ve known this would be his end, and now he didn’t care. “I knew you were fucked up,” he said, gasping. “I knew something was wrong, and you won’t get away with this—” Whether or not he was talking to me or to Stella didn’t matter. They would be the last words he spoke.
Lincoln moved before him, a dark look on his face. His lips were drawn into a thin line, and he didn’t even blink as he jerked his arm, sticking the knife straight into Perry’s gut. And then again, and again, harshly yanking his arm back before doing it again. I had no idea whether or not Lincoln had ever met the man, but I was glad he thought one stab wasn’t enough.
He stabbed him a good twenty times at least, stopping only when Perry slumped in my arms, his guts falling out of his stomach. Lincoln took a step back, dropping the knife as he glanced down
at all of the blood that had gotten on him—and it was a lot. His dick, which was pretty much like a fucking horse’s, had grown hard.
I dropped Perry, breathing in the metallic air. There was always something special about the air around a kill, as if the blood stained it. Perry’s body hit the ground with a loud thud, all crumpled and useless like most corpses were.
A coarse, ragged breath left Lincoln’s throat as he looked at me, wholly unashamed of his erection. “Not bad,” he told me, running a hand over his stomach, smearing the blood there as he sighed.
Stella glanced at Perry’s body, and then to Lincoln, lastly looking at me. “What are we going to do?” she asked, sounding unafraid. Just curious. Curious as to how we were going to get through this, how we would move on from a double homicide.
“We’ll figure it out later,” Lincoln said, grabbing her, pulling her against him. Though he was quite a bit taller than her, he managed to bend his neck enough to kiss her, hungry and eager in spite of the two bodies around them. In fact, they both stood in Perry’s blood.
I didn’t want to watch them together, but I found myself enraptured in the sight of her covered in blood. The red on his body smeared on her clothes, on her skin, but she didn’t care. God, Stella looked fucking amazing, no matter what color she wore.
This wasn’t my night. I wasn’t the one about to leave town for an indefinite amount of time, but I found myself rooted in place, watching Stella and Lincoln’s greedy hands roam each other’s bodies. My own dick throbbed, aching with a need to join them—which was ridiculous. I wasn’t one of them. I took Stella on my own, every single time, and I sure as shit didn’t want to watch anyone else fuck her.
But…maybe it was the corpses in the room, the smell of blood in the air, or maybe it was something else unnamed, I didn’t go to leave. As Lincoln tore the clothes off Stella’s body, I worked to undo my shirt, dropping it on the floor.
Sick Twisted Minds (Cruel Black Hearts Book 3) Page 16