New York, New York

Micaden, 24 years old

Adjusting my hoodie firmer on my head, I walk through the empty streets of New York and wince at the disgusting smells filling the night air. My phone shows me I have three minutes to go before my final destination, and my fist tightens around it.

Fox created the plan with a guard who owed him big for something, and they helped me escape. Cruz initiated a fight with me in prison and punched me so hard I hit my head on the floor. It bled a lot. The guard took me to the doctor, but on the way, he injected me with a special medication that slowed my heartbeat. The doctor didn’t check for much, declared me dead, and they took me to the morgue. There, a man got paid to allow me to leave once I woke up.

Fox said for the record, I should be dead, so no one would go looking for me. I don’t understand why he helped me this much, but questioning him was useless anyway.

They gave me a hundred-dollar bill and a cell phone. I followed the instructions to the letter, but in the end, something went wrong.

And although I wanted to stay and face the consequences, the guard didn’t allow that and told me Fox wanted me out. So with a heavy heart, I ran away, and pretty much everyone thought I was dead.

Dizziness overtakes me, and I rest my shoulder on the nearby wall between the buildings, breathing heavily and touching my wounded shoulder. I think it’s dislocated. I can’t move it without pain, and it hurts like a motherfucker.

After I got on the train, I discovered people in big towns rarely gave a fuck about you, and most were too busy with their noses glued to their phones to pay any attention to strangers around them. In my hometown, you couldn’t go to the grocery store without people knowing all about your shopping list.

The cabbie I used just ten minutes ago told me he wouldn’t drive farther than where he pulled over, because the neighborhood is suspicious as fuck. He literary stopped the car and told me to get out.

A homeless man passes by, rolling his cart with some old crap, and salutes me. “This place is mine,” he informs me, digging his finger in my shoulder. “You can stay the night near the fire since it’s cold as a witch’s tit.” Several feet away, I see smoke rising from a steel trashcan, and a few people gathered around it. Sure as fuck, this January air requires additional heat. “But then you get out,” he finishes sternly, and I nod.

He leaves, and that’s the moment my stomach growls and I wince. I haven’t had food in the last forty-eight hours. I hope Fox was right about his friend, and he’ll help me out.

Otherwise, I’ll have to search for my own spot between buildings in this fucking town.

Willing all my strength into my fist, with a small groan, I resume my walk and glance again at the phone that tells me it’s now one minute away.

I look around, but nothing really reminds me of an expensive club that is run by a powerful businessman. Only some lame-ass one-level building with the window shutters closed, steel bars, and graffiti-painted walls.

The app beams with a happy person telling me I’ve reached my destination. “Fuck. The old man must have been mistaken.” But the minute this thought enters my mind, the door to the building opens and a tall bouncer emerges from it, shouting into a phone. “Lachlan will kill me…”

Lachlan.

You need Lachlan Scott. Tell him Fox Daniels sent you. Remember, Brochan. Lachlan Scott.

The bouncer dude darts to the other end of the street, still in a heated argument with whoever is on the other end of the line.

I jump inside, hopping down the stairs quickly and then walking through three doors. Finally, I end up in a huge room, which has club lights all over the place, a bar in the far corner, various round tables, and a stage for live music. It also has pool tables and a huge dance floor, although the place seems dead. In the back, I can see different doors from where strange sounds are coming, like people groaning and moaning, and the energy has a very weird vibe to it.

Do they run a sex club?

I have only a second to dwell on it though when the bouncer comes back, shouting, “Who the fuck are you?” He darts toward me, grabs my shoulder, and his fist slams into my face. Instantly, pain appears in my nose and blood spills, but I don’t pay attention to that. Instead, survival mode that I got familiar with in prison takes over, and I ignore all my body’s limitations, driving on an adrenaline high.

He swings his arm again and I dip, avoiding it, and then hit him in the stomach. He groans, bending in two. I punch his back, kicking his knees so he collapses on them.

He tries to get up, but I don’t let him, kicking him in the shin this time, and his cry fills the space as his nose crunches under my fist.

For such a beefy guy, he isn’t strong enough if I can take him easily in my current condition. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks again, spitting blood on the floor, and I breathe heavily as my body catches up, the pain assaulting me all at once.

Fuck, so much for getting help from Fox’s friend.

I hear applause from behind me, and I turn around, my eyes widening at the picture presented to me.

Four men watch me with interest, each one of them striking in his own way.

The one on the left has blue hair and silver eyes that scan me from head to toe while he flips a lighter through his fingers, flashing a bit of fire every now and then, the sound exceptionally loud in the otherwise silent room. The two on the right have dark hair, but that’s about all the similarities they share, although both of them have blank stares. By the looks of them, I wouldn’t want to meet them in a dark alley.

And finally the man who clapped, he has the most dangerous energy around him as he steps closer, giving me a good view of him. He wears a perfectly tailored, three-piece suit that emphasizes his status, which I assume is the boss. His blond hair and blue eyes give him an even more sinister appearance, if that’s possible, and finally I notice a metal cane he holds under his armpit. It reminds me of the bats the guards used on me, and I swallow back the bitter taste in my mouth.

“Impressive, very impressive,” he muses and comes toward the guy still groaning on the floor, whose sounds become less audible. I think he even stops breathing when the blond dude shifts even closer. “Who are you?” His voice echoes off the walls, and although he doesn’t raise his voice, there’s such authority lacing it you know you have to answer or he’ll kill you.

“My name is Brochan.”

“And you are in my club because?”

“I need to find someone.”

His brows rise, and he’s about to say something, when the guy groans again. The blond rolls his eyes and flicks his cane, and instead of a round edge, a sharp knife appears. He kicks the guy in the gut, who falls on his back, and quickly the blond stabs him right in the fucking heart.

“The fuck?” I mutter, stepping back, because it’s clear as day the assholes here don’t operate a sex club. A man who can kill so easily without remorse must do it often.

“Can’t have idiots running my place.” He glances at me. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Whatever,” I reply, mentally calculating if I can take on any of the guys enough to get the fuck out of here. But even as the stupid thought enters my mind, I know it’s useless.

There’s no running away from these lethal men who all watch me like hawks, predators ready to strike. And all the real-life training I got in prison won’t compare to what they’re capable of, if the louder cries from different rooms are any indication.

“Who do you need to find?”

He flicks the cane’s knife back, then stills when I say, “Lachlan Scott. I need to talk to him.”

“You don’t say,” he murmurs, and then opens his arms wide open. “He is right in front of you. So what do you want, Brochan?”

What? This fucking guy is him? Maybe Fox didn’t really like me after all and sent me here to die.

My silence doesn’t sit well with the guy.

“I’m starting to get bored,” he informs me, rubbing his cane against his cheek. “So either tell me, or I can kill you. The choice is really easy.”

“Seriously, Lachlan,” the dark-haired guy says, walking to the bar and pouring himself a drink. Yeah, sure, why not drink in such a situation, right?

I feel like I’ve stepped into a different dimension all together. I expected some old guy who had enough money and owed a debt to Fox. Instead, this is some shady-ass place, they kill with no remorse, and all these men look insane.

“Fox Daniels sent me. He told me to find you and collect the debt.”

My words change everything in the room as instantly everyone straightens, and I barely have time to blink before a strong hand wraps around my throat, pushing me harshly to the wall. I try to breathe, but it’s impossible in his hold.

“What did you say?” the blue-haired guy seethes in my face. How did he even get to my side so quickly?

“Arson, let him go. He can’t answer if you kill him,” Lachlan orders, and after a beat, he listens, and I breathe in air, coughing. “How do you know Fox Daniels?”

“We met in prison. He saved my life,” I rasp through my dry throat, and the dark-haired guy gives me water.

“Sociopath, do we really have time for that now?”

What kind of name is that? And does this imply he’s some psycho, and everyone is okay with that?

“Prison,” Arson repeats, and then tightens his fucking hand again to loud, collective groans. “Why did he send you?”

But this time, I’m ready, so I punch him in his gall bladder, a trick Fox taught me. It doesn’t take a hard punch, but it’ll send juices right into the stomach and up the throat, burning it.

Arson curses, letting me go, and I snap. “Let me talk before you decide to kill me. I have no idea. I was told to run away.”

They all stay silent after that, while I collect my thoughts. Fox is for sure someone important to them, but why did he mention only Lachlan’s name? By Arson’s weird reaction, I’d think it was his relative or something!

“Fox saved me from my nightmare too,” he answers my unspoken question, and then retreats back along with the other guys, leaving me alone with Lachlan.

I don’t move, still pressed to the wall, and then he digs his cane in my wounded shoulder, sending so much agony through my entire system I cry out in pain.

“Do you want revenge?”

“What?”

“Fox only helps those who, to him, are lost souls. Do you want to inflict revenge on people?”

Instant fury washes over me, reminding me of all the people who destroyed my life.

And her. She who deserves to know what it’s like to live on the edge of desperation.

“Yes.”

“Then welcome to my world, Brochan. You’re going to learn wonders here.”

And I do.

After all, I’m taught by one of the most notorious serial killers in the country.

Island, United States

August 2019

Emerald

“You look like hell,” I say to my reflection as I study myself in the mirror in the cabin’s bathroom, wincing at every new bruise and the mascara smeared all over me. Not to mention the lipstick that’s ended up on my forehead. Also the scratches, all of them red and stinging, that I gave to myself earlier with my now broken nails.

I woke up several minutes ago in the warm bed, noticing the atmosphere in the room had changed drastically. The blinds had been opened, which allowed me to see the bright sky, and my hands twitched to recreate the image on canvas, even in this situation.

All the mess from earlier was gone, and for a moment, I thought I had a bad dream and none of it had happened.

The memories returned pretty quickly though, so I rushed to the bathroom, locking it firmly behind me as if that would help against Micaden’s madness.

Exhaling heavily, I turn on the water then wash my face with the help of nearby pads and remove all traces of makeup. Next is my hair. I make a tight bun on top of my head, and that’s when I notice the leather bag lying on the floor. Frowning, I open it up. Relief instantly slams into me when I find my clothes.

The idea of strolling through the boat, searching for a stupid phone and facing Micaden wearing the half-torn dress, unsettled me. But this way, having my own clothes gives me a sense of security that will protect me from him, or at least that’s what I like to believe.

I put on my shorts and shirt, along with sneakers, because flip-flops are not secure enough. Taking a deep breath, I exit the bathroom and scream as I bump into Micaden, who raises his brow at me.

Stepping back, I place my hand on my chest, and say, “You scared me.” But then I realize this is exactly the best way to start this conversion, so I straighten up and lift my chin. “But that’s the plan, right? So congrats,” I add coldly, trying to squeeze myself between him and the doorjamb so I can go past him, but he doesn’t let me.

He moves to the side, blocking my exit, and when I move to the right, he does the same. “A little sleep’s made you brave,” he says, tapping on my nose before I lean back from his touch.

“It gave me a reprieve from you. Bravery is always here.” I point to my heart, but at the same time, I can’t believe we’re having such a stupid conversation after everything that transpired between us earlier.

“I never would’ve guessed,” he muses, and I step closer, ready to give him a piece of my mind, because what do I have to lose really? Acting agreeable won’t work anyway, and I’m not succumbing to his psychological tactics, which pushes all the blame onto my shoulders. I heard that abusers do that: blame victims for their bad deeds, claiming they deserved it.

Yeah, no.

But then a loud grumbling sounds between us, and my cheeks heat up as mortification zaps through me. I groan inwardly, because way to go… facing a psycho when my stomach lets him know I’m starved.

It’s an easy way to torture me too. What if he withholds food and then makes me do tasks to earn it? Images, one worse than the last, flash in my mind, but they stop the minute his amused chuckle registers. “You should see your face, brave heart.” He leans closer, whispering, “Don’t worry, starvation is not my method. Although there’s an appeal to it.” I can do nothing but stand there silently while he dishes his sarcasm at me, but then he orders, “Let’s go eat.” And he spins around, heading upstairs while I follow him.

Because he’s right.

I need to eat, and I don’t care if it makes me weak. I’ll be no use to myself dehydrated, so I’ll gather as much strength as possible. He can stuff his amusement down his throat and choke on it for all I care.

We get up to the deck and my eyes widen at the sight that greets me.

The round table from last night that was knocked over in my haste to run away is standing firmly again with fruits, cereal, and toast placed on it. Tea and coffee steam in different cups, and the cutlery is put neatly next to the plates.

There are even flowers in the vase right in the freaking middle. If one didn’t know what happened last night, they’d think my lover prepared a morning breakfast for me.

“Sit down, Em.” Although his voice is soft and welcoming, I don’t miss the steel lacing it, and I do as he says.

I throw the napkin over my lap while he does the same, and I comment, “I’m surprised I’m allowed to hold a knife.” I pick it up, while catching his stare, but he shrugs, munching on toast.

“You can’t do much with it, unless you press it really hard here.” He points at his artery under his ear and then does a slicing motion. “And then did this, then yeah, you’d kill me. Blood would go all over the place,” he says, taking another greedy bite while washing it down with his coffee.

However, his words have a different effect on me, because my stomach flips, and I cover my mouth with my hand, feeling nauseous just at the idea of what he described. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m not the one who brought it up. Eat.” Swallowing past the bile in my throat, I dip the knife in the butter and spread it on the toast, quickly stuffing it into my mouth and eating it without really tasting it. It’s about sustenance, after all, and not enjoyment.

We continue the rest of breakfast in silence while seagulls caw loudly above us as they fly around, and one of them even ends up sitting on the edge of the boat. I want to give it some bread, but Micaden speaks up, ending the prolonged silence. “You feed one, everyone else will show up. Let it be.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, pushing away the plate and staring at him. Although my body is grateful for the chance to have food, all this makes no sense to me. He shouldn’t be acting nice or civil, and that’s what his behavior can be called in a way.

“What happened earlier?”

His question comes so unexpectedly I blink and then shift uncomfortably on the seat.

“You tried to rape me.”

He probably doesn’t miss the loathing in my words, but he brushes it away. “Not that. After. When you were sitting on the floor.”

I gulp a breath and freeze, because for a moment the feeling returns, a sinking coldness in me bringing back the hopelessness that drives people insane. “I remembered,” I simply say, and he raises a brow at me to indicate I have to elaborate, even though I don’t understand why.

Doesn’t he know it anyway, since he was the one to inflict all those sorrows on me? “I know why I wrote the statement. My book… all those things never really happened with us, did they?” He frowns, but I continue before he can reply. “You hurt me, keeping me prisoner. Bringing me pain. I wanted to escape all the pain. And probably in creating a story so different from reality, I hid from it. But you didn’t rest and brought it back,” I say, holding back tears. I’ve never cried so much in my life. Why do tears come now with no intention of stopping?

“Punishment.”

“What?” I’m confused as hell with him constantly changing the subject of our conversation.

“I brought you here for punishment.”

Panic swirls in me and I get up, wanting to run back to the room, but he’s quicker than me and grabs my hands, dragging me to the edge of the boat while I do my best to drag my feet and not follow. “What are you doing? Let go of me, you idiot!”

“Emerald, your rape—or rather… re-enactment of your statement—was never my ultimate goal.” The tone in which he utters those words is far scarier than the words themselves. “It’s the death.”

“My death?” I rasp, searching for anything to help me battle him, but he shakes his head.

“Death of the madness.”

And before I can plead my case or beg, he pushes me forward. Something wraps around me and screams tear from my throat as I plunge into the water with a loud splash.

Micaden

The best kind of torture… is the one you don’t expect.