God of Malice: A Dark College Romance

6. Killian

Ilearned early on that I don’t fit in the normalized, stagnant, preached society.

I was born to reign over it.

No questions asked.

Control isn’t only a need or a fleeting desire. It’s a necessity that’s as pressing as breathing air.

Deep inside me lurks a serial killer with fucked-up fetishes and constant demands to satiate its desires. Sometimes, the urge is dull enough to ignore, but other times, it gets to be so much that red becomes the only color I see.

However, I’m not low on impulse control like some other idiots. And I’m certainly not allowing a mere compulsion, obsession, or fixation to rob my control.

Which is why it’s imperative to keep that serial killer entertained, quenched, and absolutely sedated.

If my true nature were to be revealed to the world, the situation would get complicated and tears would look ugly on Mom’s face. She thinks I’m reformed and it’s going to stay that way until her death.

Or mine.

My father is much sharper and, therefore, harder to convince of my socializing habits, but he’ll eventually come around.

Either that or he’ll willingly choose to hurt my mom, which is something he’d rather die before doing.

It’s convenient to have parents who love each other to the point of madness. That way, they can focus on each other and their dream family instead of my fucked-up tendencies.

Asher and Reina Carson are New York’s untouchable socialites. Dad is the managing partner of Grandfather’s mega-huge law firm and uses his influence to save old geezers from legal shit. Mom, however, has chosen an entirely different path and is the founder of countless charitable organizations. A true immortal social butterfly and Mother Teresa”s clone at her finest.

There’s also their golden child—Gareth. The neurotypical Gareth. The one who’s following in both our parents’ footsteps Gareth. The exemplary law student and charity volunteer Gareth.

He’s definitely the child they bargained for when they lit up incense during their procreation sessions. Not only is he built similarly to them, but his existence also gives them the satisfaction of being parents.

It’s definitely not me, and the reason is fairly simple.

Once upon a time, I was plagued by the urge to see underneath animals’ skin. Humans, too, but I only had access to animals. I contemplated scissoring up our fat cat, Snow, but Mom was crying when he got sick, so I left him alone.

Once I could cut open a few mice I caught in a dumpster, I came home running and brought them to my mother, happy that I could finally see what their red eyes hid.

She nearly fainted.

In my seven-year-old mind, I didn’t exactly understand her reaction.

She should’ve been proud of me. She was proud when the absolutely lazy Snow brought her some insects.

“Is it because I spilled blood all over the house? Don’t worry, Mom. The maid will clean it,” is what child me said ever so naturally as she cried in Dad’s embrace.

I’ll never forget the way they looked at me back then—Mom, with horror. Dad, with a furrowed brow, pursed lips, and…I think, pain.

At that moment, it felt as if they were mourning the death of their second born.

After that incident, and into my teens, I went through all sorts of tests and psychologists and yada fucking yada.

They slapped a label on me—severe form of antisocial personality disorder, ‘differences’ in the amygdala and other neurological areas, forms of narcissism, Machiavellianism, and fuck knows what—then sent me home with treatment methods.

Thank fuck I overcame that shackled version and adapted to their ‘treatment,’ to social expectations, and eventually became the me from the present.

Absolutely collected, definitely socially accepted—worshiped, even—and I no longer make my mother cry.

In fact, I talked to her earlier on the phone. She said she loves me, I said I love her more, and I’m sure she hung up with a bright smile on her face.

If you give people what they want, they like you, adore you, even.

All you have to do is conform to standards while slightly rising above normal, and repress your true nature.

At least, in daylight.

Night time, however, is a gray area.

I roam my gaze over the mansion’s first floor, filtering through the college students’ drunk skinny-dipping, cocaine inhaling, and vain fucking lives. Their jumping to the loud music is no different than a crooked version of monkeys on crack.

I’ve been at this party for a whole ten minutes and I still haven’t spotted anything that’s worthy of my attention.

And it’s being held in my fucking mansion.

Well, I share it with my brother, cousin, and Jeremy, and it’s all due to our leadership status in Heathens—and the amount of money our fathers pump into this college’s veins.

In fact, we own it. Every single part and person in it.

The property might be vast and with enough rooms to start a brothel, but it feels so small sometimes.

The whole world is.

A body clashes into mine from behind and a tattooed arm, full of skulls and ravens, snakes around my shoulder as I’m assaulted by the stench of alcohol and weed.

Nikolai.

“Yo, Killer!”

I grab my cousin’s arm and throw it off without masking my reaction to the blasphemous act of touching me.

He slides beside me, leaning on the wall that’s near the bar but hidden enough for me to pass under people’s radars.

“Hey, motherfucker.” He taps his jeans and produces a joint, then rubs it against his lips before he shoves it in his mouth and lights it. “What’s with acting disgusted?”

“Why? Are you disgusting?”

“On most days. Not today.” He grabs me by the shoulder again and I’m ready to break his fucking arm.

The black dots appear in my mind’s eye, heightening, pulsing, fucking multiplying into tinier, more miniscule ticks.

I might get off on touch, but only on my terms and when I’m the one who controls every aspect of it.

And this asshole is digging his own grave.

I wonder if Aunt Rai will cry too hard if she loses her son in a mysterious disappearance incident.

The tricky thing is that she’s identical twins with my mother, and if she cries, Mom will definitely cry harder. At least Aunt Rai is part of the Russian mafia. Mom is a believer of everything sunshine and could—would—be hit harder by her nephew’s disappearance into nowhereland.

All in all, the whole ordeal isn’t worth letting my impulse loose.

Repress.

Repress.

Nikolai shakes my shoulder with the hand that’ll be in a cast if the motherfucker doesn’t read the atmosphere.

He’s about my age and has long dark hair that falls to his neck if it’s loose but is now held in a small ponytail. The whole look is finished with pierced ears—and dick—because he thought he suffered from trypophobia, and the genius figured the best way to get rid of that was to drill holes in his body.

Turns out, he doesn’t actually have it, and it was a phase. Like the tattoos, the hair, the style.

Sometimes, he goes all grunge, denim with jeans. Other times, he dresses in weird fashionable shit that gets him all the attention and more.

Mostly, he roams around half-naked—like tonight—allegedly allergic to shirts. His chest is a map of tattoos that could be spotted from Mars and frowned upon by aliens.

Still, his parents are leaders in the Russian mafia and he comes from a long legacy of the Bratva leaders. He’ll also assume a position there one day. So college is just a learning phase so that he knows the ropes of the business.

In fact, most students at The King’s U are associated with the mafia one way or another and our professors are close with the big guys.

“What’s the plan for tonight, Satan’s heir?” Nikolai blows smoke in the direction of a girl passing by and she gives a flirty look. “What will we do for the initiation?”

“Ask Jeremy.” I tilt my head in his direction. He’s lounging on a sofa, two girls fighting for his attention like vapid animals.

He doesn’t push them away, but he’s not focused on them either. He tilts his head on his closed fist, listening to Gareth speak about fuck knows what.

Probably something boring.

But Jeremy doesn’t appear bored—I’ll give him that. And that says something, considering he finds life more dull than I do.

“Let’s go!” Nikolai drags me to them, and this time, I wrench myself from his grip so hard, he nearly crashes to the ground.

My cousin doesn’t seem to care about that as he dives in between the two girls and they shriek with delight. Seeming to have realized Jeremy won’t be paying them any attention for the next century, they switch to Nikolai’s lap.

I stalk behind Gareth and lean over to whisper in his ear, “Hi, big bro. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re avoiding me.”

He stiffens, but his expression doesn’t change.

I guess living with me for nineteen years has taught him a thing or two. But I’m sure the two or so years he lived before I came along were probably the happiest of his entire life.

We might be siblings, but we couldn’t look any more different. He has lighter hair like our mom and his eyes are a carbon copy of Dad’s green ones.

Where I’m muscular, he’s leaner, built like your next door neighbor or the college professor girls—and boys—can’t stop simping for.

The good boy Gareth.

The golden member and the future of the Carson family Gareth.

Pathetic, neurotypical Gareth.

“You’d have to be important for me to go out of my way and try to avoid you,” he says low enough for me to hear, then turns to Jeremy. “As I was saying, if they start talking, you’ll be the first one to be roped into this.”

“Have you enjoyed your car’s new headlights enough?” I change the subject, then whisper, “Because they might disappear. With the whole car. While you sleep.”

“Cameras are your worst enemy, Kill,” he tells me with a masked smile.

“Maybe they can…” I make a ‘whoosh’ sound. “Vanish, too.”

“The files that are instantly uploaded to my cloud, that could accidentally find their way to Mom’s inbox, will not.”

“Oh no, Kill stole my toy, Mom,” I say, then drop the mocking tone. “What are you? Six years old?”

“Make it three years old, because those files might accidentally drop in Dad’s and Grandpa’s inboxes, too.”

“And you have it in your good little heart to shatter the image they formed about their exemplary Killian? You don’t want to lose sleep over it, do you? It’ll hurt at night.” I tap the side of his temple. “Over here. And we don’t want you to start beating yourself up over their mental state, now, do we?”

“Vandalize my car and we’ll see how far this will go.”

“Tell you what, big bro. How about I keep the vandalizing suggestion to myself for the time being? Now that I think about it, there are more critical parts than mere headlights that can be tampered with.”

He finally glares at me, his lips pursing, and I grin, slapping him on the shoulder. “Just kidding.” Then I whisper, “Or not. Don’t provoke me again.”

Jeremy—who’s been watching the whole exchange without a change in his demeanor—decides to pick up where Gareth left off with him. “No one will dare go against me, and if they do, they’ll be taken care of.”

“Did I hear the words taken care of?” Nikolai emerges from between one of the girl’s tits, licking his lips. “Who do we need to take care of? Didn’t I say I want to be in on all the fun?”

Gareth pours himself a glass of whiskey. “Two juniors who are spouting rumors about the first initiation from a few weeks ago. They’re even tattling to Serpents.”

“Oh?” Nikolai’s eyes gleam as he absentmindedly pinches the girl’s nipple over her camisole. “Let me in, Jer. I’ll put the fear of God in their souls.”

“What if they’re not scared?” I fetch a cigarette, lean against Gareth’s chair, and light it. “You can’t punish or threaten someone who’s not familiar with the concept of fear.”

Jeremy raises a brow, swirling the contents of his drink as he watches me. “What do you suggest?”

“Find their Achilles’ heel and exploit it. If they don’t have one, fabricate it and make them believe it’s real.” I blow a cloud of smoke over Gareth’s head. “I’m sure our fixer here will be able to gather enough intel to help you out. Unless he’s too frightened to get his precious hands dirty.”

“You little—” Gareth starts, but I cut him off.

“What? You don’t want to help Jeremy uphold the club’s power? I thought you were friends.”

“Enough, Kill.” Jeremy points his drink to his left. “Niko will take care of it.”

I tsk through a puff of smoke.

“Hell to the fucking yeah.” Nikolai rubs his nose. “Violence, baby.”

“You don’t have to resort to violence,” Gareth says with the tone of a pacifist moron.

“Usually, the threat of it is enough,” I finish for him.

“We’re doing this my way, motherfuckers.” Nikolai spanks a girl’s ass, making her yelp. “Get some front-row seats to watch and learn.”

Gareth tips his head in his direction. “Try not to provoke the Serpents while you’re at it.”

“Not possible.”

“They’re part of the Bratva, too. If blood spills, you and Jeremy will be held accountable by your parents.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Jeremy takes a sip of his drink. “Serpents might be part of the same organization, but their fathers are our parents’ rivals in the race for power. One day, they will take the reins, so they’re trying to squash us before we take over the empire.”

“Which is why they’re putting all their effort into these little provocations that are a camouflage for a bigger scheme.” I flop down beside Nikolai and take a pull on my cigarette.

“Exactly,” Jeremy agrees. “We can’t let our guard down.”

The girl who did a world tour from Jeremy’s to Nikolai’s lap inches toward me on all fours with the desperation of a cougar in heat.

Her eyes blaze and she’s probably drunk or high, or both, considering her extremely dilated pupils.

She lets her dark hair fall over her face, a real imitation of that horror movie where a girl comes out of a well. Even her movements match that ghost.

I grab her by the hair and drag her between my legs. She gasps, but then giggles, snorts, and releases all sorts of annoying noises that should be enough ammo to ban her from breathing.

My fingers dig into her skull, then her jaw. “Open.”

She does obediently, revealing a tongue piercing.

It’s not the same mouth that was so full with my cum that she spat it all over my designer shoes while glaring and shaking.

The shaking is important, because even though she was clearly terrified and completely out of her element, she still scowled at me.

Still spat my cum out as if it wasn’t worthy of being in her stomach.

For that reason alone, I’m tempted to fill all her holes with that cum.

And now, I’m hard.

Fuck. When did I start to have such little control over my libido?

The answer is obviously three days ago.

Three fucking days since my visit to the cliff where I thought I could find some answers.

I found something much better.

The answer behind the answer.

Glyndon King.

I throw the ghost girl away, stub the cigarette on her Gucci bag, and stand.

Jeremy stares up at me. “Aren’t you going to stay around and plan the last details of the next initiation?”

“You do it this time.”

“Killer, you fake strategist!” Nikolai points a finger at me, giving zero fucks about the girl who’s orgasming in his arms. “Didn’t you say no one can top you, because your plans are the best?”

“They are.”

“Then give us one.”

“Jeremy already knows all about it, and I’m not interested in repeating myself. Call me when the actual fun happens.”

“You’re really leaving, Satan’s heir? The fun is just starting.”

“Some of us actually study, Niko. Med student, remember?”

“Bullshit. You’re a genius.”

“Still need to put in some effort.” Not really, but it makes society feel better to know everyone is human and suffers just like them.

I slap Gareth on the shoulder. “Stay boring, big bro.”

He flips me off and I smile as I slip out of the main party and head downstairs. The basement is soundproofed, so all the music and fuckery eventually disappears as I lock the door behind me.

The red room comes into focus and I stand at the entrance, staring at the attempts at masterpieces I’ve tried over the years.

My first picture of those mice was taken with a Polaroid camera. I had to commemorate the moment of seeing into a living being’s insides.

My second was Gareth when he hit his knee, bled all over the garden, and tried so hard not to cry.

The third was Gareth being attacked by a dog. Ever since then, he’s never really gone near one again. If he rationalized the fact that the dog who bit him was sick and probably rabid, he wouldn’t have to be so wary of them anymore. But I learned early on that other people’s responses to threatening, dangerous situations are vastly different from mine.

Where I stay collected, they panic.

Where I search for a solution, they let fear overwhelm them.

Over the years, I’ve taken a lot of pictures. Some are gory. Others, not so much. But they usually highlight some form of suffering.

Some form of…human weakness.

At first, I took them to understand how their reactions to certain situations differ from mine. Then I enjoyed the knowledge that I hold a part of them no one has access to.

Not even them.

That’s why they’re masterpieces.

I’ve preserved them so well over the years, not allowing anyone to see this part of me.

They don’t even know I’ve chosen medicine just so I can continue my fixation with seeing inside a living being without killing them.

It’s more of a challenge this way, but I get to remain hiding in plain sight and even be called noble for…saving lives.

I walk to the latest addition to my collection and pull it from between all the others.

My fingers run over the contours of her soft features splashed with tears, snot, and cum. I can still feel my fingers between her lips instead of seeing them.

That is the first time I’ve had such a strong release without my permission. I usually go to great lengths and extreme fetishes to release a sliver of what this clueless girl achieved without even trying.

And that pisses me the fuck off.

She’s supposed to be a mere thread whose sole purpose was to provide answers, and had no business shooting for a higher position.

As unfortunate as it might sound, I might have to break her for it.

Because I meant it yesterday. I still haven’t figured out what exactly I’ll do with her.

What’s for sure is that I’m going to recreate this look on her face. Again and again.

And fucking again.

One taste isn’t enough, after all.

It started with an investigation into Devlin’s death, but maybe that’s not as important as I initially thought.