These Vicious Games (Seattle Undeground)

Chapter 13

Past

Nothing disgusts me more than Ma’am and the red dress she wore to use and abuse. But maybe that wasn’t entirely true. I hated the leather collar around my neck. All she had to do was pull, give a tug and I was at her mercy.

“Kneel, Atticus.” She purred and I fought the bile as I dropped to my knees before her. Her tan skin glimmering in the light as high heeled feet stood before me.

I hated this next part. The things I was made to do. The ma’ams whore. Her plaything. Her slave.

I knew one day I would destroy her. I just had to play the part, bide my time.

Present

I couldn’t be bothered. Not with the hunt. The stupid guilt that crawled up and embedded itself in my chest. Rooting and curving like claws beneath my skin. I didn’t do feelings. And having them now was unacceptable as well as annoying.

Not even taking the life of the child predator had made me atone for losing my cool and hurting my little bird. Her tears kept me awake. The streaks of blood from my office to her room had my teeth clenching so fucking hard I needed to make an appointment with my dentist to get my molars checked.

I set down the gun, running my hands through my hair. Only two this month. Not my finest gathering of criminals to hunt, but I’ve been preoccupied. Not to mention my staff refused to get Constance up this morning to be hunted. I hadn’t asked them to get her ready but Francis sneered at me bright and early to let me know it wasn’t fucking happening. The old sap has developed feelings for the tiny prisoner.

Not that I can blame him. Even I am not immune to her charm. Her rose and white tea scent, her tiny, curved nose, and delicate cheekbones.

Unlike Francis. Mine is a physical reaction. A need to break her down to the most basic of human forms. Hunt her and take what I want. I’ve never gotten to play with my fucks. Not that she is. Yet. But the idea of her sandy blonde hair flying behind her as she runs through the forest in a white dress makes my dick stand to attention.

I rise from my crouched position, walking over to my kill and squatting down to inspect them. I decided to take the larynx of both bodies. Hollowing them out so I can add the thorny black and white roses to them. Like a vase.

Setting the bloody larynx and thorny roses down, I grab a foot of each body, dragging them through the forest, and letting my boots and pants get soaked by the ocean water as I drag them in behind me. Going far enough out so they float away from my land. Becoming one with the ocean and food for the fish. The only thing they’ve ever given back to the world.

I stomp through the mud in my boots, tossing my clothes off in the outdoor shower, cleaning the blood and dirt from my body. Scrubbing my skin raw to make sure there is no trace, no shred of their DNA or existence left.

I grab the towel, drying off and pulling on the sweats and shirt I leave in a bin by the shower since she moved in. I didn’t care before.

Why do I care now?

I don’t ponder the question as I snatch up the flowers inside the very fucked up vase. But she should have a part of my kill. I wouldn’t want anyone but her to have the pieces. Going inside, I pause when I hear the weeping song coming from the piano room. My bare feet smack against the tile, my hands gripping the larynx tighter.

I pause at the entrance, watching her ooze sex appeal as she plays the piano. Fuck, the way I want to press her into the keys, see what song our bodies can create together. But then my eyes catch on her thickly wrapped feet. The bandages are thick and padded, resting in the softest slippers.

I must make a noise because she stops abruptly. Her head tilting over her shoulder to look at me. And she smiles. As if I wasn’t the one to fuck up her delicate feet. She shouldn’t be smiling at me. I don’t deserve it.

She turns, the simple lace up, pink dress swishing around her waist. “Hi.”

My eyes narrow slightly. “Hi. Come.” I motion her to follow me.

She winces slightly, but recovers as she walks to me, slowly. My jaw clenches, chest tight as she fights the pain she feels. “Are those mine?” She asks, shyly. Her cheeks pinking as I look down to where she points.

Right, the stupid fucking flowers.

“Yeah.” I hold them out, eternally glowing when she accepts them.

“They’re lovely. Odd choice of vases.” She examines them.

“They’re the larynx of my kills from the hunt today.”

“Oh.” But she doesn’t let them go, only holding them closer to her chest. “Thank you.”

And they say romance is dead.

Her arm slips through mine and I almost stiffen at the touch. No one has willingly touched me in so long. The fuck is wrong with her? I’ve shown her so much darkness and she still smiles at me, touches me.

She’s scrambling my mind.

I lead her to a locked double door. Taking out the skeleton key, I turn it. The doors open, revealing a dark library. Carved, high arches. Thousands of books in rows, making little secluded areas. The middle free of everything, making it feel more of a passageway. Passionate sculptures on each end of the rows all in compromising positions. The library breaks off into another room, this one round with a fireplace and sliding ladder. Comfortable furniture in silks and furs. And in the middle, an ivory piano with carved black roses. “As long as you breathe, this is yours.” I whisper.

I feel soft lips on my cheek, her tiny panting breaths on my neck. “Thank you.”

“Little Bird,” I warn. “Get your lips away from me if you don’t want to be fucked on top of your prestine piano.”

She hesitates for a moment, her scent far to close, her body heat… too fucking close.

She takes her flowers, placing them on her piano and walks towards the collection of books sitting by the fireplace. Ones I’ve been reading lately. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allen Poe. The 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene. But then she pauses at the worn paperback, one I’ve handled since ninth grade. The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connell.

My personal favorite.

She looks up to me, a smile twisting her face. “I remember this book. Before it was banned, we had to read it in ninth grade. It’s a little cynical but I can see it now.”

“See what?” I ask, far too curious for my own good.

“You.”