Unhinged (Deranged and Obsessed #1)

Chapter 1

1

ROMAN

M y cock was hard, and it was because I was about to feed my dark beast yet another life.

A therapist might say I got sexual gratification from stalking and hunting. And I supposed I did to an extent. I was sure there were plenty of psychological reasons why I acted the way I did, why my body always reacted in this way when I was murdering someone.

But I didn’t care about the why or how of what I did. I just cared about how the need and urges grew with each passing day and that, until I acted on them and fed my monster, it would gradually consume me .

Heavy breathing. Rush of adrenaline. Stiff cock. Sweat beading my brow.

I had all those symptoms right now from my illness as I kept to the shadows and stalked the man I’d be killing tonight.

I curled my hands into tight fists then relaxed them. I did this repeatedly as I moved closer to him, a piss-drunk motherfucker who I’d been watching for weeks now.

My mind whirled with thoughts of why I was doing this… again. It was the psychologists and psychiatrists I’d been forced to see as a child to blame for me even thinking about anything but bloodlust at this moment.

Make no mistake—I had no fucking conscience.

I was made to see the professionals after being caught trying to cut off hands of one of the older boys in my foster home. I’d been put through the ringer, each of them trying to find out why an innocent six-year-old would do such a heinous act.

I never told them I caught the fucker trying to hurt the foster family’s beloved pets.

With my past a mystery, seeing as they found me—three years old at the time—wandering the streets at night, covered in blood, and wearing nothing but some dirty shorts, I was a puzzle to them .

I’d been told I must have dealt with severe physical, emotional, or sexual abuse during my childhood. But with a past as unknown as mine, they were only able to speculate.

My deep psychological scars no doubt led to my lack of empathy and difficulty forming healthy relationships.

My childhood trauma—because surely being found covered in blood and wandering at night had to mean trauma was involved—could manifest in violent tendencies to regain control or cope with unresolved pain.

As a teenager, they said I exhibited traits of psychopathy, that I viewed others as objects to manipulate or harm without emotional consequences.

They were right, but I knew how to play the game. I knew how to mimic so that I was deemed fit to be in society and not as a threat to myself or anyone else.

Pulling me back to the present, the man staggered, drunker than shit, and probably unaware he was being stalked as prey tonight.

He reached out and braced a hand on the brick building, the alleyway he wandered and stumbled down smelling of garbage .

Someone threw a bottle in the distance, and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the alley.

“Who’s there?” he slurred and spun, losing his balance and sagging against the brick wall.

I said nothing, just stalked closer until I was a few feet from where he stood. His head lowered, his body involuntarily swayed from how drunk he was.

I was still so fucking hard, but my arousal had nothing to do with this man. I was aroused because I was about to take a life, and that's what really got me off.

The man had no idea I’d been watching him. For weeks now, I followed and studied him. I learned every disgusting habit, every filthy secret he thought no one knew, and the ones he didn’t care if everyone knew.

This fucker wasn’t good at hiding anything—not from a person like me. No, men like him were sloppy and careless. They thought the world owed them something, that they could take whatever they wanted.

And this one...he was going to pay for it all tonight.

He played the part of a respectable and successful motherfucker, a face you’d pass on the street without a second thought or worry that he’d double cross you. But behind closed doors, he let his mask slip.

The abuse of his wife, the fear he inflicted on the people around him… it was something he had to pay for. It was something I had to give him to sate my dark beast.

Brandon Mackle wasn’t just violent; he was cruel. His wife had to hide her bruises, and his daughter flinched at the very sight of him. And this asshole got off on it—making the women in his life break one bit at a time.

And he thought no one would stop him.

But I would. Right now.

I wasn’t a savior. I was the devil, and I was here to make the world a shittier place for people like him.

Truth was… I didn’t care about his wife or daughter. Not really. I wasn’t here to protect them. I picked Brandon simply because he did shitty things to innocent people, so my actions, like what I was about to do, might be justifiable in others’ eyes if I was ever caught. Not because I needed to justify it to myself to kill a fucker.

But men like Brandon deserved to be reminded that the world was full of monsters worse than them.

And I was one of those monsters.

Hurting him wasn’t just something I wanted to do—it was something that I had to do. It was a necessity for my survival because the compulsion and sick and twisted desire was a never-ending cycle within me.

Tonight, Brandon would feel truly powerless.

I couldn’t wait to look into his eyes and watch as he realized he was about to die, my cock hard and leaking precum while watching the life fade from them.

“Hello, Brandon.”

Although my voice was low and deep, he heard me, felt my breath on his nape, and spun around, nearly falling as he hurried backward. He reached into his jacket, and I knew he carried a small knife with him. But no weapon would save him, not from the likes of me.

I let him pull the weapon out, and as he pointed it at me, I could see in his expression that he was trying to place where he’d seen me, whether or not he knew me, and what the hell was going to happen.

I kept enough distance so his blade couldn’t touch me, but it wouldn’t matter if he cut me. The pain meant nothing to me when the result was his death.

I looked at his hand that was wrapped tightly around the handle, knowing he probably did the same thing to his wife’s wrists or neck as he hurt her.

My dark beast rose close to the surface, clawing to get out, my deranged and twisted need to kill intensifying.

I was sure—for just a moment—he thought he might get out of this. His fight-or-flight instincts were working overtime. But behind that facade, as I looked deep into his eyes, I could see he knew the truth. His eyes were wide and frantic as he gripped the knife like it could save him.

It was almost funny, really. I tilted my head, a smirk tugging at my lips. “You plan on cutting me with that, Brandon?” I asked, my voice laced with a casual indifference.

I stepped forward, watching his panic spike. That amused me. In one fluid motion, I caught his wrist and twisted hard enough that he yelped and dropped the weapon. The blade hit the ground with a small clang against the pavement, and I stooped just long enough to pick it up.

His gasp of fear was satisfying when I pulled him close with the hand still wrapped around his wrist, our faces barely an inch apart. “I’ve been anticipating this for weeks,” I whispered, knowing I no-doubt looked and sounded like the psycho I was .

In a split second, my grip switched from his wrist to his throat, and I shoved him against the brick building, feeling the impact reverberate through him. He struggled in my hold, but I was stronger. I had his knife in my hand and wrapped my fingers tighter around his throat, leaving my grip barely loose enough so he could swallow, which I felt against my palm.

Not even the stench of the garbage a few feet away could mask the scent of his fear.

I leaned my full weight into his body and squeezed my hand even tighter around his neck until I cut off his airflow. His survival instinct kicked in, and he clawed at my hand, desperate to get away.

For long seconds, I just stared into his face, seeing blood vessels break in the whites of his eyes, watching as his face turned red then purple. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to breathe.

All while my cock throbbed.

I was so fucking hard.

Watching the life fade from another human and me being the one who took it gave me the greatest fucking high.

I knew he felt the evil intent around me because his fear turned into something else. His eyes grew impossibly wider, and he shook his head. I leaned in and made sure he felt my erection. He struggled harder, maybe thinking I was really a sick motherfucker and would fuck him before I killed him… or after.

I was fucked up but not that much.

I squeezed his throat tighter until I knew with just a little more pressure I'd break his trachea. Brandon’s struggling was getting weaker, asphyxiation claiming him with its dark, unbreakable hold on him.

With his knife in my other hand, I lifted the blade and looked at it for a second, the muted streetlamp catching the metal and causing it to gleam.

“I’m going to cut you up, Brandon,” I said conversationally. “And as much as I’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks, I’m now unsure of how I want to make you hurt.”

My brutality and savagery couldn’t be matched, and killing him so quickly by merely choking him to death just wouldn’t do. That would never be enough to feed the beast, so I loosened my grip a tiny bit so I could make this last longer.

His gasps were weak but pained, his fear tangible in the air. I closed my eyes and just let my other senses take over.

I listened to him struggle to breathe .

The scent of his horror and fear poured off of him.

The feel of his pulse started to beat slower under my vise-like grip.

I opened my eyes and looked into his face, tears streaming down his cheeks, sweat coating his forehead. I couldn't wait any longer.

With precision, I brought the tip to his cheek and dragged it down, opening his skin. He couldn't cry out with my hand still around his throat, so all he did was whimper. I groaned as I pushed the blade in even deeper. The coppery scent of his blood filled my nose, and another groan left me.

This is who I am. This is what I need.

I kept dragging the blade down, and when I got to his neck, I let go of his throat and immediately sliced open his jugular. Spurts of blood sprayed out from the gaping wound, but I wasn’t done.

Taking hold of his hand, I started sawing at his wrist. His gurgled moan was music to my motherfucking ears, and he slapped at me with his free hand. But he was too weak, and I was too fucking strong for him to push me off.

I placed my other hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, although I’d love to hear him scream. It would’ve no doubt gotten me off .

I kept sawing until I got to the bone. He was so weak at this point that he didn’t struggle much anymore. The blood loss was substantial, pouring out of his neck and wrist. Spurts had covered my face and neck, but my clothing was black, dark enough to hide the evidence of my kill.

He was weeping, and I laughed, letting the pleasure coursed through me. This was what I needed. This violence, the fact that I inflicted pain and in the end… took a life.

I stepped back and stared at my handiwork as he sank to the ground. The knife wasn’t sharp enough to get through the bone, but I cut through skin and muscle and tendons, and that piece of him hung awkwardly to the side.

“That’s the hand you used to hit the women in your life, no?” I didn’t expect him to answer. I was just taunting him for my benefit.

He’d be dead in the next few breaths, and I got down on my haunches and brought my face close to his.

When his eyes closed and his wet, gurgled breathing lessened, I reached out and pulled his eyelids up, forcing him to look at me. I needed to see the last flicker of life extinguish from this disgusting vessel he called a body .

His death was slow, and I knew it was pretty fucking painful.

I loved it. God, I felt good.

A slow smile covered my face as adrenaline and endorphins pulsed through me even faster. I still held his knife and wiped the blood from the blade on his jacket. I pulled it back and held it up, letting the light glint off the metal.

I was keeping this as a trophy. It was a little reminder of this special time we’d shared together.

When he took one last, struggling breath, my eyes focused back on his, and I knew he was done. I saw the exact moment his wretched soul left his body. His eyelids slid to half-mast when I let go of them and stood. I stared down at him for long seconds, letting that last rush of adrenaline course through my system. I reached down and adjusted my hard cock, flipping it up and tucking it behind my waistband so my pants weren’t tented.

With one last look at the corpse, I put his knife in my pocket, grabbed the rag I brought with me out of my pocket, and wiped my face and neck clean.

And then I went to the little diner I’d seen down the street, needing to relieve my hard cock but first wanting to eat and satiate a different kind of hunger.