Bloody Vengeance (Keres Origins #1)

Prologue

Mikah

Eighteen years ago

Ican see the news reporters now—the ripped-from-the-headlines television shows.

Which show would capitalize on this mess of a scene to earn millions from viewership?

Law and Order SVU or Criminal Intent? Potentially.

Maybe Criminal Minds or Dexter? Yes, definitely Criminal Minds—it would take a profiler’s brain to piece together the fuckery taking place here.

“How can you do this?” she begs with a paltry whimper. Tears and snot mix with her blood, cascading down her face, interrupting my thoughts.

A chorus of snorts from my friends echoes throughout their bedroom.

“I’ll take stupid ass questions you already know the answer to for ten thousand, Alex,” Jackson bellows from his perch, causing another round of mocking.

“You create the monster, and then have the fucking audacity to ask me how and why. Do you even hear yourself right now?” I exclaim, tapping the side of the knife against her cheek. The irony in the timing of her plea feels almost staged.

It wouldn’t be surprising if it were an act. Our whole life has been nothing but a well-scripted movie.

“Why ask questions you already know the answer to?” I hiss, gripping her chin until her smokey gray eyes shut, squinting as she cries out in pain. The wail threatening to burst an eardrum. “Isn’t it far below your station?” I mock, fighting to remain in control.

She sniffles, desperately trying to escape my hold.

Not today, bitch—not ever the fuck again.

Fisting her messy hair, I yank back until I feel the strands ripping from her head as I force her to peer up at me. “The prim and proper Charlotte Gordon,” I tsk. “If only the women at the country club could see you now.”

The sight of her on her knees, begging—pleading to get up, stirs my dick.

It’s a trained reaction. I try to tell myself, hoping it will temper the disgust I feel for myself.

But it’s too late. My stomach churns at the memories of how I was trained to elicit this reaction.

Disgust slithers up my spine that I find anything to do with her even remotely arousing.

But sure enough, another cry slips from between her swollen lips, and my cock is now standing at attention, fueling my outrage.

Unable to hold back, I release her hair and quickly unbutton my pants. She doesn’t drop her gaze, though. Instead, her hungry eyes look on in anticipation. It should ward me off, but I’m captivated by the full, pouty lips as her tongue glides over them.

Even at death’s door, this woman is gagging for my cock.

I waste no time, positioning my swollen head at her mouth, painting her lips with my precum before she opens and greedily sucks me down.

“Fuckkk… fuckkk,” I groan while my hips move instinctually at the trained pace, and my head falls back at the sound of her slurping me down.

It’s so goddamn good that I forget myself. I can barely make out the raucous cheers of my friends’ murmurings about who will get to go next.

Too slow… too slow—too fucking slow.

Grabbing the side of her face, triple pace, relishing in knowing the blade of the knife is making shallow cuts to her face.

“You greedy little whore. Look how you take me. Look how I fit perfectly down your throat,” I grumble, matching the cadence of my words to each slam of my hips.

My head falls back when her tongue swirls over the tip as she hollows out her throat to meet each thrust.

“Fucking whore. How dare you be the best head I’ve ever had?” I rage.

My shaft stiffens. I’m so close. I shouldn’t want this—not from her.

Grinding my teeth, I jerk forward with a force that causes her to fall. My dick nearly slips out of her mouth, but like the hungry slut she is, she maneuvers at a speed that allows her to keep her pace.

“Goddamn, Mikah. She’s a fucking beast,” Griff shouts.

Nodding in agreement, Fredrick adds, “The bitch can’t get enough of you. I got next.”

My dick hardens, straddling that line of pain and pleasure as my balls grow tight. I feel the impending doom as I sit on the precipice.

Just as I grunt out my release, my cum shoots down her throat.

I watch, seeing the drunken lust emanating from every orifice as her rose-tipped nipples harden, her legs slide open.

If her arms weren’t tied behind her back, one hand would be jerking my cock good enough to make me curse, while the other would play with her pussy for me.

“This isn’t what you were meant for.” The gruff voice of my father booms from across the room, imploding my temporary high.

I try to ignore him, but his words loop—This isn’t what you were meant for.

This.

Isn’t.

What.

You.

Were.

Meant.

For.

I tuck my dick back into my pants, trying to quell my anger so my fury doesn’t take over, and my plans fall apart.

“Shut the fuck up, Randy,” I shout, pressing the knife even deeper into her cheek as I turn and smirk. I cackle at the utter admonishment in his expression. The fleeting glance—well worth it.

He hates being called Randy, believing the name to be uncouth. “Only the poor have unrefined names.”

That memory only serves to piss me off, bringing everything full circle.

The noisiness of the room comes into focus—the ticking grandfather clock, too loud to be covered by the news channel that’s on twenty-four-seven.

Tick…

The murmurs of my friends as they move throughout my parents’ bedroom.

Tock…

The ferrous smell of blood coating the room like a scented candle.

Tick…

The god-awful pleas from my parents, hoping to find something they’ve long since killed.

Tock…

The frenetic thump of my heart, pulsating in my ears as the rush of excitement builds in my veins.

Everything clicks like the snick of a lock.

It’s time to pay the Piper.

My resolve renewed, I nod to my friends, and they begin to move without saying a word.

As they set the scene, I’m left with my thoughts.

One could ask how we got here.

How the seemingly well put-together family, living in the wealthiest gated community, with all the opportunities in life could produce a son with no moral compass?

We are the American Dream.

What they didn’t tell you is that the dream comes at a cost. You don’t get to rub elbows with the upper echelon of the world without offering something in exchange.

The price?

Your soul.

The American Dream is more like a nightmarish hellscape without a single warning or map to break free from it.

What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?

I snort at the question. It’s assuming there was something in the decaying chest cavity where a heart once was.

“Micky, please don’t do this. There’s st—”

I don’t let her finish her diseased olive branch. It’s coated in poison.

Forcing her head back, I drag the sharp point of the blade across her cheek, slicing until a path of crimson paints her once pristine skin. It’s not deep enough to cut completely through, but it’s more than enough to prove I’m in charge.

Digging my nails into her scalp, I yank her head until she’s once again peering up at me. Tears pool in her silver-eyed gaze.

“Open your mouth,” I command, and she whimpers, making no attempt to do as she’s told. “You don’t seem to realize what’s happening here, Charlotte.”

Growling, I tighten my grip until I feel some strands of her hair rip from the root.

She cries out in pain, and I pounce, clearing my throat until I cough up a giant phlegm ball. Her eyes widen, but it’s too late. I spit the mucous in her mouth before forcing her to swallow it. Then, I slam her face into the ground.

My mother gags between choked cries.

I drown out the screams, focusing instead on my masterpiece. She was just desperately groaning for my cock. She knows the rules—she helped make them.

She should be happy I was able to control myself, because what’s about to happen is going to be far worse.

“No… no… no! Don’t do this.” My father growls like the rabid animal he is—a monster in human form set out to breed more monsters. But their generational reign of feeding innocence into a cursed state ends with me.

Smirking, I lean in toward him and inhale his nervous energy. It lasts but a minute before his icy and in-control demeanor is back in place.

My attention shifts, and I take in the room. The slate-gray walls, with their carefully crafted white trim, are filled with endless moments captured in framed photos, perfectly lined up around the room.

Releasing my hold, my mother drops to the floor, unable to maintain her position, but in this moment, I can’t find a speck of care.

My gaze lands on one photo in particular.

It’s the day we officially adopted Talia—four years to the day when she was dropped off for what was only supposed to be a week’s visit as her parents left on business.

Talia’s in a navy blue babydoll-style dress with pink polka-dotted and navy Mary Jane’s. Her lips are curled up into a smile, but it’s her eyes. They tell the story unspoken—the sadness of the loss of her true family. I grieved with her that day.

I see you, Tati. My urge to protect her stirs something in the recesses of my dead soul.

You saved them… you saved them—you saved her. The words ring out like a trumpet, celebrating the return of the hero as they march down Main Street.

Panning left, my attention lands on me—the navy blue Tom Ford suit making me appear nearly normal. Even at thirteen, I knew I didn’t belong in the world, not amongst people.

My focus shifts, glancing over my five siblings, ignoring the guilt roaring in the back of my mind. Instead, I continue, stopping only once my gaze lands on my parents. “The perfect couple.”

Charlotte Gordon—a trophy Stepford Wife. Her once-scarlet hair, now peppered with gray, is layered, flowing down to the middle of her back, looking brighter against the stark whiteness of her peplum dress.

Randolph J. Gordon III. The quintessential picture of old money. Even his name is pretentious as fuck. Our suits match, but he dons an ascot and his signature lapel pin.