Havoc’s Defender (Havoc Guardians MC #1)

Prologue

Two Years Earlier

I feel the blood running slowly down my legs.

However, my life isn’t flashing before my eyes, so I can’t say for certain that this is the end.

If it were, wouldn’t there be a blinding white light?

Wouldn’t my most cherished memories play like a vivid movie reel?

Wouldn’t my regrets and ‘what ifs’ come barreling toward me?

I almost wish that’s what was happening right now—anything but the suffocating, twisted reality that I’m captured in.

Chained to a wall, trapped in this hell here-on-earth. My captor only releases the chains to take me to the bathroom. Force-feeding me meal replacement drinks so I don’t die.

Why he wants me to live, I’m unclear.

But I can see my end. Even if it isn’t imminently staring me in the face, I know it’s coming. And I welcome it.

Because something vital inside me has shattered.

It happened after I was forced to watch over and over the horrors my captor inflicted on his victims—the unspeakable pain they endured before he finally let them die.

It happened when the weight of my own emotions became too much to bear, when any feeling, any flicker of humanity, threatened to break me.

Because whenever any kind of emotion rises within me, the screams of all the tortured souls overtake and overwhelm my mind.

So I buried every single emotion, locked them away in a metaphorical steel box deep within me.

And now, I just exist—a numb, hollow shell, empty of anything that could resemble life or living.

My mind tries to create a schism between itself and this thing-of-nightmares reality.

It tells me that what I’m being forced to witness isn’t really happening.

Because evil this vile, this horrifying, can’t be real.

It’s only a thing of nightmares or conjured up in the twisted mind of some film writer in Hollywood.

“You’re not watching me work, Slade,” a sadistic, hateful voice hisses from across the room.

My head snaps up, and I’m immediately reminded that this isn’t some nightmare conjured inside my mind or the twisted plot of a horror movie, but it is indeed my reality. Undeniably and unbearably real.

Number Fourteen screams on the table as our captor pours something over the knife wound in his chest. Our eyes meet.

Broken meets broken.

Despair, pain, and wishing for the end are what we share.

I don’t know Number Fourteen’s name; his name, like all the ones who have come before him, hasn’t been shared, and the only way I can differentiate them and memorialize them is as Numbers.

I may not know his name, but I know I’m the cause of Number Fourteen’s added torment, because I dared to close my eyes to try to hide from watching his torture.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, hardly able to get the words out from dehydration, horror, and lack of speaking for however long I’ve been held captive here.

Our captor walks over to a counter and grabs a drill. “Watch, Slade, or it will be worse for him.”

Guilt swells within me, somehow breaking free of the steel box it’s buried deep within. And with the guilt are the screams of thirteen people who have come before Number Fourteen.

So I do the only thing I can do—I push the emotion down deep and repress it, to cease feeling because that is the only thing keeping the screams at bay inside my head.

Silent tears course down my cheeks in rivulets to match the blood running down my legs.

“It will be over soon, Slade.” Our captor’s tone is soothing, as if his words should calm me and fill me with relief. “Then, I will come and give you your penance.”

My penance.

My punishment for living while those poor souls are made to suffer in heinous, unbelievable ways before he takes their final breath from them. A knife slash on my body for each life our captor has taken where he’s made me watch.

I have thirteen slashes so far. None too deep to be fatal, but all weeping blood and likely infected. I’m weak with blood loss, fatigue, dehydration, malnourishment, and a broken spirit.

The sound of the drill starting makes bile rush into my throat, but I swallow repeatedly, trying to keep it down. Our captor hates when I make a mess, and he takes it out on the victims on the table.

He’s not a large man, but he holds all the power in this room.

Not all. Somewhere deep within me a whisper comes, Your end is coming, but take him with you. Stop this madness.

His back is to me, and I test the chains again for the millionth time. They hold fast to the wall and around my wrists.

Our captor lowers the drill to Number Fourteen’s shin and gets to work. Number Fourteen’s head is twisted to the side, his mouth open in silent agony, but the light is fading from his eyes.

His end is near.

My eyes are locked on his prone, immobile form. Agony fills my soul—mine psychological to his physical agony—but I need to repress that and feel only the numb nothingness to prevent the screams in my head so I can focus.

Tears course down my cheeks as I say a silent apology. Because Number Fourteen has to die for me to even have a chance.

I focus on the small blade that sticks out of our captor’s back pocket—that is going to be the way I end this.

Whenever he comes to cut me for my punishment, he only ever has the knife he wields, but he seems to have forgotten about the blade in his back pocket.

I focus on it, channeling any reserve of strength that I have left as he works on Number Fourteen, who has gone entirely still. His eyes and mouth are open, but he makes no sound and there’s no life left in his tortured eyes. Small mercies in this world—death came and stole him from his tormentor.

“Fucking hell,” my captor snaps. “Did you really just die on me?” His whiny words of disgust fill the room, and I’m struck with the thought that this demon playing as a man is a spoiled, entitled brat.

He tosses the drill down on top of Number Fourteen and stomps his foot. Then he turns to me.

Soulless blue eyes. His blonde hair is ruffled, and he’s coated in blood. “Did you see what that waste of skin just did, Slade? He fucking died.”

I blink, trying to clear the tears from my eyes.

He cocks his head, studying me. “You still cry over them. After all this time, I haven’t broken you of that bad habit.”

“Please,” I croak, knowing my plea will get me nowhere.

He walks over to the counter and grabs the large knife that he religiously slashes me with after killing the poor souls on the table.

“He took my satisfaction from me, so you’ll have to give it to me, Slade.”

Somewhere deep within me, my survival instinct rises. At this point, I don’t want to survive, not really; I just want this to end. And to stop him.

I want his death. His blood.

Then the numb nothingness that lives within me can take over.

“Please,” I try again. He’s coming to me, but he hasn’t removed the blade that’s in his back pocket. I need to get my hands free to have a chance at this. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll make a mess otherwise.”

His nose wrinkles in disgust. Blood, guts, and gore are fine with him, but pissing my pants is where he draws the line. “Fine, Slade, but you get an extra slash for my generosity.”

He pulls the keys from his pocket and undoes the locks at my wrist. He stopped locking my ankles after Number Nine’s death because all my physical energy was channeled to remain standing while I was awake.

My arms drop uselessly to my sides now that they’re not being held up.

Panic rears within me, because I need my arms to work to have any chance with my plan.

I try to lift them, but they barely move.

After my next attempt, it’s like my muscle memory returns with a vengeance.

Resolve and energy course through me like a wildfire spreading out of control.

“Come on,” he grits, yanking on my elbow.

I stumble—more than necessary—and fall into him. My right arm braces against his chest, and my left one wraps around behind him, pulling the knife free from his back pocket.

“Slade, I’m warning you—”

His words cut off when I bury the knife into his throat.

I pull it free, not caring where the larger knife is. Nor do I care about the spurt of blood that hits me when I pull the blade from his throat.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. I just act.

And stab him, over and over and over again.

I drop the knife and stumble away once he’s on the floor—his face and throat with multiple wounds—and he’s no longer breathing.

My hands brace against the table where Number Fourteen lies, and I stare down at him.

“I’m sorry.” My words have no emotion. They’re mechanical, almost robotic. Lifeless. Because the numb nothingness is the only thing I can feel. “I’m sorry you had to die for me to have the chance to kill him. I’m sorry.”

I stumble toward the door. Sliding the deadbolt, I pull the door open.

Thick evergreen trees meet me as I take my first step of freedom. I’m in a remote cabin, God knows where. I have no idea where I am or if anyone around here would be a friend or foe. I don’t even know if death is coming soon to claim me.

I fall to my knees, as if in grateful prayer. But I feel no gratitude. No relief. No happiness or fear.

I feel nothing.

I’m wholly and completely numb.