Cain (The Savages #1)

Chapter 1 Cain

Peace. Serenity. A pause in the chaos.

For a fleeting moment, my mind feels calm. Finally quiet. But peace is a fragile illusion, and I know better than to trust it.

It never lasts.

It never stays.

Three. Two. One.

Gasping for air, I raise myself from the water-filled bathtub. Some might say finally. I say that was close enough.

Two minutes. That’s how much time I need to drown my anger. How long it takes to dissolve my fury so I won’t snap one more time and act like a serial killer. Again.

They say time heals and wounds close. That you can outgrow the pain if you pray hard enough.

Time didn’t heal me. It gave me space to be corrupted.

But under the water, everything seems peaceful. Quiet. There is only me in the universe. A weightless abyss where nothing matters.

I step out of the bathtub and wrap a white cotton towel around my waist.

The mirror is fogged, and I can’t see any reflection in it. My hands almost crack the porcelain sink in their firm grip, and my muscles are still tense as the adrenaline rush courses through my veins. The sinking didn’t help this time. At least, it wasn’t enough.

My body feels heavy, and so does my breathing. My lungs are almost incapable of drawing in air, as if they’re filled with water.

I raise my hand and wipe the fog off the mirror, revealing a man behind it. I wish I could say that I can recognize myself, but I can’t. All I can see is two dark green eyes staring back at me and the two arched brown brows framing them.

Empty. Cold. Merciless.

My tousled and damp dark blonde hair falls around my forehead, dripping droplets of water on my face and body, and somehow, that tickling feeling on my skin seems the only proof that I still feel alive.

Waking up from a nightmare is familiar to me. But as the years have gone by, the feeling I have after a bad dream or a memory of them has changed. It’s darkened. Been corrupted. Just like they corrupted my life. My childhood. My soul.

Now, fury has taken over. The kind of fury that swallows you whole and dissolves you into nothingness. A fury that turns into madness. Sickness. Delirium.

Recently, I’ve found myself able to purge these poisonous feelings from my mind when I see her—especially when I’m able to see her face. Smiling. Talking. Crying. Oh, how I want to slaughter every single bastard who dares to put tears in her eyes.

And so I have done, once or twice.

She doesn’t know it, but that’s not the point. She doesn’t have to know. She doesn’t have to know the depth of my obsession and how my twisted love for her has become dangerous to the people around her.

Have I become paranoid? Perhaps.

Obsessed? Undeniably.

Do I care?

Not at all.

Normal people would call me a stalker. Maybe I am. I just don’t give a fuck.

A knock on the door sounds, interrupting my vain attempt to find just a shred of kindness in my reflection.

“Boss?” Landon’s voice sounds behind the closed door.

I open the door and see him standing straight and puffed, like a soldier waiting to be told he’s a good boy.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“We’ve found him.”

My eyes land persistently on his. “Is he alive?”

“Of course. Those were the orders,” he declares, his voice loud yet hoarse, indicating respect toward me. I like that. I always have.

His bulked body is stiff, and his prominent jawline twitches. The veins on his temples pulsate, and his face is red, evidence that he has already done half of my work by beating that bastard up himself, just to warm him up.

Good boy.

“Good.”

Landon nods, lowers his brown eyes, turns his back, and walks away.

I return to the bedroom and put on my clothes.

I should choose something simple and disposable, as things will become messy, but this is a special occasion.

This piece of shit will have the honor of being tortured by a well-dressed man for once.

I put on one of my expensive Hugo Boss white shirts and black slacks.

After all, this meeting has to look professional.

I carefully roll up my sleeves to my elbows and light up a smoke.

I take a few drags and put it out in the glass ashtray on the ebony nightstand.

It’s time.

Somewhere in the basement of my mansion, there’s a small room that I designed and decorated specifically for men like this one.

My playroom. Soundproof walls and … well, that’s the only thing I need.

Just to be free to express myself. In this room, there’s only a chair that hosts those unlucky enough to find themselves there.

Above, the bulb swings slightly, its blinding light making the space feel less like a room and more like a chamber.

I enter the room. Everything is in its place. The boys have already hung the plastic sheeting around him to avoid the mess that follows.

I give him a look. He appears to be exhausted behind that garment that muffles his hole. I guess Landon vented a little bit of his anger to him, indeed. His cheekbones and eyebrows are already torn and bloody. The room already reeks of blood, sweat, tears, and despair.

His despair.

“What an honor to have you in my house,” I quip, lighting up one more smoke.

He doesn’t try to speak or talk me into letting him go. He knows there’s no option for that.

“Maxwell, Maxwell, Maxwell …” I shake my head. “I’m a little disappointed with you. It’s like you’ve accepted your fate.” I lean in. “Is that true?”

His shoulders jolt with each breath, his whole body trembling in terror. He almost creates music as his chest clinks against the chains binding him.

His eyes refuse to move from the door ahead of him, and I’m sure he’s playing a million and one escape scenarios in his mind. It’s okay. I let him have hope. Hope is what keeps us sane. What keeps us going.

Unless you’ve given up and are ready for the chaos to erupt. Like me.

“Usually, I have Landon dealing with scumbags like you.” I prowl around him. “But you, my friend …” My hand lands on his shoulder. “You are special. See, Maxwell … you have balls.”

I take a drag of my smoke. “Trying to steal what’s mine is a risky deed that no sane man would dare to do.

” I exhale. “Not to mention the betrayal.” I punch him.

His breathing accelerates to the fullest. He lets out a sound—weak, pathetic.

It feeds the hollow in me like gasoline, and I make sure he knows this is the part I enjoy.

“You betrayed me for a man who won’t even bother to collect your corpse?

” He shakes. “Don’t worry, though. I didn’t bring you here to torture you.

Much. I brought you here for the pleasure of putting a bullet between your eyes. ”

I take a few steps away and halt in the middle of the room, right in front of him. My men are voiceless. Almost breathless. Pure silence envelops the room. The only thing I can hear is Maxwell’s frantic breaths behind the fabric and the cigarette paper burning.

“It’s just a pity that you did all this in vain.” I look at him, increasing his shivers. “How does it feel, Maxwell? How does it feel to know that your miserable life has come to an end?”

Tears run down his cheeks, and his pathetic face turns red. He doesn’t try to talk. He simply … waits for his demise.

I lower myself before him and raise my eyes to meet his. “You wanted to know which ships I stored the guns in, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his desperation soaking into the fabric.

“Too bad the information was fake. You took the bait like the desperate, pathetic rat you are. And now, you’ve got nothing but your stupidity to show for it. No payout. No escape.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Manson.” He shudders.

I stand up, drive my smoke to my lips, and let it dangle as I roll my shirt’s sleeves higher. “You thought you were clever. But the thing about rats, Max—they never see the trap until it snaps.”

Landon hands me his gun.

“Please, Cain,” he wails, tears streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks.

I take one more inhale and let the smoke spread deeper into my lungs, allowing it to numb me for a few seconds. The peace that little buddy can provide is indescribable.

Being the boss of the largest and the most prosperous sailing company in the US comes with a heavy burden. The burden of actually having to be in control. The leader. You have to earn people’s respect. And when they don’t respect you, they have to fear you. To tremble at the sound of your name.

But being who I am comes with a greater burden. My name marks me as someone sinister. Bad. Dark. The truth is … people have no idea what is going on in my head.

In just one second, I can change my mind and …

…

… Pull the trigger. End things sooner. I can forget who I’m supposed to be and embrace who I’ve become. Show no mercy.

All it takes is a split second—one small decision.

He chose to betray me.

Now, I choose to end him. No humanity, no remorse, no second thoughts.

His head dangles forward as blood drips from the brand-new hole in his forehead. Giving him a quick death is the most merciful thing I’ve done in quite some time. It feels good, I can’t lie. Liberating. Almost like a blessing.

“Clean this mess,” I command, and I toss the gun to the ground, creating a cloud of dirt around it.

“Yes, boss,” Landon hisses, nodding to the rest of my men to get to work.

I glance at his lifeless body, and beneath all the blood and dirt, I notice something shining at the end of his sleeves. I stroll closer and kneel to have a closer look.

His cufflinks … I swear I’ve seen these before. They’re … no, it’s not possible.

Slowly, I wipe the blood off them with my thumb and reveal two letters engraved on them.

W. F.

Wade Ford.

This fucking bastard. I’m sure he was wearing them the day he blew to pieces. He always did. They’re not random cufflinks. They’re platinum. Custom-made. Gift from his bastard son. Oh, he never shut the hell up about it. He always wore them, every goddamn day, like they were fused to his skin.

Wade is dead.

I saw it with my own goddamn eyes.

So how the fuck does this piece of shit have his cufflinks? And after all these years?

Fuck.

I drop his arm. My heart’s slamming against my ribs, and my ears are buzzing. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

I feel my jaw lock up. I grab the corpse by the collar and yank him up so hard his head lolls like a rag doll. “Where the fuck did you get these?” I spit. My men stand next to me, frozen, scared to make a sound.

I drop his body to the ground.

This isn’t just some coincidence. No random scumbag ends up with those cufflinks. No way.

Unless someone wants me to see them.

Unless someone wants me to remember.

I stand up and brush my hair back with my fingers, trying to stay composed.

No. No, no, no, no, this isn’t happening again. I buried this shit. I buried it!

Didn’t I?

I need to stay the fuck calm. I need to pretend it’s not ripping through my skull.

No one can see what this is doing to me. No one.

I march outside the basement, heading to my driver as I’m finishing my smoke. On my way, Eleanor, my maid, holds out my black blazer.

“Good morning, Mr. Manson,” she chirps joyfully.

I slide into the blazer, take the last drag of my cigarette, and put it out in the glass ashtray in Eleanor’s hand. “Morning, Eleanor.”

I walk outside my front door, pass through half of the garden, and enter my Lamborghini SUV.

The driver doesn’t talk. He knows his job.

I rest my head back and close my eyes for some seconds before my hectic day as a businessman begins.

My mind fills with her presence yet again. Her smile. Her aura. Her existence.

Her light dissolves my unhinged thoughts. There’s no blood, no hate, no anger. No him. Just her.

My mind is dark. My life is messy and obscure, and no girl would willingly want to be a part of it. Not if they knew.

Unless she’s crazy—but I know crazy.

Kate?ina, however, is something else. She is the only ray of light in my obsidian soul. She is my Eden. My fucking peace.

Being around her is a dangerous game. Dangerous for everyone, but primarily for her.

I should stay away. I tell myself that every time I see her, every time I linger in the shadows, watching. It would be easier to convince myself to stop. If only I could ignore the pull or the way my muscles stiffen when she’s near.

But I can’t.

I always wondered what would happen if I touched her skin. If I tangled my fingers through her long, blonde hair. If her feline pale blue eyes stared back at mine, full of passion and lust. If I slid inside her and heard her moaning my name with pleasure. Felt her shivering with satisfaction.

How would this make me feel?

Would it be one more reason to deepen my obsession and fuel my passion for her?

I know I should keep my distance.

I know this only leads one way.

And yet, I keep finding my way back to her.

Closer.

More dangerous each time.