Kaios #2
The blade glints as I hold it between us, stopping a whisper away from the plump curve of her bottom lip.
Close enough that her breath fogs the polished steel.
She shudders, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of chocolate remains.
Heat radiates off her skin in waves, and her scent—smoked cherries and fear—hits me like a potent drug, setting fire to my senses until my vision narrows to just her trembling mouth.
Fucking delicious.
It takes every ounce of control to keep her shielded from the creatures clawing inside me, itching to taste her. To make her bleed. They rattle the door, desperate, salivating.
They’d devour her whole if I let them.
I close my eyes, pulling the reins tight on the mayhem swirling inside me, forcing the fuckers back into submission. If they get out, she’s screwed—and quite frankly, me too.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she whispers.
My eyes open to meet her gaze, widening, as I lift the apple she threw at me to the blade. Her pupils track every movement.
“Hurt you?” I murmur, slicing off a piece of the apple with precision. “I’d never dream of it.”
I spear the flesh of the fruit on the tip of my blade, and I hike up my mask just enough to expose a smirk. She sucks in a sharp breath, and her lips part slightly, soft and inviting.
The blade slides between my lips. My teeth scrape against the steel, I tug the apple slice off with my teeth, and her wide-eyed stare and gaping mouth are like a reward.
As I run my tongue along the flat of the blade, collecting the last hint of sweetness, I watch her throat work as she swallows.
When I pull my mask back into place, her chest rises and falls in shallow, quick breaths, and the desire etched on her face is raw, unguarded—a fucking masterpiece.
I hum, biting into the apple with a crunch that fills the heavy silence. “You might want to close that mouth of yours,” I say, turning away from her. “Wouldn’t want any depraved souls wandering by and taking it as an invitation.”
I don’t need to look back, but hell, I can’t resist. As I glance over my shoulder, my voice drops lower, teasing her one last time.
“Thanks for the snack, gorgeous.”
Yeah, she’s definitely an under-fucked cataclysm of unholy thoughts right now. I wonder what her pastor would think.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I don’t give a shit.
I’m here now, and she doesn’t need the weight of some sanctimonious bullshit pressing down on her—the kind that shoves pleasure into neat little boxes marked “good” or “bad,” “righteous” or “sinful.”
Soon enough, she’ll never have to deal with that problem again. It’s the ones like her, conflicted between right and wrong, that give in so beautifully.
Keeping to the shadows of the trees lining the estate’s pathway, I listen to the sharp rhythm of her footfalls behind me, followed by the slam of her front door.
Sliding my phone out of my pocket, I switch through the camera feeds, tracking her movement through the house.
The footage is enough to keep her in sight as I take the short walk back to my ride.
With a sharp yank, I pull off my mask, the cool air hitting my face as I polish off the remainder of the apple she gave me.
She cares so deeply for my well-being that she brought me fruit. She even knew I would be more likely to finish it if her sweet lips had been there first. My girl is right, I should be eating healthier, and she found the perfect way to entice me into getting my apple a day.
The wrought-iron gates swing open, buzzing with electricity as it unveils the garish estate beyond.
The mansion looms deeper into the property, its dark accents glinting under the moonlight.
It exudes the type of wealth and power that has always deepened my sense of discomfort.
The gentle murmur of the fountain in the courtyard serves as a stark contrast to the turbulence stirring inside me.
Acres of gardens, vibrant and colorful, are meticulously kept—something I used to long for as a boy, flowers for my mother to pick, to see a smile on her face in a garden as beautiful as her.
But now they’re just another reminder of my father’s disdain for anyone he considered beneath him.
The cypress trees lining the pathway stand tall and stoic, their elegance echoing the man’s cold indifference.
Verrin Hall, none of us called it home, provided nothing within its walls that ever brought the warmth, safety, or care that a home should feel like. Each of my brothers has their own reasons for feeling the disconnect. For me, it’s simple: It’s all too much. Too grand. Too hollow.
It always flares my temper when money is thrown around in excess, purchasing things just because you can.
Swiping a card attached to an endless back account.
I know that sounds wild, but I didn’t always have things like this—staff catering to my every need, a place to lay my head with more rooms than I could count.
When I first came here at sixteen, the extravagant gifts my brothers gave me—well-intentioned as they were—grated on me.
I’d destroy them with my bare hands, piece by gaudy piece, reducing them to scraps on the sitting room floor.
My brothers didn’t understand. They thought they were filling in the gaps of what I never had, but I didn’t want or need any of it. Not anymore.
Jaxon would lose his shit every time, his voice rattling the house as he accused me of being ungrateful.
Nyx, the older and most rational of us three, pulled him back every time, trying to make him see reason, but neither of them really understood me back then.
I wasn’t exactly big on talking, either.
‘Quiet as a church mouse.” That’s what my first therapist used to say whenever my brothers asked for an update.
The name kind of stuck. I thanked her for it—thoroughly.
Made her legs shake violently, face pressed to the same desk she’d scribble notes down about my possible serial killer tendencies—she thought she was having a seizure.
After that, she couldn’t even look my brothers in the eye.
I was taken out of her care a while later when my brothers found we weren’t making much progress, not that we could with her cunt clamped around me every session. So, my temper hadn’t changed much, made no better by the parasites hitching a ride.
‘Hey!’ Cain pipes up. ‘I think we can be quite delightful, and plus. We help you get the ladies.’
“You help me scare the ladies.” I grunt.
‘Eh, same thing.’ He quips.
This year, though, my brothers gave gift-giving one last shot.
For my birthday, they bought me a Kawasaki Ninja ZX-10r, and she was the exception. Sleek and black, like the color of corruption—just like my soul.
So, I didn’t wreck her.
The look on their faces the next day when I pulled up to Siren on it was fucking priceless.
My usual beat-up Altima, nowhere in sight.
I still have respect for her. She’s more than a car—she’s a reminder of who I am, of where I’ve been.
I take her out when I need to think or when I need to remember what really matters in this shitshow called life.
But that day, I parked my shiny new toy right in front of the club with a shrug, their jaws hit the floor as I strolled inside, leaving them to catch flies.
I park my midnight beauty, pulling into the ten-car garage filled with Jaxon’s ridiculous collection.
The second I step into the kitchen, claws scrape against tile.
Titan—one half of the Doberman duo that is a plague upon all our staff—barrels toward me, all muscle and black fur, skidding to a stop just short of knocking me over.
The staff in the room instantly give him a wide berth, eyes flicking away like even looking too long might get them bitten.
For anyone else, he’s a nightmare—teeth, growls, and a promise to make good on them.
For me, he’s a shadow with a wagging tail.
I take an apple from the bowl on the counter, polishing it on my shirt before taking a bite. Titan whines, his eyes pleading for a bite. I work my knife out of my pocket, flipping it open as his ears prick forward, the blade catching the light while I slice off a chunk.
“Sit,” I tell him, voice low. He drops his ass to the floor instantly. “Stay.” I draw it out, just to tease him, before flicking the piece across the room. He catches it midair without even trying.
“Good boy.” I crouch down as he pads in my direction again.
Dragging my fingers along the side of his massive head, he leans into the touch like it’s been years since anyone’s done it.
“Where’s your brother, huh? Where’s Caesar?
” Truth be told he’s probably off somewhere being a calculated menace, but his brother doesn’t give him up, his tail gives a lazy thump like he’s keeping the secret on purpose.
“They don’t get you, do they?” I murmur, glancing at the staff who keep their heads down and circle wide around us as if I’ll stab them and Titan will pick their bones clean.
“You’re only mean when you have to be.” He gives a sharp huff—his version of agreement—then noses my hand for another piece of my Honeycrisp.
I chuckle, slice him one more, and let him take it from my fingers.
“Place,” I tell him, and he turns without hesitation, padding back to the corner he claimed before I walked in.
The sharp snap of my teeth into the apple reminds me of earlier tonight, and a grin tugs at my lips as I stand, flipping the knife shut. Yeah, apples might just be my new favorite fruit.
Weaving around the staff, I take the left staircase of the double grand, two at a time, and make my way to the library on the second floor. I already know that’s where Jaxon will be. That’s where he always is when he’s at Verrin—his sanctuary.