Kaios #3
Leaning against the oversized walnut archway of the doorway, I peer into the dimly lit, cavernous library. Sure enough, there he is, sprawled in his usual armchair, reading. His collection seems to multiply every time I come in here—trust Jaxon to expand on our sperm donor’s collection.
But he doesn’t keep these books out of affection for the bastard we share DNA with.
Alastair Knox never taught us anything worthy of the title father.
No, Jaxon just has a hard-on for knowledge.
And I can’t judge him for that. He’s a genius in his own right—just like I am when it comes to technology.
We’re two sides of the same coin, even if mine’s a little more… tarnished.
I sink my teeth into the apple, the loud crunch echoing in the quiet room, making sure when I chew it’s just obnoxious enough to piss him off.
“Do you always have to eat so loudly?” he says, sliding a bookmark into place before looking at me over the rims of his glasses.
I smirk. “Only for you, brother dearest,” I say, giving him a wink.
“Is it done?” His voice is sharp with a mild touch of annoyance.
“Don’t I always get it done?” I ask, taking an even louder, more deliberate bite of the apple.
“Good,” he nods, but the deep crease in his forehead tells me I’m working his last nerve. “Nyx will be here in the AM for a quick meeting, before we head out for that job.”
“Cool. Let me know when he gets here.”
“You didn’t scare her, did you?” His tone shifts, and he takes off his glasses, narrowing his eyes at me like a disappointed father.
“No.” Yes. Her fear is a drug, and I’m fucking hooked. The way her breath quickens, the way her body tenses—it’s intoxicating. My dick stirs at the thought, and that’s my cue to leave. I push off the doorway, ready to make my exit. “I didn’t even talk to her.”
“Hey, Mouse,” he says, his voice softer now.
“Mm?” I respond. I already know what’s coming, and I’m not in the mood for it.
“I love you,” he says. A pang hits my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I’ll never say it back, and he knows that. But he’ll never stop believing that maybe just maybe...
“Mhm,” I reply, turning my back on him as I stride away.
“I mean it,” he shouts after me, his voice tinged with something I don’t want to name.
“I know,” I yell over my shoulder. The moment’s gone. My arousal fizzles, replaced by the weight of his words. And just like that, my dick goes limp again.
All these years, and he never lets me forget it. I owe my brothers everything—my entire life. They’ve endured hell, made sacrifices I can barely wrap my head around, just to get us here. I respect them more than anyone alive.
But I love you will never cover it. Those words are meaningless, worn out from overuse. People twist them into lies, wrapping deceit in tenderness. I’ve seen people hurt, kill, rape, and sell the ones they claim to love. That’s what my mother did to me, leverage me for her transgressions.
Sonya, my mother, was a Russian prostitute with a talent for taking what didn’t belong to her. She stole from the wrong person and ended up drowning in unsatisfiable debt. That was, of course, until her creditor saw me. Turns out, I was satisfaction enough.
I don’t blame her for being a thief. She did what she had to do to keep us fed.
But what I do blame her for is putting me in the hands of the men who came to collect.
Though greater still, is the tiny, cruel sprinkle of hope she gave me.
She promised she’d come back for me. I clung to that trust for a decade.
And in the end, it destroyed me. The word love died with her promise.
So no, that word—love—has no place in my vocabulary.
I swallow the knot rising in my throat and force the words out.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” The breaths come in sharp bursts, a rhythm I can latch onto.
My psychiatrist says it might help since I won’t take the pills.
I’d rather do this than swallow chemicals that dull everything, including my sex drive, when they don’t even stop the attacks.
My boots hit the hardwood, echoing the pounding in my skull, the reverberation matching the drumming of my heart. Hanging a sharp left, I shove through the walnut doors of my office, finally finding the space I need.
The cool wood presses against my back, grounding me. I focus on the quiet, letting the weight of the room sink into my chest, pulling my breath into something manageable.
One more gulp of air, and I’m done being a pussy.
I polish off my apple, toss the core, and jam in my headphones. Tuning into the feed from the bugs I planted across the homes and establishments of each current case, I let the low static of surveillance fill the silence.
Some days, I feel like the monster they say I am. The kind of man who dreams of sliding a blade across someone’s throat, feeling the heat of their blood coat my hands.
Other days, I just want an iced vanilla latte. Specifically, one from Mers, my favorite coffee shop. The lattes are not my goal, though. It has the best view of her—my pretty little raven-haired obsession.
But today’s a blade-to-the-throat kind of day. Which makes my Naomi problem all the more dangerous.
She’s a problem I can’t solve, a wound I can’t stop reopening. Every moment I spend thinking about her pulls me closer to the edge of my sanity. And Christian Cavanaugh is the spark ready to ignite everything I’ve been holding back.
I want to burn their perfect relationship to the ground. I want to watch the flames rise, feel the heat of her anger, fear, and lust. And then I want to fuck her in the light of the blaze.
Making love by a fireplace is romantic, after all.
They say chivalry is dead, but I disagree. I’m a regular goddamn Romeo.
Christian doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t even see her the way I do. And I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to make him disappear.
I open the folder that holds every bug I’ve planted for this assignment: one in his car, three in his apartment, and the latest from tonight, tucked neatly in his phone case.
The idiot didn’t even see me. Too busy spewing his version of happily ever after.
His mockery of affection made my stomach churn. Because, truth be told, this joker’s been in town a lot longer than Naomi realizes. Two weeks longer, to be exact. And those two weeks, he’s been busy.
His latest conquest—a high-pitched, nasally-voiced bimbo—is currently sawing at my fragile nerves with a sickening chorus of “oh, baby” and “yeah, right there.” Each word makes me itch to jam a switchblade into my eardrums.
She’s worse than the porn I thought was intriguing when I was younger. Back then, it sufficed. Until I learned what it really meant to please a woman. By then, my tastes had evolved into something darker. My captors wasted no time exploiting that, pushing me further into their depravity.
But now her voice—like nails on a chalkboard—is a new kind of torture.
To my relief, he finishes five seconds later, releasing a pitiful grunt. There’s the shuffle of fabric, the click of heels, and the sound of a door shutting behind her. No more words.
A little late-night office sex. And it’s my unfortunate task to transcribe every pathetic moan.
He sounds like a bitch when he comes. I wonder if Naomi finds that appealing, or if she just endures for his sake.
All the same, it’s better than two days ago.
I transcribed his longest session yet—getting railed within an inch of his life by a guy three times his size.
Rolling my neck, I release the tension building there and open another app—the one that pulls up the cameras in Naomi’s house.
Eighty-four different views of the Solis Manor flash across my Odyssey Neo monitor. Some would call it obsessive. I call it thorough.
It’s my job to know everything about the Blaine family, whether they’re in the U.S. or halfway around the world. And from what I’ve dug up, they’re hiding secrets that would make even murder blush.
I click through the feeds, scanning for—ah, there you are, gorgeous. And it looks like I’ve arrived just in time.
You’re putting on a show just for me.
I lean back, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the scene. Later tonight, I’ll swing by again, after my girl’s asleep to make sure she drank down all of her meds.
For now, though, I relax in my chair, savoring the way her buxom hips and full ass sway when she walks. She’s beauty woven into existence; I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of her.