13. Orion
13
ORION
“OLIVER’S brAINS”
My cock strains against the confines of my black jeans as thoughts of Seraphina fill my mind. Her flowing silver hair, her untrusting eyes, her perfect pink lips—always pouting and ready for a cock.
The last thought sends me into a mindless rage, and I click on the videos saved to my phone, a frown pulling at my brows as Seraphina’s perfect figure comes into view. It’s not the sight of her that’s causing distress—it’s the five other men in the room with her, their eyes hungry as they strip the clothes from her body.
A few days ago, I was able to retrieve the security footage of the Neon Flamingo on the night Seraphina met up with her client. Oh, I know all about it—how she whores herself out to anything with a stuffed wallet, how her lips twist in a simpering smile as she accepts their cocks.
How she likes it.
My fist tightens around the phone as I reach down to release my cock, rubbing forcefully as the ginger-haired fuck presses his disgusting worm of a dick past Seraphina’s lips.
That should be my cock. Mine and mine only.
I touch myself to the thought of Seraphina, tears falling from her eyes as I fuck the back of her throat, as I make her regret the things she’s put me through.
I should stay away from her. I should forget all about the silver vixen. But every time I try, my blood boils, my skin crawls with ants, and I can’t.
God, I’m fucked in the head.
The thought does nothing to stop me, and before long, my release spews from my cock, coating the screen where Seraphina’s face is tilted back in bliss. I rub my thumb across the screen lovingly, picturing myself pushing my cum in and around her pretty whore mouth.
Mine. My Seraphina.
My muscles uncoil as the video comes to an end, and I lay my head back on the bed, chest rising and falling rapidly as images of the pretty little dove swirl in my mind.
I need her—need her like oxygen. If I don’t have her soon, I’m afraid I’ll fucking die.
“Precious little dove.” I drag my fingertips over the screen one last time before shoving the device back into my pocket.
I stand from the bed, grabbing my dagger from the bedside table and heading out of the cabin. Baccus unleashes a morbid cry to the skies, his tiny black body an ink spot against the vast gray. A hollowness sits heavy in my chest as I watch him fly, something inside me wishing—longing—to be up there with him.
With an irritated huff, I walk over to my new motorbike parked out front, throwing my leg over the seat and speeding off into the mouth of the forest.
It takes me over an hour, but I finally make it to Oliver Snow’s townhome as the sun is dipping past the horizon. Vibrant pink and orange hues color the sky, peeking through the usual gray and adding some color to the landscape.
I park in the alley next to his apartment complex, leaning against the cracked brick wall and smoking a cigarette while I wait for the sun to dip. As the shadows lengthen along the ground, I snub my cigarette out on the wall and head inside the building, my steps purposeful as I take the stairs to his floor.
I stop in front of his door. Before I pull out my lock pick, I try the handle—and sure enough, the dumb fuck has left it unlocked. Silently, I slip inside, bolting the door behind me before I delve deeper into the house.
A Nickelback song is blaring from the speakers, smog hanging heavy in the air and zesting it with a sickly sweet skunk scent. My hand covers the dagger at my hip as I step deeper into the house, checking each room before moving on to the next.
I find Oliver in his kitchen, his back to me as he dances around like an idiot, holding a wooden spoon to his mouth like a microphone as he belts out the lyrics. Basil and roasted tomatoes hang heavy in the air, mingling with the billow of steam coming from the massive pot of noodles. In the corner lies an industrial-grade meat grinder, the blades caked in sinew from grinding enough meat to make up the dozens of meatballs lined neatly on the counter.
A shame I arrived before he finished dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs is my favorite.
I stand there staring for several minutes, but the fuck doesn’t even have enough self-preservation to notice when someone is boring a hole into the back of his head.
With a defeated sigh, I grab a stray cup from the counter and launch it at the speaker. The cup shatters as the speaker falls to the floor, a great resounding crash echoing throughout the kitchen as Oliver whips around.
His eyes widen as he takes in my form, raising the spoon in front of him like a weapon.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, shuffling to the side where his phone is lying just out of reach.
With a snarl, I launch my dagger at his outstretched hand, grinning when it sinks into his flesh with a disgusting squelch. Oliver screams as blood pours from his hand, a horrified look on his face as he stares down at the blade piecing his palm.
“Why the fuck would you do that?” he cries, ginger hair slicked to his forehead with sweat. “Who are you?”
“My name is Orion Adair.” I grab the knife block off his counter and raise it above my head. “You took what was mine. And now, I’m going to take something of yours—your life.”
“W-what?” His eyes are wild and searching for an out. A miracle. “Why? I didn’t fucking do anyth?—”
His voice is cut off as I launch the block at his head. It lands in the center of his forehead, splitting the skin wide open as he falls to the floor, unconscious.
I gaze down at the pathetic heap of human flesh, bending to retrieve the wooden knife block as I replay him sticking his cock into Seraphina’s mouth. Over and over and over.
I bring the block down on Oliver’s head, a red mist covering my vision as I slam it into his skull.
Over. And over. And over.
When I sit back, bloody and heaving and spent, Oliver’s brains are everywhere—on the floor, the walls—even the chrome fridge door is covered with what used to be Oliver Snow.
It brings a smile to my face.
Of course, that is until I remember I have to clean up this fucking mess. I can’t just drag a fully grown man’s remains down his apartment stairwell. But I also can’t just leave him here. He’s apt to start smelling, bringing attention I don’t need or want.
I glance around the kitchen, my eyes snagging on the meat grinder just as a smile lights my face. Perfect.
I pull open every drawer in the kitchen until I finally come across some plastic wrap. Ripping the roll from the box, I head back toward the dead body, scooping Oliver’s brains into a pile before plopping them onto a sheet of plastic wrap.
I wrap what’s left of his head with the rest of the plastic, cringing at the puddle of blood beneath his body. I had planned to take him to the tub and chop him up, but fuck it, I’ll be cleaning a mess either way.
With a serrated knife, I make short work of Oliver's extremities, ensuring each segment is small enough to fit through the meat grinder. His torso is more difficult. I have to meticulously scrape all of his organs—not to mention what seems like miles and miles of intestines—from his body cavity before I can even think about chopping the rest of him up.
Hours later, Oliver is but a pile of ground beef on the counter. For funsies, I take the liberty to shape him into tiny round balls, lining them on the counter with the other meatballs.
I contemplate leaving them there, but my better sense gets the best of me. With a disappointed sigh, I take the remains and flush them down Oliver’s fancy sink, finishing the job with a cupful of bleach and a good, long run of the garbage disposal.
It would be rude of me to let Oliver’s place stink up, after all.
I use the rest of the bleach to clean Oliver’s blood from the kitchen floor, counters, and cabinets. When I’m done, the place looks better than when I came in, and I can’t help but give myself a pat on the back.
If he wasn’t dead, I’d ask him for a tip.
My eyes snag on the regular meatballs still lining the counter, and at that moment, my stomach growls.
No. I couldn’t… Could I?
Deciding they could be tainted by the very air of Oliver’s remains, I also dump those down the sink. My stomach growls in complaint, but I remind myself I wouldn’t know how to cook the raw meat properly, anyway.
I search his fridge, but the fuck doesn’t have anything ready to eat, and his freezer is just as barren. A defeated sigh leaves my mouth as I trudge to the front door, trying my best to ignore the burning in my stomach.
I take one last glance at the apartment before leaving, making sure not one scrap of Oliver is left on the white tiles. Satisfied, I head out and down the stairs, a pep in my step that wasn’t there before.
On my way out of the building, I nearly smack into an elderly woman coming inside. Her arms are full of groceries, and I hold the door open so she doesn’t have to struggle.
“Thank you so much!”
“My pleasure,” I grin. “Can I help you with those bags?”
“Oh, aren’t you a sweetheart!” She nudges her shoulder playfully against my arm. “I’ll be fine, love. But boy, do we need more men like you in this world!” She bids me farewell, and I hasten down the stairs toward my bike.
It seems even the reaper can do a good deed once every blue moon.