Cruel Black Hearts: A Dark Reverse Harem Romance

by Candace Wondrak

  Because I wanted Stella.

  I loved Stella.

  She was right, of course. I should never have let Sandy take my hand, and I definitely should’ve stopped her long before she went down on me. I was drunk and weak, and I’d never let alcohol get the better of me again.

  “I mean, I like Sandy, but…” Stella shrugged. “She can be mean sometimes. I don’t know if it’s because of her divorce or what, but she always finds a way to make fun of me.” She rubbed her arms, looking too thin across from me. She must’ve only weighed a hundred or so pounds.

  Far too skinny. She needed more meat on those bones.

  Her words struck a chord with me. Sandy was mean to her? I hadn’t noticed any of that, but maybe it’s because I was so busy in the office, and Sandy and Stella’s work hours rarely crossed. If what Stella said was true, and I didn’t doubt her a bit, then Sandy and I needed to have a talk. There would be no workplace bickering, especially when it came to Stella.

  Stella was a woman, but with the way she looked, how small she was in both height and weight, she was like a girl. Helpless in a way. I wanted to protect her from the world, even though I knew she would swear up and down she needed no protection, needed no help. But it was something everyone learned eventually: even the best of us needed help sometimes. She was no exception.

  “I know I’m the last person who should ask you this, but…” God, I sounded like a dweeb. Like someone who’d never asked someone out before. I trailed off, unsure. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should wait.

  But then again, maybe if I waited, one of us would be dead in a week. You never knew. Things happened.

  “But what?” Stella prodded.

  “I’d like to see you,” I broke my silence, meeting her questioning eyes. “Outside of work, I mean. I want to take you to dinner.” Cringy, even to my ears. I couldn’t imagine how bad I sounded to hers.

  She tilted her head, some of her brown hair falling in her face. Today she wore it down, not up in her usual messy bun. Blinking, she slowly said, “Are you asking me out? Is a boss even supposed to ask out one of his employees?”

  “That depends. Are you going to come after me with a lawsuit? I warn you now, I might look well-dressed, but I don’t have much in my bank account.”

  Again, a tiny smile. I lived for those fucking things.

  “I have stuff to write, I don’t have time for lawsuits,” Stella said. “But…maybe I’d have time for a date with you. When?”

  Okay, this was when I should just let it go, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t the type to just let things go. My parents hadn’t raised me like that. So I said, “What about tomorrow at seven?” As I said it, I watched her reaction, waiting for her to confess that she’d made, what sounded like, another date tomorrow with someone.

  That stranger at the bar I thought I’d saw her leave with?

  No. I wouldn’t think about it.

  “I can’t tomorrow. What about Friday?” She offered the suggestion so easily, it was hard for me to feel slighted at the missed opportunity of tomorrow.

  “You work Friday, right?” A stupid question, because I knew she worked. I made the damn schedule. “We can go right after work, unless you’d like to go home and change?” I knew where she lived, but I’d never been there. Seemed a huge line to cross, and once it was crossed, there was no going back, no more pretending.

  Us humans were good at pretending.

  “Friday after work,” Stella said, reaffirming me.

  I was so happy to have a date with Stella, so full of possibilities I neglected to realize the man in the corner of the shop staring at us.

  Or, more specifically, at her.

  Chapter Twelve - Stella

  The dress fitting was on Tuesday. I couldn’t forget, so I made a note on the fridge the next day. As I was writing it down, Callie emerged from the hall, wearing a business suit and heels that clicked on the tile. Her brown, highlighted hair was straightened, little wisps of it framing her face. Her dark brown eyes were framed with smoky eyeshadow, blush on her cheeks. With her clothes hugging her curves, she looked good. Sexy and professional at the same time.

  “So,” Callie said, grabbing her purse, “excited for your date tonight with the hotties?”

  I’d told her all about what had happened with Edward and Lincoln—and she’d been extremely jealous. Two men at once was her dream, she’d joked. All she’d ever had was one guy and another woman before.

  This was before John, though. Now she was strictly monogamous.

  “Well, I made it with Edward, so I don’t know if I’ll see Lincoln tonight.” As I said it, I secretly hoped I’d see both. They were two different men, and they filled different parts of me. Who knew I liked it rough? Who knew I liked a man who wasn’t afraid to take what he wanted?

  When Killian had tried to make his moves on me last year, he’d been drunk. I was never a fan of drunks. They smelled, and their behavior was sorely lacking, usually. Killian had been no different.

  I hoped our date tomorrow would go differently. Hell, I still wasn’t sure why I’d said yes to him.

  “Oh, with how you described them? I bet they never have their women one on one. Always sharing. Super jealous right now, which you already know.” Callie waited a moment before adding, “And a date with Killian tomorrow. You’re getting more action than me, Stella! I won’t be able to see John for a few days. He’s out of town on some business trip.” She made an annoyed noise.

  More action. I didn’t exactly want loads of action, but I couldn’t deny the fact it did seem like I was going to be tripping over penises in the next two days. Granted, it wasn’t like I planned on sleeping with Killian—Edward and Lincoln though? I would be a liar if I said I wasn’t expecting to be with them, or at least Edward.

  So weird, because a few days ago, I was a virgin in every sense of the word. Now it was like my inner slut emerged, and she felt good hanging out and getting some. Who was I to deny my body the basic pleasure of life—meaning sex?

  “My date with Killian is just a date,” I said, moving to lean on the island opposite her. “And I don’t have high hopes for it, after everything that happened with him in the past.”

  “You know it could end badly, right? He could try to get some from you again, and you deny him, and then—bam! You’re fired. I know you love your job at the Tribune,” Callie explained, “and I don’t want to see you hurt.” She moved around the counter, enveloping me in a hug. “I hope you know what you’re doing…” The hug ended, and she smiled as she released me. “And being careful. You are still on the pill, right? Taking it at the same time each day?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

  She laughed, grabbed her purse, and was out the door in less than a minute.

  I spent my day fixing up my next blog post and working on my article. I had to go into the office for a few hours to do my time, as they say, but within four hours I was home and showering. My date with Edward and hopefully Lincoln drew near, and I wanted every inch of me clean.

  Would they tie me up again? Would they do something else to me, something more? Or would they not have as much interest in me, since they already had me? They didn’t seem like the type of guys who stuck with one woman for long, and I supposed I couldn’t blame them. Men were always so cavalier about sex and relationships, because they weren’t the ones who could get pregnant.

  I wouldn’t let my pessimism downplay what I felt toward them. Feelings I couldn’t explain. I was, shockingly enough, excited to see them again. I wanted to see them, to spend more time with them. I wanted them to fuck me.

  Just…whoa. What crazy alien took command of my brain when I wasn’t looking? I never had thoughts like those, never ever wanted any guy—let alone more than one—to fuck me. I wasn’t acting like myself.

  And I felt great. I felt happy.

  I dressed in leggings and a longer shirt, even did my makeup a little bit. Something I never did, because it just seemed pointless to me, som
ething that would inevitably smear or wash off, but I wanted to look nice. I wanted, I realized, to impress Edward and Lincoln. I wanted them to want me more than once.

  A drug.

  What I sought to be for them was a drug. I wanted them addicted to me, similar to how I had grown addicted to them after a single night. The tables should turn on them, it was only fair. They should crave me as much as I craved them, and if they didn’t want me by the end of the night, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

  After being with them, I knew.

  I just knew I had to be with someone who knew they needed me. Someone who could show it through their actions, because when it came to words…well, words were often lies. At least when they were spoken to me. Actions didn’t lie.

  I didn’t view myself as someone who needed to have a boyfriend to survive. I’d lived this long alone and could keep going. But the thing was, I didn’t want to. Not anymore. Not after being with Edward and Lincoln.

  Those guys had made me addicted to them after a single night. If I did not become the drug they needed to survive…I didn’t know what I would do. Something not pretty, probably.

  After I was ready for my date, I noticed I still had some time, so I sat down and pulled out my laptop, rereading my article. It wasn’t due until tomorrow at the end of the workday for Sunday’s paper, but for once it would be nice to not have to rush to email it to Killian for review.

  It was…perfect.

  Dear reader, you know I come to you and tell you only truths. I would never lie to you, while other media would see fit to keep shoving lies and mismanaged newscasts down your throat. By now, you’ve undoubtedly heard about the body.

  Yes, the body.

  I don’t need to describe what body or where it was found, because if you’re reading this, you already know. By the time this article hits the shelves and the website, you’ll have already heard all about it on the TV, the radio, the chitchat you and your coworkers partake in every morning before getting to work.

  You already know there was a body found in a condemned house on one of the oldest streets in our town. By now, you’ve heard it was a young woman, her identity still not released to the public yet, in respect for the family. Maybe that will change by the time this goes to press. But I digress.

  You, reader, might think I’m here to talk about what happened to her, and in a way, you’d be right. But in another way, you’re wrong. What interests me is not the victim but the perpetrator. Who would ever murder a young woman in the basement of an abandoned, foreclosed house and restrain her hands so it looked like she was praying?

  A killer, obviously.

  All right, so we might have a new killer in town, to which you might be thinking: that’s not bad. There’s a killer in every town. The murder rates in Chicago are much higher than in our state. We’ll be okay.

  I write this to ask you—no, to tell you—this is only the beginning. This was the first, but I promise you it won’t be the last body the police find. How do I know this? Deduction.

  The woman was brought to the house from another location, which suggests some degree of premeditation. Not that I’m suggesting any killer is an average, everyday, run-of-the-mill killer, but I don’t think anyone’s first thought after murdering someone would be to display the body.

  I’m going to take a pause here and let you think on this yourself. If someone planned out a murder, if someone wanted the body on display and moved the victim into a praying position, what does that mean? The cops would tell you it was just some sick individual who needs some cold-hearted justice, but I would tell you it’s because our killer had the hopes of someone finding the victim.

  You don’t put something on display if you don’t want other people to look at it. We’re very curious by nature, us humans. This victim, the poor girl, was no different from a trophy…

  …but she wasn’t a trophy, and that isn’t all of the puzzle.

  Why would our killer choose an abandoned house, a property no one is supposed to go onto, to display his crime? Why would he leave her there to rot? He chose the location for privacy, and I was there—the air still smelled like flies and rotting skin, one of the worst smells I’d ever had the displeasure of breathing in—but to display his victim in the basement and leave her there, it suggests to me something else.

  Our killer was testing the waters. This was not his finale or even his grand opening. This was his practice test, his dry run. This was the instrumentalist playing his violin on a stage before no people.

  Long story short, I think our killer is only getting started. I think this is just the beginning of the bloody mayhem he’ll bring us. The next time he kills, he’ll get better. Better and better until he thinks he’s good enough to reveal his victims to the public.

  Make no mistake, the only reason the police discovered this body was because the smell was so strong, you could smell it even while not on the property. The smell was the only reason the police were called to investigate, because the houses next door are still occupied. Who wants to breathe in and smell the stink and decay of human flesh? Not me, and I hope not you.

  Of course, this means our killer could be active out there, somewhere. He might’ve already killed again, but until there are more crimes committed, until there are more victims piling up in a similar way, he remains only a killer. I would put all the money I have—which isn’t much, sadly for me—on him killing again, and doing it soon. I would bet my life that by the end of the month, we have an official serial killer on our hands.

  The questions remain, though—who is our mystery killer, and why does he want his victims to pray?

  Should God save them? Should the angels?

  Or does our killer think he is sending them to the great big expanse in the sky, to heaven? Does he think he is making more angels for God’s so-called army of righteousness? Only time will tell.

  I sat back, staring at the last paragraph. The article was perfect, but I didn’t have a title yet. So far, the police and the news stations had only called the killer the perpetrator. They didn’t call him a serial killer yet, because there was only one found body. It wasn’t to say he’d only killed once, but in the eyes of the public, he was just a killer.

  Somewhere, deep down, I knew he was more than a killer. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was a serial killer, that he would kill again. I felt it in my bones, a sick and twisted promise of blood and chaos.

  I needed the blood and the chaos, because it made me feel alive.

  No, this article had to have a good title, and the killer had to have a good name.

  I read the last paragraph again, and then, kind of like magic, it came to me.

  The Angel Maker.

  Chapter Thirteen - Lincoln

  I couldn’t believe Ed wanted to see her again so soon. He was obsessed, had to be. There was no other explanation for it. Yes, her cunt was tight, but a nice pussy wasn’t all she was. Those fucking eyes. Those eyes that made me want to gouge my own pair out just so I didn’t have to look at them. I still hated her eyes, and I didn’t understand Ed’s fascination with her.

  It would pass. It had to pass. If it didn’t…I didn’t want to think of what it meant.

  Beneath the hidden psychosis, Ed was a romantic at heart. It was something about him I thought both was annoyingly ridiculous and kind of cute—in a more ironic way than an actual cute way—and I’d long since learned it was not something I could change about him.

  He never felt full, never whole, and he misappropriated the feeling with needing someone else steady in his life. The truth was, he was just as fucked in the head as I was, and no matter who came into his life, he would never be whole. He was cracked and broken, held together by some dollar store, cheap ass tape. No cunt or dick could fix him, Stella’s included.

  I tried to make him realize this for the last day and a half. All throughout work, I texted him, trying to be the reasonable one, trying to dissuade him. Inviting Stella into our home again, especially s
o soon after first having her, would not end well.

  In fact, when Ed got a little ahead of himself, the objects of his obsessions always ended up dead.

  Hmm. Maybe that’d be a good thing. Stella dead—I kind of liked the thought. At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about her or her hold over Ed, at least then no one would ever have to stare into her eyes again.

  Yeah, I just couldn’t get past those fucking eyes.

  Ed would not be dissuaded, which was how we wound up at the bar he’d stalked her to the other day. I had a feeling if Stella found out how much he really did know about her, she wouldn’t want to let either of us close to her again. He’d pretty much cyber-stalked her for the last twenty-four hours.

  If she realized how much he knew, it could very well be another good way to get rid of her. I filed it away in my mind, knowing murder wasn’t always the best solution. It was fun, but sometimes killing someone would just draw too much attention to Ed and I. We had to be careful.

  We were early, arriving there before Stella, and as Ed ordered a drink, I looked around the bar. A Thursday night, yet it was packed. It wasn’t dubbed Thirsty Thursday for no reason, I supposed. There were some prime targets tonight, too. It was a good thing I drove separately—I’d keep an eye on Ed for a little while, but the entire night was not on me. Ed liked watching, but tonight he could have his freaky-eyed chick to himself.

  I noticed a few women, crowding around each other off to the side of the bar, where the booths were. Mid-twenties to early thirties. They all wore tight clothes, and most of them had tits to die for. I could hear them laugh all the way across the bar. I would gladly take a few of them home, but I knew it was harder to pry apart a group.

  Plus, if the one who broke apart from the group didn’t come home, they’d know. They’d remember me.