Unsettled: Thriller Standalone

by A J Wolf

  UNSETTLED COPYRIGHT © 2020 AJ WOLF

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, plots, and incidents are a product of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, music/lyrics and brands mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Cover Image/Book Design & Formatting by AJ Wolf Graphics

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Two - Hadley

  Chapter Three - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Four - Hadley

  Chapter Five - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Six - Hadley

  Chapter Seven - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Eight - Hadley

  Chapter Nine - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Ten - Hadley

  Chapter Eleven - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Twelve - Hadley

  Chapter Thirteen - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Fourteen - Hadley

  Chapter Fifteen - Butterfly Kisses

  Chapter Sixteen - Hadley

  Chapter Seventeen - Hadley

  Chapter Eighteen - Hadley

  Chapter Nineteen - Hadley

  More from AJ

  AJ Wolf

  My fingertips brush along my little butterfly's jaw, moving across her cheekbone to tuck a stray piece of buttery gold hair behind her ear. Pink flushes her cheeks as she lowers her emerald gaze to the red solo cup clutched in her hand, her fingers crinkling the middle with little divots. It’s obvious she doesn’t get this kind of attention often.

  That works in my favor.

  She told me her name hours ago, but I didn't care enough to listen. I came to this party with only one purpose, and making friends was not it. My hand leaves her hair to skim along the soft skin of her thigh, lips twisting into a small smirk at the little jump she does at the unexpected touch. Giving her leg a light squeeze, I bend slightly to look into her face, flashing a disarming smile to get her eyes back on mine. She’s a shy little thing, more of a wallflower than the other girls I’ve noticed.

  I knew she was my Papilio machaon the moment I laid eyes on her.

  “Dance with me?” Biting her bottom lip, she gives me a slight nod in answer to my question, pink blooming across her cheeks again. My heart thumps at her response, blood pumping below my skin as I verify her answer. “Yea?”

  She nods again, more exaggerated this time. “Yes.” It’s breathy and unsure, a sweet little whisper that makes my pulse pick up another notch with anticipation.

  I carefully peel her fingers from her cup and set it aside, keeping my smile in place to keep her from scattering. My fingertips lightly graze her palm to link our fingers, urging her from her seat and tugging her behind me toward the middle of the room before she can change her mind. The music is some mainstream pop hit with a loud beat, something I've never heard, nor care to remember. The surrounding bodies are all swaying and grinding in the dark room, other drunken students laughing and whispering among us. The lights are low enough to give an illusion of privacy as I tug her body close, fitting her back to my front as I move my hips in time with hers.

  Her skin is buzzing with nervous energy, shoulders stiff as I palm her waist. She keeps casting quick glances at me through her lashes and flashing meek little smiles. Her innocence is intoxicating, and I find myself fighting the nagging in the back of my head to hurry things along, my fingers starting to tremble with the thoughts.

  Tonight she's the high I want to bottle up and store her memory like a keepsake to look back on. Her hair tickles my chin as I hold her, the flowery smell of it teasing along my nostrils. Creeping my hands along her sides as she dances, I smile against her skin at the shiver that shakes up her spine. Dropping my face to skim my lips over her exposed shoulders, I trail them along her neck to speak into her ear. "Relax. We're just dancing."

  Resting a palm on her bare midriff, I let the edge of my fingers brush the top of her waistband as she settles back into me again, a shy little smile cast over her shoulder. “We don’t have to just dance.” It’s so low I almost don’t hear it over the music, her shoulders coming up around her ears like she’s embarrassed the words ever left her pretty little red mouth.

  I don’t have to be in the light to know she’s blushing again. My eager little butterfly; It looks like I’m not the only one wanting to get things rolling. I won't let her brave little words go to waste, "You have a room here?"

  Smile growing, she looks at me over her shoulder while giving me another small nod. I beam at her.

  Fucking perfect. I almost can’t hear my voice over the pounding of my heart. “Show me.”

  She takes my hand, her fingers softly grasping mine. Our eye contact breaks as she glances around the room. We move through the crowd and up the stairs; I watch her back as we climb them, eyes catching on the slight sway of her golden hair, I have to make a conscious effort to keep my breathing under control.

  Chewing her lip, she opens a door at the end of the hall, watching me through her lashes. I pull my fingers from hers and walk into the room. “Sorry it’s a little messy, I wa…”

  I spin and cut her off mid-sentence, yanking her lips to mine in an aggressive smack of lips. Mentally calming myself, I soften the kiss. Using my body to guide her backward, I shut her door by pressing her back against it. Palming her face, I suck her bottom lip into my mouth, letting it slip through my teeth with a gentle, wet pop. “I don’t care about the mess.”

  Her breath fans over my damp lips, quick little puffs that make my hands start to tremble again. Pulling her mouth back to mine, I pick up where I left off, tongue running over hers to hide the impatient shake of my fingers. She tastes sweet like honey, a hint of Jack Daniels burning across my tongue with each swipe that passes through her teeth.

  I want to suck the taste from her mouth until there's nothing left to taste, run my fingers through the yellow of her hair until I can't feel my fingertips and the color bleeds from the strands. I want to burn her touch into my skin, take everything from her, and make it mine. She will be only mine to remember. My little Papilio machaon, pinned to my wall by the torn edges of her golden wings. Tattered and defeated, but so fucking beautiful in all her disheveled glory.

  My fingers trail along her skin, catching on the fabric of her shirt as I move down her body, brush along the brass buttons of her jeans as they move to press along the seam of her pussy. My lips part against her mouth in a pleased smile, fingers already feeling the heat between her legs. My little butterfly is more than ready for me, so hot, I can practically feel the damp pool gathering in her panties through the thick denim.

  I tighten my grip in her hair with my free hand, her little gasp of surprised pleasure burrowing beneath my ribs to wrap around my heart. I want more. I need more. Turning us, I move her toward her bed, my lips twisting into a smirk at another gasp that slips through her lips when I push her back onto the pillows. and climb over her body. My eyes burn as I climb over her, watching her watch me as my tongue reaches out to trail a wet path along her exposed belly. Her eyes close when my tongue dips to taste the flesh just under her waistband, and I reach behind my back to pull out the cotton binding I had stuffed into my pocket earlier.

  My lips catch on her skin as I move up her body, nose pushing along the edge
of her shirt to kiss along the valley of her breasts. The fabric rises with me, and I sit back just a bit, admiring the swell of her big beautiful tits as they heave with her excitement; the rose pink of her nipples straining against the soft mesh of her bra.

  My butterfly is so fucking beautiful.

  Fingers tickling up the length of her arms, I glide them so that they're pressed to her sides, shifting forward just the slightest bit, so if she tries to fight me, I can easily pin them with my knees. I drop to suck one of her tight rosy buds into my mouth through the thin mesh of her bra, running the tip of my tongue along its stiff tip to distract her from the awkward positioning. Coming back to her face, I press a slow lingering kiss to her sweet lips, my fingers shaking as I wrap my bind behind her head, a few golden strands of her hair catching on my fingertips.

  Trailing kisses from her mouth to her ear, my hand returns between her legs, palm pressing roughly over the bud of her clit through the thick fabric of her denim; the brass buttons digging into my wrist as I create the friction her thrusting hips are looking for. “Keep your eyes closed.”

  She nods almost aimlessly, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she chews on her bottom lip with pleasure. I pull my hand away, eyes trained on the flush of her cheeks, on the white mark her teeth have made in her lip. Grabbing the loose ends of my bind, I quickly tie off the gag over her mouth, smiling at the little frown that creases her brow. I run my fingers over her lips through the bind as she mumbles out muffled words I can't make out. Her eyes are open now, but at the slight shake of my head, she refrains from any possible fight.

  Ever the trusting little butterfly.

  A familiar warmth is blooming in my chest, the comforting ache wrapping around my heart as my lungs press out quickening breaths. My heart bangs in my ears as I pull out another tie, making a show of it for my butterfly. I run it through my fingers, trail the end of it along her belly, and over her nipples. I smile as she arches under the whisper of a touch, her skin flushed and pebbled with arousal. This is a game to her, and that sends a thrumming of annoyance through my blood. Although easier, it's so much more fun when they fight.

  The cotton over her lips is damp from her breath, her red lipstick shining through to tease and tempt me as I bring her arms up one at a time to rest above her head. She blinks up at me as I sweetly kiss the tender flesh of each wrist, wrapping my bind around them to tie her to the metal headboard of her bed frame. Unable to resist any longer, I dip down and kiss her through the bind, the feel of the fabric across my tongue beating a rhythm between my legs. The sweet little whimpers leaking through almost have my own hips shifting, the knowledge of what's to come burning in my gut.

  Lips still on hers, my little butterfly doesn't notice the sharp press of my knife slicing a long line from her wrist to elbow until I pull away. Her eyes widen in confusion, blinking at the bloody tip. The slight quizzical tremble of her chin takes all of my attention as I slice another line through her other arm. It takes a moment for her blood to well up, but when it does, the fat dark tear shaped drops that slide down her arms come in thick spurts that trickle onto her shoulders; it slides over her ivory skin and stains the yellow blonde of her hair the prettiest shade of red.

  I get lost in the hue, the rich berry of it painting her pillow with every shake of her little head. Her golden wings are losing their dust as she thrashes below my hips, the soft, weak edges tearing as they get stained with red. She's so, so beautiful. More beautiful than I thought she could ever be. Her screams are muffled through the bind, and I almost reach forward, fingers curling into my palm above her face to stop myself. Not that anyone would hear her over the music downstairs, but that's too risky.

  Crystal clear tears are leaking down her cheeks, deep water pools of seafoam pleading to a lost cause as she stares up at me, her brows pinched to match the frown of her crying lips. Uncurling my hand, I use a single fingertip to wipe one of her tears away, the wet drop stirring a whirlwind in my gut as I bring the lone drop to my lips and lick the salt away. Only spending another moment to watch her, I reach back into my pocket and pull out a small paper butterfly.

  Its yellow edges are crinkled from being stuffed away, but it's okay. It’s just like my perfect little butterfly. I don't smooth out the edges, I let it stay rumbled as I lay it on my butterfly's chest; her heaves of terror making its wings lightly flap. I stare at the little piece of paper, watch its wings fly along her skin. When my little butterfly's eyes become droopy, I move my attention to her pretty little face, swallowing as her body twitches beneath me in a last ditch effort to save itself. The paper butterfly wings flap one last time as she takes one last shaking, shallow breath.

  That’s always my favorite part; those last few moments before they die. Their body has so much to say in those last few seconds, and I savor every silent word, store every painful whisper inside my heart, and watch the light leave behind nothing but a shell to rot.

  Reluctantly shifting off of her, I wipe the blood from the tip of my knife onto her stained pillowcase, then carefully tuck it away as I brush off my own clothing. Doubling and triple checking for any stray droplets of blood, I take the time needed to make sure I'm clean. Satisfied, I look down at my beautiful butterfly. Reaching out, I run my hand over her cheek in a whisper of a touch that burns the very tips of my fingers. Closing my eyes to stop myself from staying any longer, I burn her image into my memory, press all of her into that bottle of memories, then slip out of her room and into the hall before quietly clicking the door shut behind me. Taking a shallow breath, I retreat back down into the main house, grabbing a stray drink off a table as I pass. Inserting myself into a nearby group, I fake a laugh as someone tells a joke I missed the beginning of, flawlessly immersing myself back into the fray like I never left.

  Hours tick by as I continue to mingle, the shaking of my fingers lessening as my high slips away with the hands of the clock. The fallout gets worse every time, the high never lasting quite as long as the last. A fact I'm finding both annoying and alarming. It’s just after two AM, my arm poised back as I play beer pong, when a bone chilling shrieking leaks down the stairs and into the party. I crunch the plastic ball between my fingers as confused chaos ensues, girls screaming from the stairs that my butterfly is dead. I smile into my cup, using it to hide the expression stretching across my cheeks as I revel in my secret for the briefest of moments.

  Dropping my cup in feigned panic, I let a girl next to me grab my arm, her cries burying inside my chest as she tugs us toward the exit, mascara streaking down her cheeks from her tears. Following the dispersing crowds, we stand outside the frat house. Blue and red lights blink across the lawn as police try to calm the panicking students, EMTs rushing past people to get inside the house. There's already a media van here, a pretty reporter droning on about the murder. She's looking through the crowd to find a student to talk to, get the inside scoop, so I carefully extract my arm from the tight grip it’s in and use the scattering party goers as a cover to slip off and out of sight before I get myself caught up in it.

  My hands tuck into my pockets as I walk back to the car I parked down the street, the shadows of the night hiding the smile I let out now that I'm alone. My little butterfly will be all over the news in the morning, and I have my tv set to record.

  My body jolts forward at the sharp smack that lands on my ass, my palms digging into the bedsheets to keep myself from sliding forward. "You like that, baby?" Another smack and my hand braces against the headboard, my lips pinching as hot breath meets my ear. "Yea, you do. You love it, don't you? You dirty little slut."

  My eyes twitch as I fight from rolling them, a low breath parting my lips as I give him the answer I know he wants. "Oh yea, you're so good."

  He's oblivious to the insincerity lacing my tone, or the bored expression on my face, as usual. My little lie spurs him into a frenzy of grunts and unrestrained thrusts that rock me further into his mattress. My gaze rises from the sheets to my hand still braced on the headboar
d, ears blocking out the squeaking of the springs and the soft sweet scent of another woman's perfume wafting from the fabric beneath me. My eyes find the oval mood stone nestled between various other silver pieces on my middle finger; the stone's smooth surface mixed with grey and white, little swirls of hollowness reflecting my inner thoughts in the glint of the pale moonlight shining through the crack of the curtains covering the window.

  That's a feeling I don't need my ring for, though. It's as familiar as the pang of disappointment that burns along my ribs whenever I think of my Nana. As constant as the sorrow that paints my heart with ugly strokes of blue-grey misery. A gift from my Nana, the mood ring was one of her many solutions to my problems. She had a solution for everything; I never had a problem that she didn't have an answer for. Granted, her solutions rarely worked for me, but that's hardly her fault. My problems run a little deeper than most.

  This particular one, though, did work. I've always struggled to understand my own feelings, struggled to understand what the butterflies in my stomach meant or what my gut aching signified. My mood ring helped me understand, helped me get over the frustration of not knowing what was happening and not knowing how to react appropriately. I don't necessarily need it now, I've learned to understand more over the years, but I want it still for both sentimental reasons and as a guide. Sometimes I still get confused; love and hate, anxiousness and fear. Some feelings are so similar at times that it helps me discern them.