Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1)

by K. V. Rose

  There’s a pounding in my ears so loud I can’t hear the words Zeke is saying, his brow furrowed, face angry, a vein ticking in his temple.

  Adrenaline rushes through me, tunnel vision on his hands around her throat as I run down the stairs, reach down and grab the collar of Zeke’s white shirt, hauling him to his feet, off of Addison.

  I sweep my gaze over her, see blood on her throat, and her skin is unnaturally pale, but she’s breathing, and when I pull Zeke off of her, she scrambles back toward the wall, sitting up.

  I push Zeke against the wall adjacent her, edging the stairs I just came down from, his shirt in my fist.

  “Do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?”

  “Get your hands off of me—”

  I backhand him, cutting off his words as his head spins. I see blood in his mouth, and I’m not sure if I did that, or she did that.

  She’s whimpering at my back, but I don’t look at her.

  “Answer the question,” I tell Zeke calmly, one hand against his chest, the other gripping his face as I turn his head back toward me.

  He stares at me a long moment, breathing hard beneath my hand, his mouth open, blood flecked across his chin.

  And when he moves, so subtle I might not have noticed save for the sound of a gun cocking back, Addison whispers my name.

  Zeke grins at me, blood on his teeth. “Let me go, Max.” He glances behind me, and I hear Addison say my name again, closer this time, like she’s moved toward me. “Or I’ll break her fucking neck when I’m done with you.”

  My hand on his jaw is crushing. I see him wince, but otherwise, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t move, because the barrel of his goddamn gun is against my ribs.

  “Max,” Addison says, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Max, let him—”

  “Shut up, Addison.” The words come out through my gritted teeth, and I feel anger like I haven’t known in a long, long time run through my blood. I want to bash Zeke’s brains in. I want to slit his fucking throat.

  I want to put a bullet between his eyes.

  But if I move my hands, I won’t have nearly enough time to draw my own gun before he pulls the fucking trigger.

  “Max,” Addison says again, and I realize she’s beside me.

  She’s fucking beside me.

  I turn from Zeke, not letting go of him, and my eyes lock on hers. She has blood on her throat, over her lip, and my hold on Zeke tightens.

  “Easy, Max,” he says calmly, the gun still to my ribs.

  “Max, it’s okay,” Addison says, and I want to hurt her, too. I want to hurt her because she wasn’t supposed to leave the fucking bar, and she was supposed to listen, and now I’m going to watch her get dragged out of here by a fucking kid.

  “Let me go, Max. Back off of me.” I hear the impatience in Zeke’s tone, but it isn’t until he moves the gun from my ribs to aim at Addison’s head that I let him go.

  I let him go as all the breath leaves my lungs and I take a step back, my hands up as he holds the gun to her temple.

  Her face drains of color, but she doesn’t look away from me. She doesn’t scream or cry or move. She just stands motionless. Brave.

  Angry.

  “That’s a good girl,” Zeke says, and I ball my hands into fists as he reaches for Addison, pulling her in front of him like a shield, gun still to her head.

  I hold Addison’s gaze as Zeke starts to walk her forward, toward the stairs leading downward.

  “Where are you taking her?” I ask him, and I hate that my fucking voice is hoarse.

  He laughs, still walking her forward, until they’re almost level with me, her eyes still on mine. “You’ll get what you were promised soon.”

  Jameson.

  That fucking bastard.

  He wants to rush this. Addison must be personal to him, even though I’ve found no connection between the two of them. But he wants to rush it, because while he can’t leave and Ollie can’t leave because of whatever gang bullshit is happening at the border, he can have Addison come to him. He knows I’d never take her there myself. We’re supposed to meet on neutral territory.

  As Zeke draws level with me, he turns so Addison is between us, trapped on either side by both of us. He still has the gun to her temple, and she’s still staring at me. I can’t read her expression, but in this moment, I want to fucking kill her and kiss her all at once.

  She didn’t fucking listen.

  And I left her.

  Zeke traces the gun down her jaw, over her neck, right in front of me. He dips the barrel beneath her dress, circling her breast, and I watch her face flush pink. Her lips tremble, and my hands start to shake at my sides.

  Zeke laughs against her ear, runs his tongue down her jaw.

  “He’ll pay you for the early pick up,” he says softly against her skin, but his eyes are on mine. “And you’ll get what you’ve been waiting for.” Then he bites her, and just as I can’t fucking take it, just as I’m about to break his goddamn neck, consequences be damned, it’s Addison that moves.

  She kicks up behind her, her legs completely free, and she lands her heel in Zeke’s balls, judging by the way he grunts, doubling over and loosening his hold on her enough that she spins around, her back to me.

  In that split second when Zeke has his hands on his knees, gun in one, I’ve drawn my own Glock, my arm wrapped around Addison.

  I pull the trigger, my arm jumping back slightly from what I’d never admit is nerves.

  I hold Addison tighter as Zeke goes to the ground, his back hitting the top step behind him, his gun clattering down the stairs.

  In my head, I see it all again.

  Him on top of her, her dress to her knees. His gun trained on her head. His tongue on her face. His teeth in her jaw.

  I see it all, and I let go of her, push past her to sink to the floor, flipping the gun in my hand.

  The first hit has Zeke’s entire body jolting, a strangled groan coming from his mouth, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  The second and blood gushes from his nose and his feet scramble against the floor as he tries in vain to get away from me.

  The third, and he stops moving as I slam the grip of the gun against his face. I stand to my feet, use my foot to kick him down the stairs, his body thudding on each step, but without consciousness, he can’t stop his own fall.

  I see his own weapon at the bottom of the stairs as he lies motionless, covered in blood, and I quickly walk down the steps, pick it up, hold the barrel to his head, and with Addison silent at the landing, I pull the fucking trigger.

  “You fucked up, love.”

  With Zeke dead on the floor, I stand and face Addison, dropping his gun and stowing my own. I have blood on my face, blood all over my hands and my shirt, but I don’t care.

  When I climb the stairs and reach for Addison, I don’t fucking care.

  People will be here soon. Guards will come looking for the source of the gunshots, but I don’t give a fuck about that either.

  All I can think about is that gun to her fucking head.

  I shove her against the wall at her back.

  “What was that?” I try to swallow down my anger. Try to keep up my mask of cold indifference. Judging by the dead man at the bottom of the stairs that she keeps darting her eyes to, it’s becoming increasingly harder to control myself in her presence. Especially as she defies me at every fucking turn.

  She tries to push me away, tries to grab at my hand pinning her down by her chest. Her eyes are red, her cheeks flushed, blood on her skin. She looks again at Zeke on the floor, then back up to me. “Let me go, Max—”

  I clamp my hand over her mouth. “Answer my fucking question.”

  Her chest heaves as she glares at me. I loosen my hold over her mouth as her lips move beneath my hand. “You…you fucking left me,” she hisses, clearly brave from the drinks she should have never had. Zeke’s death doesn’t seem to be affecting her like Ben’s did. Maybe she’s becoming accustomed to
me shooting people in the goddamn head for her. “You told me to stay and then…” Her words are coming out choked, I see her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “Evora.” Fuck. “You-you piece of shit. You’re a fucking piece of—”

  Despite what she heard with Evora, despite the fact that Zeke no doubt pointed her in that direction, I can’t hold back my anger. I just saved her life. I just fucking saved her life and she’s ungrateful.

  I slap her, cutting off her words.

  I broke my own promise to not hurt her again.

  God damn her.

  Before she can react, my fingers tangle in her hair as I kiss her so hard, I can’t breathe. Her teeth clash with mine as she tries to turn her head, but I don’t let her. Her hands grip my arms hard enough to hurt. This isn’t passion.

  This is fucking hatred.

  I press my cock against her stomach, and she digs her nails into my shirt. Biting her lip, I tug it toward me, and she gasps. I taste the alcohol on her tongue, and blood in her mouth.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispers, loosening her hold on me, resting her brow against mine as I let go of her lip. “Why do you...what are you doing to me?” Her eyes are shining, her cheek red where I slapped her. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You belong to me, Addison. I can do whatever I want—”

  The sound of a door closing at the top of the stairs cuts off my words, followed quickly by, “Are you testing the merchandise?”

  The man’s voice has me drawing my weapon, and I release Addison, turning to face the man, the gun aimed up, at his temple.

  It’s the man with the tattoos.

  Addison’s buyer’s guy.

  His other guy.

  He smiles at the gun pointed in his direction, the looping number tattooed under his right cheek tugging up as he does. Even though I know who he is, and why he’s here, I don’t lower the gun.

  He glances behind me, at Addison at my back.

  Slowly, he comes down the stairs, looking over the railing when he’s halfway down.

  He sees Zeke on the floor and stops approaching.

  Addison doesn’t say anything, and I shift in front of her, blocking his view.

  “Did you send him?” I ask him through gritted teeth. “Is that your guy?”

  His eyes slide back to mine. He runs a hand over his face, sighing. He’s likely in his thirties, with brown skin, golden eyes. He doesn’t appear very threatening, save for the tattoos on his face, but I know better. “Zeke was only supposed to inspect the merchandise.” He sounds genuinely remorseful, and I’m not even sure what the fuck for. “I guess he got carried away.”

  I don’t say anything as we stare each other down.

  He sighs again, shrugging. “You do understand though, Max, it’s highly…unorthodox to put your hands on things that don’t belong to you?”

  My finger is twitching against the trigger, but I don’t pull it, because if I do, if I kill this guy, there will be five more at my doorstep tonight to kill me. And Oliver…I can’t lose Oliver. Not again.

  “Jameson will expect her,” he glances behind me again, “to arrive in mint condition. Or else you won’t get what you’re promised.”

  I hear Addison draw in a ragged breath at her buyer’s name, at the fact she knows she isn’t in “mint” condition, and the man smiles again.

  “Of course, feel free to punish her how you see fit.” He nods toward Zeke. “After that scene she caused, she deserves it. She should’ve never wandered off with him. But keep your dick in your fucking pants.” The man’s voice becomes hard with those words, then he turns on his heel, straightens his suit jacket, and walks back up the way he came, the doors to the stairwell closing after him.

  After he speaks to the host of the party, and a team of guards rush to the stairwell to clean up the body, he drags me to the car.

  When we’re home, his fingers circle my wrist before I can get out of the car myself and he’s yanking me into the house, down the hall. Blood is still all over the both of us. He closes the door to my room after he pushes me inside and turns to face me, his eyes narrowed.

  “You’re going to pay for that,” he says through gritted teeth.

  Nerves make my hands tremble by my sides, steal my breath.

  In the car, he hadn’t seemed so angry.

  I thought he’d send me to my room, and it would be over. This would be done. I thought he’d be more pissed at Zeke, but it’s me he takes his anger out on.

  At least Zeke gets to fucking rest.

  I left with him to escape. For a chance at returning to the life I knew. For reuniting with my brother. I took a drink from the bar and spoke to a man who initiated speaking to me because I was nervous. I wasn’t looking to disobey. I wasn’t looking for an escape. And I might not have even taken it, but Evora. Max fucking her, when he should’ve watched me. That made up my mind for me.

  I open my mouth to tell Max all of this, but he advances, and I retreat, my hands up, as if I could possibly defend myself against him.

  I stumble against my nightstand, and as Max gets closer, I reach behind me, grab the lamp someone put in here, to replace the one I ruined the night before everything changed.

  Before I watched Dante die.

  Before Max fucked me.

  My fingers curl around the base of the lamp and I swing, ripping the cord out of the outlet. It swings around, too, and even though Max steps back from the lamp, the metal prongs of the cord whip against his face.

  He blinks, taking another step back.

  Both of us are momentarily stunned that I did any damage to him at all, but I don’t stay stunned for long.

  I rip the lampshade off, drop it to the floor, and I come closer to him, swinging again, a guttural roar coming from my throat. The bulb bursts, bits of glass shattering over his suit, falling to the floor.

  I flip the lamp, so the base hits him when I swing again. It connects with his shoulder, reverberating through my own arms, but he just laughs.

  He fucking laughs, and I swing at him again, anger lighting up my blood, propelling me forward.

  He lets me hit him over and over, still smiling as he does, the promise of violence in his eyes, but I don’t care.

  I don’t fucking care.

  I can’t stop.

  Even when my arms are tired, even when exhaustion washes over me, even when I start to regret this, even when I realize it’s stupid...I don’t care.

  I’m too far gone.

  I’m too far past giving a fuck what this man wants.

  What any man wants.

  “You left me!” I scream at him, getting closer as he backs up, until he’s against the wall my bathroom is on. “You fucking left me!” With every word, I swing, and he takes it, his hands down by his sides as he watches me with amusement.

  “Is that all you have, Addison?” he taunts me. “You really want to do this again?”

  My chest heaves and I kick off my heels, putting myself on more balanced footing. “Fuck,” I swing again, the lamp colliding with his shoulder, “you.” I go for his face, and this time, he grabs the lamp.

  This time, the smile is gone from his mouth.

  I try to jerk back the lamp.

  I give it all I have, using my body weight to dig in my heels, yanking it as hard as I can.

  But he easily pulls it from me. He doesn’t throw it aside like he did last time.

  This time he keeps it.

  My heart picks up speed, and I retreat, fear instead of anger making my limbs tremble.

  “You want to do this again?” he asks me again, his words quiet, tone cold. I think of the last time he hurt me, after I attacked him. Is this my fault? Am I doing this? But no. At the party, I did as he said.

  Until he. Left. Me.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Max. I didn’t know… And you said you wouldn’t,” I tell him quickly, my voice a whisper, my mind racing. “You said you felt b-bad and you—”

  “Oh, I did,” he cuts me off, steppin
g closer. He throws the lamp against the wall, hard, the sound making me flinch. It falls to the floor and he walks closer. “I did feel bad.”

  I hold up shaky hands, still feel where he slapped me at that house as my heart races. “Max, don’t—”

  “But then you went and did exactly what I asked you not to do. Believe it or not, Addison, I was trying to look out for you tonight. Maybe having another fucking gun to your head helped you figured that out, but you could’ve just fucking trusted me.”

  I frown, biting my lip, feel myself tense, but I don’t drop my hands as I back up another step.

  “I was trying to protect you, but you are a girl who is impossible to care for. No wonder your father hasn’t come for you. Your brother. No one has come for you, because you are impossible to—”

  “Stop.” I say it softly at first as he tears down my mantra. But as he keeps trying to talk, I say it louder. “Stop, Max.” And when he steps closer, and I’m against the wall beside my bed, I scream it. “Stop!” I swallow the lump in my throat and watch as he does stop, quirking a brow at my scream, as if he’s waiting for the rest of my tantrum. “Stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” My words come out in a rush. “You have no idea. You think—”

  “I think you’re a spoiled bitch, Addison, and I think you need to learn your fucking—”

  “You think anyone cares for you, huh?” I drop my hands, ball them into fists. “You have people that love you, Max?” I gesture behind him. “Where’s Dante, huh? Where’s. Dante? You buried the only person who probably ever gave a fuck about—”

  His hands come to my throat as he knocks my head against the wall.

  I already know this is going to hurt. I already know I’m going to regret everything I did. As he threads his fingers through my hair, pulls my head up only to slam it back again, I know in the morning, if I wake up, I’ll hate myself for doing this.

  But now? Now, I don’t fucking care.

  Stars dance in front of my eyes, but I keep talking. “No one loves you. No one loves you, and no one ever will.” My words are a jagged whisper, but I know he hears me.

  He hears me even as he grabs my arm, throws me to the floor.