Unorthodox (Sick Love Book 1)

by K. V. Rose

  Across from me, tied to a chair just like I am, Mamie has tears rolling down her eyes.

  There are dead men in the foyer, lying face down in pools of blood.

  And squatting down in front of me is a man with a mask, only his dark eyes and his mouth visible.

  He has a gun resting against my knee, one hand on my bare thigh.

  I heard the glass shatter when I came out of my bathroom. Heard the high-pitch whine of the alarm. Gunshots. Screams.

  And before I could step back into the bathroom to hide, my door swung open, crashing against the wall, and there was a gun in my face.

  “Are you scared?” the man now asks me, the first time he’s said a word. He has a Southern accent, and I wonder who he works for. My father? I wouldn’t put it past him to punish me for getting myself kidnapped.

  “Are you in pain?” There’s humor in those words. This man is the one that dragged me down the hall by my hair, that pushed me into this chair. When I kicked and fought him and screamed, he hit me with his gun.

  I can’t speak, and even if I could have, there’s nothing I want to say.

  “Not so mouthy now, huh? Not such a bitch when you’re gagged?” His hand slides up my thigh, his fingers under my sleep shorts. I tense, trying to move my hands from behind my back, but the twine cuts deeper into my wrists.

  My chest heaves against the rope biting into my flesh, wrapped around my torso. My ankles are tied to the legs of the chair, and apart from turning my neck, I can’t move anything but my fingers.

  “I heard you’re a virgin,” the man says.

  You heard fucking wrong. Maybe he’s not from my father after all.

  I hear Mamie whimper beneath her own rope, a man standing behind her chair with a gun to her head.

  “We could fix that for you.”

  I say nothing as the other man laughs.

  I stare at the front door, trying not to see Max’s men slain like toppled dominoes.

  There’s another man in the shadows with a gun, waiting for Max to return.

  He’s going to die right in front of me.

  I’m going to watch his head explode, just like I watched Ben’s. Zeke’s.

  But neither of them mattered.

  Max, though…watching him die is going to hurt.

  My captor’s fingers brush against the edge of my underwear. I refuse to look at him. Instead, I stare straight ahead.

  When I was a child, and Cade got me and Danik alone in a room that summer, at first, it was torture. Even though it wasn’t painful, until the pine bath, I knew it was wrong. And every second spent in that stuffy room was agonizing.

  But after the first week, my brain gave me an escape.

  The hours passed faster, and even the baths weren’t so bad.

  It was as if I was merely an observer in my own life.

  I didn’t have to feel anything.

  It was all…detached.

  The same way it was when I was able to watch documentaries as my father raped me.

  And when this masked man shoves aside the cotton of my underwear and his fingers touch places he shouldn’t, I keep staring at the front door, the etched glass, the dark, polished wood, and I don’t feel him.

  I don’t feel him, and I don’t hear his filthy words.

  I block out Mamie’s anguished sobs, too.

  Crying gets you nothing.

  Crying gets you fucked.

  I don’t cry.

  I don’t feel.

  I block it all out, and I don’t let myself go weak, like I did with Max after Ben.

  Time seems to stand still like this, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m not in it. It isn’t real.

  Even as the man uses a knife to cut my shirt, yanking the fabric from between the binds of my rope, and even when he cuts my shorts, too, until I’m in nothing but my underwear, I don’t exist in the moment.

  It’s happening to someone else.

  As the man stows his gun so he can use his hand, I’m somewhere else.

  Someone else has a blade held to their chest, and someone else has a man’s fingers inside of them. Someone else is being told that they’re nothing, ruined, wreckage.

  Someone else is enduring it all as the guard by the door watches, but it isn’t me.

  I’m not here.

  I wonder why I didn’t do this with Max. Is it because I was attracted to him? Is it because, at first, he was gentle? It is because I’m insane?

  All I know is that now, I’m not here.

  This isn’t my life.

  And maybe no one will come for me, but it doesn’t matter.

  I already left.

  The man’s fingers are rough, his laughter loud, and I have to work harder to block it all out. Mamie’s cries are high pitched, and I grit my teeth around the rope, trying to disappear.

  He grabs my face, tipping my head up, forcing me to look at him.

  “You’re so wet,” he says with menace, “you disgusting little whore. You’re so fucking wet.”

  I don’t listen.

  I don’t think.

  He shakes my face. “I think you should thank me while I play with your cunt, don’t you?”

  The man by the door laughs again.

  Mamie whimpers again.

  I ignore it. I’m staring at his face, but I’m not really seeing him.

  He lets go of my chin, then he backhands me, and my face burns as it jerks to the side, the rope biting into my mouth, but I don’t say a word.

  Even as Mamie screams.

  I keep quiet, even as my pulse pounds in the ache of my jaw.

  The man grabs my face again, leans down close, his fingers still violating me.

  Then he spits on me.

  It’s warm and wet, and revulsion rolls through me, my stomach churning.

  I can’t block him out anymore, and he knows it.

  His mouth turns up into a wicked smile beneath his mask, his eyes locked on mine. “You liked that?” he taunts me. “You want me to spit on your pussy too?”

  My chest heaves, bile burning in the back of my throat, and just when I think I’m going to scream, just when I think I can’t hide inside myself, those double doors behind my captor, the ones I tried to lose myself in by staring at them…they burst open.

  Suddenly, I’m completely back in my body.

  I hear gunfire, and the man toying with me stands behind me, the cold steel of a knife to my throat.

  I watch the glass panes of the doors shatter from an explosion of bullets. I watch the guard that was waiting for Max go down to one knee, then, as Max himself steps inside, a gun in each hand, I watch that guard die, a bullet to his head as he crumples down into the glass wreckage in the foyer.

  When the ringing in my ears begins to die, and silence descends in the dark house, the only sound that of Mamie’s muffled cries across from me, her back to what’s happening in the foyer, I meet Max’s gaze.

  But he isn’t looking at me.

  He’s staring past me.

  The man in front of Mamie is facing him, aiming a gun at his head.

  And the man behind me runs the flat side of the blade against my throat.

  “Where’s Luca?” the man asks, yanking back on my hair with one hand, forcing my throat up, neck arched. The man sounds nervous. “What did you do to him?”

  Max drops one of his guns, keeps the other by his side as he steps over the glass in the foyer. Over the body of one of his own men.

  “Why?” Max asks quietly, the hint of a smile on his face in the dim lights overhead. “Was he supposed to meet you here?” He keeps walking forward, right into the barrel of the gun Mamie’s guard is holding.

  Mamie can’t see it, but her eyes are on me, waiting to see how I react to what’s happening behind her as tears stream down her face.

  So, I don’t react.

  I keep my face carefully blank as I watch Max. As I watch the steel end of the gun dig into his black dress shirt, right at his shoulder.

  “I
’ll kill her, do you understand?” the man behind me threatens, turning the knife so the blade is against my throat.

  I keep my eyes on Max, and I don’t so much as breathe. He seems to notice me for the first time. His eyes rake over my nearly naked body, but he doesn’t react.

  He simply looks back at my captor. “Why would you want to do that?” Max’s eyes gleam with those words. He shrugs, the gun still by his side as he nods toward my body. “There’s so much left of her to use.”

  I feel my captor’s fingers tighten in my hair. “I’m not fucking around, Bennett. Where is Luca and where—”

  He doesn’t get to finish his question. Max lifts his weapon and fires at point blank range, killing Mamie’s captor with a shot to his head.

  But another shot rings out just before he pulls the trigger, and I see him stagger backward, his hand coming up to his shoulder as he grimaces.

  Then he drops his hand, and as if he didn’t just get fucking shot, he steps around Mamie, coming closer to me, his housekeeper at his back.

  I can’t see her now, but she doesn’t make a sound.

  And neither do I, even as I can’t bring myself to look at Max’s shoulder. I can barely bring myself to draw breath.

  My own captor’s hand starts to shake, and I feel the knife nick my throat.

  Max seems to see it, too. His eyes dart to my neck, but only for a second, before he’s glaring at the man behind me. “You just cut my girl,” he says softly.

  My stomach clenches with those words, but I say nothing as I grit my teeth.

  Max reaches into his pocket, and I think about the playing cards he held out for Dante.

  He doesn’t pull anything out this time, he just keeps his hand there.

  “She’s not yours anymore, Bennett,” the man says, his voice hard, but I hear the panic. This wasn’t the plan. Whoever Luca is—his name vaguely familiar—he was supposed to be here.

  Max smiles. He drops the gun to the floor with a clatter and I tense as he steps closer, until he’s inches from me. “She is mine,” he says quietly, “and you fucking hurt her. Only I’m allowed to do that.”

  He takes another step, and the man’s hand trembles violently, another cut slicing into my skin.

  Max sighs. “What’s your name?”

  I can hear the man opening and closing his mouth, words stuck in his throat. Whatever plan he had for tonight, this isn’t it: his men dead, and Max showing up instead of Luca. He’s floundering, but if Max doesn’t hurry up, the man is going to slit my throat and none of this shit will matter.

  “Bennett, I swear to God I’ll—”

  “What’s your name?” Max repeats, his tone even, one hand still in his pocket.

  The man sputters again, but he finally says, “C-Colton. I-I work for Luca and he said—”

  “Well, Colton,” Max takes one more step, his legs brushing against the wooden seat of my chair, “you just fucked up. And if Luca gave one shit about his employees, he’d have warned you about me.” Before he even finishes his sentence, he reaches for the knife at my throat, his fingers edging into the blade, creating a barrier with his own hand to stop the knife from cutting me.

  He snatches it from Colton’s shaking hands, and he lunges for the man, driving him against the wall beside me. A shot goes off, and I remember Colton had a gun, but no one screams, and I hear the gun clatter to the floor just as I hear something else, too—a squelching sound and a strangled cry.

  “He’d have told you that I don’t talk much.”

  When I force my gaze from Mamie’s horrified face to what’s happening beside me, I see Max pinning Colton against the wall. I watch as Max pulls his elbow back, and then drives it forward, and the second squelching sound is followed by Colton’s screams.

  “I just fuck people up.”

  Then Max drops the knife, wraps his hand around the back of Colton’s neck and forces him away from the wall.

  Toward me.

  My mouth falls open as I see blood staining Colton’s grey pants, spreading along his inner thigh, two rips in the fabric oozing blood.

  “Get on your fucking knees,” Max says in Colton’s ear as he pulls the mask off of his face.

  Colton can’t be much older than me, and his face is pale, his eyes wide as he stares at me, his chin quivering. Slowly, he sinks down to his knees, a scream piercing the silence as he does, blood soaking through his pants, making the fabric cling to him.

  Max’s fingers are in Colton’s dirty blonde hair, holding him up. “Now look at her, and fucking apologize for what you did.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Colton screams, but his eyes are closed, and he’s not looking at me.

  A shiver runs down my spine at the look in Max’s eyes as he stares down at the man on his knees. I start to shake in the chair, saliva pooling in my mouth over the rope, my wrists burning behind me.

  “Look at her when you say you’re sorry,” Max says quietly, still fisting Colton’s hair.

  Colton forces his eyes open, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes on mine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  Max clamps a hand over his mouth. “She didn’t ask for your fucking excuses.” He drags him backward, releases his hold on his hair and comes to stand in front of him.

  As Colton trembles on his knees, his hands on his crotch, blood coating his fingers, Max stares at him.

  I hold my breath, and I hear Mamie make a strangled sound as we wait.

  Then Max kicks him, and I hear Colton’s nose break as he goes down, his head thudding against the floor.

  But Max isn’t done. He yanks him back up by his shirt, turns him once more to me.

  Blood pours down Colton’s face as he whimpers, his eyes on mine, as if I might save him.

  Max leans down, and I realize he’s got the knife in his hand as he straightens.

  He holds it over Colton’s throat, and I shift my gaze from Colton to Max.

  Max smiles at me, and his eyes stay on mine as he digs in the blade, dragging it across Colton’s throat.

  Warm blood sprays everywhere, hitting my face as I gasp, rearing my head. The taste of metal is on my tongue, beneath the binds of the rope.

  Mamie whispers Max’s name.

  Max doesn’t let go of Colton for a long moment, and I watch blood pour down his throat like a waterfall, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Then Max throws him to the ground, steps toward me.

  Carefully, he cuts the rope from my mouth, severing it near the back of my head so I don’t have to see the blade. Gently, he pulls it away, and before I can take a breath, he drops the knife to the floor, and his mouth is on mine.

  His bloody hands cup my face, and I taste iron between us, but he groans against me, his teeth clashing with mine as he kisses me.

  My heart thunders in my chest, my body still bound to the chair. Max doesn’t stop, his tongue down my throat, his hands gentle on my face.

  Long seconds pass, and when he finally pulls back, letting us both breathe, he’s smiling, blood smeared all over his face from my own.

  He stands, picks up the blade and walks behind me, sawing the rope from around my wrists. When my hands are free, he goes to work on the rope around my chest, then my ankles.

  After, he pulls me to my feet, and my palms go to his shoulders. I feel something warm and wet under one, startling me.

  Reminding me.

  He was shot.

  He was fucking shot.

  He stumbles backward, against the wall, sliding down with me in his arms.

  I stare at his warm blood on my palm, my mouth open as he holds me, his pale face gaunt, head tipped back against the wall.

  “Max,” I say quietly as I see Mamie still tied to the chair, her eyes on us, an anguished expression on her face. “Max, you need to go to the hospital.” Panic starts to unfurl in my stomach.

  He smiles, his eyes closed. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “Max!” I grab his face between my
hands, shaking him. I don’t want to look at the way his shirt is soaked through with blood. Don’t want to think about the fact that he has his eyes closed. That he isn’t moving. “Max, tell me what to do—”

  “Untie Mamie,” he says softly. “She’ll take care of it, love.”

  I don’t move, his face still in my hands, my heart hammering in my chest. I need to leave him. I need to run.

  I should let him die.

  I should kill him.

  “You thinking of leaving me, baby girl?”

  I glance at his blood-soaked shirt, the black fabric sticking to his skin. “Yes,” I tell him honestly.

  He smiles, his eyes still closed, his usually pale face even whiter. “You might want to think again.”

  Even like this, with a gunshot wound to the shoulder, cuts on his face, his fingers barely grazing my hips as I sit in his lap, his words still make me shiver.

  “I just kicked that guy’s ass for you.”

  “You killed him, Max.”

  He smiles, and I watch him swallow before he says, “That’s what I said.”

  And despite what my brain is screaming at me, I get off of him. I get off, and I find the knife, and I cut Mamie free.

  She goes to work on Max immediately, applying pressure to his wound as she calls someone with his phone, speaking in a hushed voice as I stand, half-naked, in the middle of the carnage and blood and bodies, shivering with my arms wrapped around myself.

  I don’t run.

  I don’t leave.

  I don’t get my clothes and get the fuck out of here.

  Because sometimes what we want and what’s best for us are not even fucking close to being the same thing.

  Leaving is best for me.

  Max is the furthest thing from.

  But as Mamie ends the call and turns to look at me over her shoulder as she works on Max, an unspoken secret passing between us, I know that I’ll get both.

  I’ll get another week with Max.

  I’ll get to know that the man who killed so many, lived.

  And I’ll get to leave too.

  I’ll leave him, and hope to God he stays far, far away.

  For the both of us.

  In the morning, I pad down the hallway in bare feet, my steps silent along the cold floor. I smell something sweet wafting from the kitchen, and I follow the scent as if I’m in a daze.