The Cruelest Chaos (Unsainted Book 3)

by KV Rose

  My eyes flutter open and I angle my head, trying to see through the crack in the door.

  It takes me a second, but I find a good vantage point, see them both sitting in small plastic chairs, side by side, feeding celery to the Guinea pigs which are swarming around their feet.

  Ella has on that bright orange sweatshirt and Connor is wearing a dark blue jacket that hugs his frame, Carolina Speedway written in white letters on the back.

  He doesn’t say anything to Ella, and she doesn’t seem to mind as she watches him hand a piece of celery to one of the animals.

  I see the side of his face, his straight nose, high cheekbones. His facial structure kind of reminds me of Lucifer and I don’t like it, even though I don’t know why.

  Connor isn’t ugly, and I guess I hate that.

  I hate that I’m spying on them, too, but I can’t stop. I like to hear her when she isn’t with me. She speaks more freely with Connor than she does with me and although I hate that, too, I want to hear her voice. Her words.

  Ella sighs, dropping the last of her celery onto the hay floor. Connor does the same, and then they both look at each other.

  Ella has a slight smile on her face and Connor’s lips quirk into a smirk.

  I realize I’m holding my breath, and I have a bad feeling that I’m not going to like what happens next. There’s a lump in my throat as I keep watching anyway, and when Connor takes off his glove and brushes his thumb against her face, I think I’m going to puke.

  But she smiles at him, catches his fingers in hers and holds them against her cheek.

  I realize my own fingers have grown cold, and there’s a sour taste in my mouth as he leans toward her, his hand shifting to the back of her head, pulling her close to him.

  No.

  I know she won’t do it. She’s fucking mine.

  She’ll pull away. She’ll stop him. With the way she lets me treat her, she’s just for me. And I haven’t been with anyone since Chelsea, just a few days after I met her. And that was a mistake. A one-off, because I thought I could get Ella off of my brain.

  It’s been only Ella for weeks now, which must be a record for me.

  But she doesn’t care. She isn’t stopping him.

  He angles his head, and she does too, her eyes going to his mouth.

  No.

  She fucking wouldn’t. Not after what I did for her: with her mother, Jeremiah, Nicolas. Not after what she did for me.

  But she does it.

  His mouth hovers over hers, and she closes the distance between them. I want to run, but my pulse feels sluggish, my limbs heavy, like I’m anchored to the spot by my own mind.

  This is no less than what I deserve.

  After how I screamed at her. How I fucked her. How I refuse to tell her anything about me. About my friends. My fucking family.

  Amor fati.

  Love of fate.

  Some sick part of me does love this, this pain in my chest. Especially as she opens her mouth and I see his tongue sweep over hers, and she moans a little, closing her eyes. He pulls her closer, then he picks her up, sets her in his lap so she’s straddling him.

  His hands go under her sweatshirt, and she moans again, into his mouth.

  Let it go.

  Let it go.

  Let it fucking—

  No.

  Fuck no.

  That’s my girl. She’s mine. I own her.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath in. Out. I hear her whimper and even though I know I should leave, even though I know I should run far, far away and leave her alone, let her be happy here with him or whoever she wants, I can’t.

  I can’t do it.

  My eyes fly open as she whimpers again and I wrench the shed door open. The Guinea pigs start losing it, the door whacks against the shed, and Ella jumps out of Connor’s lap and he springs to his feet, his eyes hard, his lips swollen, just like hers.

  She pulls her sweatshirt down, and my eyes go to his pants, see his dick straining against his jeans.

  For my fucking girl.

  I don’t think. I just grab him by his stupid racing sweatshirt and yank him out of the shed. Ella follows after us, closing the doors and latching them, screaming out my name.

  Screaming at me.

  “That’s my fucking girlfriend!” I throw Connor down, but he doesn’t hit the ground. He catches himself, straightens, and his mouth presses into a line, his eyes narrowed as he charges at me, knocking my head back against the shed door.

  His hands come to my chest as he pulls me toward him to slam me back again, but I reach into my back pocket and pull out the blade, thumbing the release open.

  His eyes widen at the snick of it, and he drops his hands, backs up.

  I know it’s a punk move, bringing a fucking knife to a fist fight, but I don’t care. I just want to hurt him. I want to carve out the feel of her skin on his.

  “Maverick!” she screams again, and she steps in between us, facing me, her back to Connor.

  He shakes his head and goes to push her to the side, but I stop him.

  “Don’t touch her.”

  His eyes dart to the knife in my hand, right in front of her face, and he drops his hands, looking like he wants to fucking kill me.

  “Maverick, put the knife away,” Ella says, holding up her hands to me.

  I see her red lips, and I think of his mouth on hers. His fucking spit mixing with hers. His dick, getting hard for her.

  “Why, Ella?” I ask her with a smile, barking out a laugh. “This isn’t what you wanted?” I lower the knife but don’t put it away.

  She drops her hands, eyes flicking from the blade back up to me. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “No, Mavy. It’s not what I want.”

  “That’s not my fucking name.”

  She quirks a smile, but I see her eyes are shining and I don’t know if she’s about to laugh or cry. “You wanna hurt me, Mavy?”

  I scoff, eyes locked on her as Connor scowls at me from behind her. “No, baby. Never,” I lie. “I just wanna fucking kill you.”

  Connor grunts behind her, and this time he does shove her out of the way, stepping up to me again.

  “Connor.” Ella’s voice is soft when she talks to him.

  He doesn’t look away from me. Doesn’t back up. I drop the knife, ready to fucking hit him in the face, but Ella grabs his wrist and jerks him away from me.

  “No,” she says to him, holding his hand. She shakes her head. “It’s okay.”

  He glances at me, but she pulls on his hand again. If she doesn’t let go of him, it is definitely not going to be fucking okay.

  “It’s okay, Con.” She nods toward me. “He’s a friend.”

  Connor’s green eyes widen as he twists around to look at me like I’m the monster here.

  “I’m going to talk to him, alright?”

  Connor looks back at Ella, and they’re still fucking holding hands.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Ella promises. And then her gaze shifts to me, and she stands on her tiptoes and kisses this motherfucker on the cheek.

  “Ella.”

  She smirks at me over his shoulder. “Coming, Mavy.”

  He doesn’t speak on the drive home.

  Doesn’t say a word as he carries me upstairs to his room.

  I don’t try to explain myself. I have nothing to explain. He won’t tell me why the pretty girl was in his basement, and she didn’t say a damn word to me as she ran up the stairs and out of the house.

  I don’t know where she went.

  I don’t how long she was there. She was well taken care of, it seemed. A bed. A desk. A bathroom. It was like an apartment down there, and part of me thought she was renting it from him.

  Part of me still wants to think that, because nothing else makes sense. But his reaction to her being gone?

  I don’t think about it.

  And when he cuffs me to his bed, both wrists to the poles of the headboard, I think we’re going to play a game. I think I
wished he’d let me shower first, but I guess he’s not feeling so merciful.

  His body is on top of mine, knees on the mattress as he straddles me and pulls back, slipping the key into the back pocket of his black, ripped jeans. “You can scream if you want,” he tells me with a wicked smirk on his face, “but no one is going to save you, Ella.”

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

  He leans down close to me, his hands framing my body on the mattress. He runs his lips over my mouth, tasting me, but not kissing me.

  “You’re not going to leave here until I tell you that you can leave, Ella.” He tugs at my bottom lip with his teeth and I close my eyes. He laughs against my face. “Because tonight, I want to remind you who you belong to.” There’s a promise in his words that makes me feel sick, but I don’t say a word.

  I just wait for his punishment.

  But instead of doing anything at all to me, he gets off and walks out, closing the door behind him.

  I yank against the chains. “Maverick!” I yell after him. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yank harder, the rattling growing louder, and I know he hears me.

  He hears me, and he does nothing.

  I need to get out of here. The last time I was in cuffs…

  The last time I was chained up, left alone, my mother didn’t come back for hours. Nearly a full day.

  My heart lodges itself in my throat.

  When he was in here, it was okay. But he’s gone, and I don’t know how long he’s going to make me wait.

  Panic sets in. I need to explain to him. I need to tell him why he can’t do this. I need to end this war. I don’t care that he won’t tell me what I want: about his brother, the girl in the basement, his job, his friends. I’ll tell him everything.

  I’ll give him anything.

  As long as he comes back here.

  I kissed Connor to get Maverick out of my head. Because I knew he’d leave me soon enough. I knew this movie version of my life would end too soon, and I needed somewhere to fall.

  But now I just want him back.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  “MAVERICK!” I scream as loud as I can, over and over again, but he doesn’t come back.

  I close my eyes.

  Let go.

  I’m not here. This is not my life. This is a movie. A rom com. He’ll come back in with flowers and champagne and for fuck’s sake, since this is a movie, maybe he’ll even have a fucking ring. I’ll throw it out the window, of course, because I’m not marrying his crazy ass, but it’ll end in rough sex and cuddling.

  He’ll forgive me for kissing Connor. Tell me all of his secrets. I’ll tell him mine. We’ll…be something real.

  I scream again.

  I scream until my voice is hoarse, but I keep my eyes closed.

  And I don’t open them. Not for a long, long time.

  Hours pass, according to the clock on the nightstand. The sun has sunk down beneath the sky, and it’s completely dark outside the wall of windows across from the bed. Then I hear music downstairs, muffled, but I can tell what it is: casual sabotage, and for some reason, it makes me laugh out loud.

  And then I feel tears welling up behind my eyes.

  I hate him.

  I try to turn a little on my side. Try to find a position that I might sleep in, but I already know it’s going to be impossible. I can’t move like this.

  But I see something out of the corner of my eye on the nightstand, in the dim glow of the alarm clock. It’s a blade.

  There’s no way I can reach it. I can’t even turn over. I’m sure it wasn’t there any other morning, or I might have tried to use it before now and saved myself all of this trouble.

  But would you? a voice in my head asks.

  I don’t answer it.

  I just close my eyes again, hearing movement downstairs, the music growing louder. I want to disappear. I don’t want to think about what he’s doing right now. Who else might be here. I don’t know why I want to kick him in the dick when I think of his mouth on someone else’s.

  Is that what he’s doing? Is he trying to pay me back?

  No. He wouldn’t. This is a game.

  I kick against the bed, and it doesn’t make me feel better. I do it again and again, nearly lifting myself off the mattress, the chains clanking against the bedframe. No one will be able to hear me, and I could scream again, but I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.

  I just want to fucking disappear into this bed.

  I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear it. The door creaking open. I jump, startled, my chains rattling.

  My mouth feels dry, and I know, impossibly, I fell asleep. I blink, trying to let my bleary eyes adjust. My arms hurt so bad, being held back like this for what feels like hours. It’s still dark outside, and just as I turn to glance at the alarm clock, I hear another noise.

  A giggle. A girl’s giggle.

  I freeze, my eyes shooting to the double doors of his bedroom. They creak open the rest of the way, and I hear someone, him, say, “Shh, Chelsea,” and the girl—Chelsea— laughs again.

  My ribs suddenly feel tight, my skin stretched uncomfortably against them. My face flushes as I see him. I see him, his hands wrapped around a girl’s bare ass. I watch him in the dark as he kicks the door closed, slides the lock shut with one hand, adjusts his grip on her ass.

  She’s wearing a thong. I can only see the waistband of it, around her skinny hips. I see her spine, too, her long brown hair down her back.

  She’s laughing again, and his hand threads through her hair as he moves her closer to the bed.

  I can’t see his face.

  I can’t see hers either, but I notice she’s got something around the back of her head. For a moment, I just stare at it, unseeing. Unwilling to believe this is real.

  I must be dreaming.

  He wouldn’t.

  Not like this.

  He wouldn’t.

  But…he is.

  I could scream.

  I could yell.

  I could beg for help.

  I say nothing.

  He lays the girl on the bed, her small tits jiggling as he does, her nipples hard.

  I see it then. What’s around her head.

  A blindfold.

  It’s a skull bandana, one of the ones he wears everyday around his neck.

  His neck.

  Oh, god. His fucking neck.

  He runs his palms over her breasts, and she raises her arms overhead, her fingers just inches from my feet under the covers. But he’s got her down at the edge of the bed, her legs dangling over the side. He’s standing between them, stroking her tits.

  And I think he’s looking at me, but I can’t stop staring at his neck.

  He’s not wearing a shirt, and even in the dark, in the soft glow from the alarm clock and the light from the hallway, I can see his neck.

  It’s covered in bruises. He has her bites all over his throat, up and down one entire side of his neck.

  My mouth falls open. My head is propped up on a pillow, at the perfect angle to watch his mouth trail kisses down her skinny stomach, her hands gripping the sheets as she moans, arching her back.

  I want to see her blood.

  I want to see his.

  I want to hurt them both.

  I can’t move.

  He wouldn’t.

  He won’t.

  He’s just testing me. This is payback, but he’s going to stop.

  He’s going to stop.

  I stop staring at his neck. I look at his face. And he’s looking right at me as his tongue runs down her belly, over her belly button, to the top of her thong.

  No, I want to scream. No.

  I think I shake my head, just a little, but it doesn’t matter. He hooks his thumbs into the strap of her underwear, yanks them down her slender legs. And then he grabs her knees, just like he did with me, and he spreads her apart.

  His eyes don’t leave mine.

 
; She moans, arching her hips again.

  Don’t.

  She lowers her hands, makes to pull at the blindfold.

  “Don’t,” he warns her, lifting his head.

  “Yes, Daddy, whatever you say,” she gasps.

  He smiles, his eyes still on mine as he peels her apart with his fingers and she moans again.

  “Say it again,” he commands her. “Call me Daddy.”

  The girl laughs. He slaps the inside of her thigh, and she quiets. “Sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, “don’t stop.”

  I’m going to be sick.

  I’m going to throw up all over his bed and she’s going to hear me. And what could be worse than this? Both of them laughing at me. At my jealousy.

  Humiliation is the worst punishment. My mom taught me that.

  I clamp my jaw together and close my eyes.

  I try to find the movie version of this. It’s a dream. This isn’t real. This is where I wake up and find him asleep next to me, his arms wrapped around me. And I realize how much I love him.

  And he loves me back.

  My dream is just trying to make me jealous, to tell me what my heart already knows. But I’ve already told him what my heart knows.

  He denied me.

  And this pain?

  He wants to see it.

  He wants to watch me hurt.

  I keep my eyes closed, even though I know his cock is in her now, the way she’s scratching at the sheets, breathing hard and moaning, Mayhem.

  Mayhem?

  Another secret I don’t know.

  I pull my knees up to my chest slowly, so she doesn’t notice, and so she doesn’t touch me.

  I keep floating away from here. I’m spinning behind my closed eyes. The movie version isn’t working, but I can be in a different movie. A movie where a girl is chained to a bed and gives herself an out-of-body experience so she can fucking survive.

  That’s the movie version of my life.

  I smell sex in the air, musky and thick. It’s choking me, just like this girl’s reckless pants, her loud screams. The feel of the bed moving with each of his thrusts. My chains clank against the bed, and I wonder if he’s just a fucking idiot.

  But he doesn’t slow down, and the girl gets louder, calling him Daddy again, and I hear his grunts, too.

  I’m not here.

  I’m not here.