Kindle Edition
©The Executioner
Copyright © 2013 Suzanne Steele
Dark Romance Series © 2013 Suzanne Steele
Published by Suzanne Steele
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced. It may not be used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the Author.
Edited by Corey Amador
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations
Formatting by Suzanne Steele
Thank you for downloading this e-book.
Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.
All content herein is protected under copyright law.
This e-book is Rated 17+
To the Reader
The men I write about are Alpha males in every sense of the word. They are the men society warns us about. They are dominant males with controlling tendencies. They are the men you know you should stay away from but yet
you are drawn like a moth to a flame. If you are looking for a sweet romance, you won't find it here. What you will find is dark passion.
Many times my heroes carry what would be
considered an obsession for the woman they love. Each and every character I write about has demanded their voice be heard. I have been true to that calling and I have stayed true to their personalities, which at times the reader may not always agree with. They are dark, they are gritty, and many times their love is dysfunctional but, none the less, it is real.
Stalk Me…
Suzanne Steele’s Blog: http://suzannesteelesblog.wordpress.com/
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Prologue for Rubia
Prologue
“That’s it… now just close your eyes and relax. Think about a place you like, your favorite place to go.”
“This is so cliché, Doc… really? You’re going to have me lie down on a couch and hypnotize me? I don’t think so.”
“Very well then, how would you like to approach your dilemma?”
“My dilemma?” With my head held high and not giving a shit, I speak. “I’m not the first person who has ever suffered a negligent childhood, Doc.”
“Your job mandates that you go through these counseling sessions.”
“My job mandates I have a ton of paperwork to do also, which leaves little time left to talk to you. This is an hour I could have been doing said paperwork.”
“How will you ever help these women if you don’t come to grips with your own issues?”
“Just sign me off already; I’ve got an appointment with one of my clients.”
“I will not, I’m keeping you for observation.”
“I have pressing appointments. I’ll see you next week, Doc.”
I watch my psychiatrist peer over his glasses at me as if he knows something about me that I don’t. I don’t care what he thinks he knows because there is no way I’m opening up to him about the dreams that have recently started to relentlessly plague me.
I make my way home relieved to have escaped yet another opportunity for my mandated head-shrinker to toy around with my thought processes. Really… as far as I am concerned, what’s going on in my head is none of his fucking business. To put it simply… I’m going crazy…
It started about six months ago when one of my clients shoved a gun under her chin and blew her brains out as I watched in horror. I never saw it coming. It was like one of those movies where everything is going in slow motion and the people on the screen are powerless to do anything. I stood and watched, unable to move. I just couldn’t believe it was happening. Now I live with the guilt of what ifs…What if I had moved quicker? What if I would have tried to talk her down? What if I would have done anything… anything but freeze-up like I did?
She called me over to talk. When I entered, she removed the gun that was hidden behind her back—a gun that was neatly tucked into the waist band of her jeans. Without so much as a hello, she blew her brains out while her kid crawled around my feet. To my horror, the child and I were suddenly covered as blood cast off and brain matter splattered onto the two of us.
Not long after the incident, I began to have dreams of a sexual nature. My shrink says it’s my mind’s way of preserving itself so I don’t go crazy. Imagine that…my mind is protecting itself…against me. I’m glad someone is looking out for me. My doc says if my mind is dreaming about something else, then it isn’t plagued by the trauma I suffered. He doesn’t have any idea what I dream about and I have no intention of telling him.
I jump in the tub and sink down into neck high bubbles with a glass of wine. I have found my own form of therapy—writing. There isn’t any sense in letting all those nasty dreams go to waste so I’m using them to write stories. I don’t know how good they are but people sure seem to be enjoying them on the site where I anonymously post them. All I know is it keeps my head straight and my sanity is a luxury I can’t afford to lose.
I have found a way to get the therapy I need without having to open up to anyone. Opening up isn’t an option for me—ever. I actually enjoy giving life to the voices in my head. For so long I have lived in my imagination. Now, what was once imagination becomes real when put to paper, or in this case, computer screen.
I polish off the last of the wine and make my way towards the bed. Hopefully sleep will not elude me tonight. It isn’t falling asleep that poses the problem, it’s staying there.
Dr. Winslow
I twirl my pen between my fingers as I think about my patient. In my life, it is all about appearances. How I look, how I dress, what I drive, how educated I am, and the list goes on and on. It doesn’t really bother me that I live under a spotlight because that’s how it’s always been for me—I’m a child prodigy. By the age of fourteen, I had graduated high school and was enrolled at Johns Hopkins University (with Yale as my safety school.)
I was born a genius, diagnosed at an early age, and learning has always been second nature to me. What many don’t know is there is a very thin line between genius and insanity. Another informative fact many don’t know is… I walk that line.
There is far too much protocol in my line of work and it leaves no leeway. How is a man supposed to further the progression of the medical field when he does not have the ability to use human subjects as study aids for the purpose of hands-on experimentation?
The patient who just exited my office is perfect for the study I am conducting. Of course I have to conduct this study in secret due to the protocol I mentioned, but this subject couldn’t be any more perfect to study how closely emotions tie into the realm of mental stability. How much can a person go through emotionally before they suffer a breakdown?
The
reason I believe she is a prime candidate for experimentation is because she suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder or, as we doctors in the medical field term it, RAD. Basically, this woman is damaged emotionally and I want to know if it will be harder, or easier, to drive her crazy because of it.
The man I have recruited to help me scares the hell out of me, but I have something he needs so I should be fine. I’m not certain how safe my study’s subject is, but I am hopeful she will remain unharmed so I can continue the work I’m doing. To put it simply, the man is a monster—a dangerous and calculating predator. The same way I was born a genius, this guy was born a predator. You see…Trent is a very dangerous man because he enjoys taking a woman against her will. Don’t get me wrong, the guy isn’t a rapist or anything, he just likes to stalk, kidnap, and abduct women. He enjoys a woman resisting sexually so he can systematically break her down until she’s begging for his cock.
And they say I’m crazy?!?
It will be very interesting to see how she responds to the both of us. It’s not her I’m concerned about—it’s him. He intimidates the shit out of me and if you ever laid eyes on him, he would intimidate you too. When I look at him, he reminds me of the historical Roman gladiators. In fact, before he became a multi-millionaire, that is exactly what he did to make a living. He was a cage fighter and rumor has it that he was one of the most brutal in the business. I’m not talking about regulated cage fighting; I am talking about underground, no holds barred, street fighting. Blackmailing a man who looks like he wants to kill me every time he looks at me has been intimidating, even more so because he smells my fear. He’s even gone so far as to tell me so. The bastard gets off on scaring people. He is more animal than man and he is the one I have chosen to stalk my patient and help me with my plan to drive her crazy.
Yes… I’m walking a very thin line in more ways than one… and I have never felt more alive than I do now.
I cringe in the corner of a basement, tugging at the short chain which secures my ankle to an O-Ring in the concrete flooring.
There he is again—the recurring figure who appears whenever the notion strikes him. He is a looming and sinister phantom who comes and goes at will. He uses me for his pleasure and then he disappears somewhere into a mist of obscurity.
“What do you want?” I whisper, as I hang my head to keep from eyeing his massive form. I have been warned not to look him directly in the eye unless given permission by him to do so.
“I think we both know what I want. I want you! Therefore… you are here at my disposal. Have you been a good girl? Don’t lie to me. We both know I watch you and we most certainly both know what will happen if you give what belongs to me to another.”
I am trembling, partly from being cold due to my nude body being in contact with the concrete flooring, and partly from being scared. This is in no way our first encounter together. No, this man inserted himself into my life long ago and, from the first abduction, I have known he is not just dangerous, he is sinister.
“Did I ask you a question?” he growls at me, rising and making his way towards me. His massive form is as agile as if he was thin, his colossal build not hampering his grace in the least.
“I have been good; I have been good.” I scream out at the large, looming figure who dons an executioner’s hood. It is his way of hiding his visage from me.
He bends down, viciously grabs a handful of my hair, and places my lips on his black combat boot—the boot that houses his neatly tucked in blue jeans. His hands are not of a gentle persuasion and his demeanor is that of a man on a mission—to take…take…take…
I frantically kiss at his boot. “Please don’t hurt me; please, I’ll be good.” He scares the shit out of me and if begging is what this crazed man wants, then so be it.
I can see his cock hardening in his fitted jeans and I know his domination of me is already beginning to excite him. He has a sadistic streak and I don’t want to be on the receiving end of it. It pleases him to hurt me. He gets off on fucking with my head and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I get off on him doing it.
“I’ll be good. I’ll do whatever you want. You’ll let me sleep at home tonight if I’m good, right?”
He twists my hair at the roots and I wince like a little puppy. He laughs but it has a sinister undertone to it and it in no way puts my mind at ease.
“How cute… my little victim wants to bargain with me.”
Though his voice is calm, danger lurks beneath the recesses of his being; it isn’t what he does, it is who he is.
I quickly go back to kissing the black combat boot which has been polished to a mirror’s reflection. I will pacify this beautiful monster in any way I can to ensure my safety. He pulls my head back, eyeing me through the slits his executioner’s hood.
He bends down, smelling me, “Poison, how befitting for our rendezvous.”
It never fails. No matter what brand of perfume I wear, he pegs it. The thing I note is that I don’t wear anything but the best and he never fails to identify the brand. It has become a game to him. He now sends it through the mail, of course, never with a return address because it keeps his anonymity and anonymity gives him what he craves—control. He forbids me to wear anything that isn’t of his choosing… and I obey.
He begins to bite and chew down my neck, making his way down to my breast. He clamps down on my nipple just enough to cause me to cry out in pain.
My eyes are closed and I am biting my bottom lip so I never see the knife that he retrieves from his back pocket.
“Such teeny, tiny, little, pink nipples.” He pushes the point of the knife into my nipple.
“No, no, no, no,” I squirm, begging him to move the knife.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You could get cut. You may not squirm, but you may continue to beg. Hmm, I know exactly how to make you beg, don’t I?”
He bends down slobbering, sucking, and pulling at my breast and as my body always does, it responds. It responds to this man who invades my world.
“Oh please, please, I don’t understand. I don’t understand,” I groan, as my eyes roll back in my head. Do I honestly believe a crazed maniac can give me closure on why my body responds to him?
“Is your pussy wet?” he viciously growls in my ear, holding the knife against my throat. “You like the things I do to you and I damn sure like doing them.” He lays the knife down out of my reach.
He lies down on me, so close that his hot breath is a vapor of spearmint I willingly breathe in. He begins grinding his hard cock into me, the denim coarse against my nude body.
“Please let me have it, please.” I eye him through the hood slits. “I’m begging you; I’m truly begging you.”
He straddles me, pinning me down even though it isn’t necessary. He glares down at me through the cut outs in the hood that reveal his one ice cold blue eye and one brown. ‘Heterochromia’ is what the scientific name for it is. “Ironic,” I think as I eye him; his soul seems to be the same way. There is a caring territorial side but there is a very cold and sadistic side too.
He pulls the thick leather belt that he wears through and out of the loops of his jeans. He twists it around his fist as he laughs, taunting me, “Are you willing to take an ass whipping for it? Will you take an ass whipping for my cock?”
“Yes,” I immediately answer.
“Hmmph, you want my cock pretty damn bad, don’t you?”
“I want your cock. I want you to violate me. I like the things you do to me.”
It humiliates me to say the things I say to him—to beg him for his cock. To beg him to fuck me after he’s abducted me and forced his way into my life is utterly debasing. What kind of sick individual wants to be taken in this manner?
“Shut your fucking eyes now!”
I obey him. He scares the shit out of me but it only intensifies the pleasure that he brings me.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and I wait. Each violation is different and anticipation of his antics i
s part of the game he plays—a game with rules unknown to me, his victim of choice.
“Don’t you dare open your eyes; don’t you fucking dare!”
I have no intentions of opening my eyes. I have been on the receiving end of his belt cutting through my flesh before and I’ll do anything to avoid it. I may be willing to take the belt in play but I never want him wielding it in anger.
I feel powerless not being able to see what he will do to me and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, resisting the temptation to open them. I know instinctively there is a part of him that hopes I open my eyes.
He gets off on disciplining me, stalking me, abducting me, and ultimately controlling me. I never know what he will do from one day to the next, hell, from one moment to the next. He is obsessed with me and I am obsessed with his obsession of me.
We are two kindred, fucked-up souls who feed off of one another. He covets me like he’s addicted to controlling and manipulating me and I want him to want me so desperately that he is willing to do anything to keep me.
My psychiatrist says there is a very thin line between love and obsession and I don’t walk it. For me there can be no love without obsession.
I’m not talking about obsession in the sense of an item being at the forefront of your mind throughout the day. I’m talking about the kind of obsession people live and die for, the kind of obsession that makes a sane man crazy and a good girl dirty.
I don’t believe in love. I believe in gut wrenching, mind blowing, I’ll blow your fucking brains out obsession. The kind of obsession that takes on a criminal nature and never ends well. I root for the bad guy and I definitely want to see him get the girl.
I want to see the villain follow a man in the bathroom and shove his face in the toilet as he informs him he is going back out into the bar to take his woman. I want to hear him emphasize how there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it. I want to hear him tell the man how he is going to tie her ass down, spread her open, and eat her alive until she forgets his name and screams out her abductor’s name.
The Executioner Page 1
