Micaden’s Madness

by Mason, V. F.

  “Can’t have idiots running my place.” He glances at me. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever,” I reply, mentally calculating if I can take on any of the guys enough to get the fuck out of here. But even as the stupid thought enters my mind, I know it’s useless.

  There’s no running away from these lethal men who all watch me like hawks, predators ready to strike. And all the real-life training I got in prison won’t compare to what they’re capable of, if the louder cries from different rooms are any indication.

  “Who do you need to find?”

  He flicks the cane’s knife back, then stills when I say, “Lachlan Scott. I need to talk to him.”

  “You don’t say,” he murmurs, and then opens his arms wide open. “He is right in front of you. So what do you want, Brochan?”

  What? This fucking guy is him? Maybe Fox didn’t really like me after all and sent me here to die.

  My silence doesn’t sit well with the guy.

  “I’m starting to get bored,” he informs me, rubbing his cane against his cheek. “So either tell me, or I can kill you. The choice is really easy.”

  “Seriously, Lachlan,” the dark-haired guy says, walking to the bar and pouring himself a drink. Yeah, sure, why not drink in such a situation, right?

  I feel like I’ve stepped into a different dimension all together. I expected some old guy who had enough money and owed a debt to Fox. Instead, this is some shady-ass place, they kill with no remorse, and all these men look insane.

  “Fox Daniels sent me. He told me to find you and collect the debt.”

  My words change everything in the room as instantly everyone straightens, and I barely have time to blink before a strong hand wraps around my throat, pushing me harshly to the wall. I try to breathe, but it’s impossible in his hold.

  “What did you say?” the blue-haired guy seethes in my face. How did he even get to my side so quickly?

  “Arson, let him go. He can’t answer if you kill him,” Lachlan orders, and after a beat, he listens, and I breathe in air, coughing. “How do you know Fox Daniels?”

  “We met in prison. He saved my life,” I rasp through my dry throat, and the dark-haired guy gives me water.

  “Sociopath, do we really have time for that now?”

  What kind of name is that? And does this imply he’s some psycho, and everyone is okay with that?

  “Prison,” Arson repeats, and then tightens his fucking hand again to loud, collective groans. “Why did he send you?”

  But this time, I’m ready, so I punch him in his gall bladder, a trick Fox taught me. It doesn’t take a hard punch, but it’ll send juices right into the stomach and up the throat, burning it.

  Arson curses, letting me go, and I snap. “Let me talk before you decide to kill me. I have no idea. I was told to run away.”

  They all stay silent after that, while I collect my thoughts. Fox is for sure someone important to them, but why did he mention only Lachlan’s name? By Arson’s weird reaction, I’d think it was his relative or something!

  “Fox saved me from my nightmare too,” he answers my unspoken question, and then retreats back along with the other guys, leaving me alone with Lachlan.

  I don’t move, still pressed to the wall, and then he digs his cane in my wounded shoulder, sending so much agony through my entire system I cry out in pain.

  “Do you want revenge?”

  “What?”

  “Fox only helps those who, to him, are lost souls. Do you want to inflict revenge on people?”

  Instant fury washes over me, reminding me of all the people who destroyed my life.

  And her. She who deserves to know what it’s like to live on the edge of desperation.

  “Yes.”

  “Then welcome to my world, Brochan. You’re going to learn wonders here.”

  And I do.

  After all, I’m taught by one of the most notorious serial killers in the country.

  Island, United States

  August 2019

  Emerald

  “You look like hell,” I say to my reflection as I study myself in the mirror in the cabin’s bathroom, wincing at every new bruise and the mascara smeared all over me. Not to mention the lipstick that’s ended up on my forehead. Also the scratches, all of them red and stinging, that I gave to myself earlier with my now broken nails.

  I woke up several minutes ago in the warm bed, noticing the atmosphere in the room had changed drastically. The blinds had been opened, which allowed me to see the bright sky, and my hands twitched to recreate the image on canvas, even in this situation.

  All the mess from earlier was gone, and for a moment, I thought I had a bad dream and none of it had happened.

  The memories returned pretty quickly though, so I rushed to the bathroom, locking it firmly behind me as if that would help against Micaden’s madness.

  Exhaling heavily, I turn on the water then wash my face with the help of nearby pads and remove all traces of makeup. Next is my hair. I make a tight bun on top of my head, and that’s when I notice the leather bag lying on the floor. Frowning, I open it up. Relief instantly slams into me when I find my clothes.

  The idea of strolling through the boat, searching for a stupid phone and facing Micaden wearing the half-torn dress, unsettled me. But this way, having my own clothes gives me a sense of security that will protect me from him, or at least that’s what I like to believe.

  I put on my shorts and shirt, along with sneakers, because flip-flops are not secure enough. Taking a deep breath, I exit the bathroom and scream as I bump into Micaden, who raises his brow at me.

  Stepping back, I place my hand on my chest, and say, “You scared me.” But then I realize this is exactly the best way to start this conversion, so I straighten up and lift my chin. “But that’s the plan, right? So congrats,” I add coldly, trying to squeeze myself between him and the doorjamb so I can go past him, but he doesn’t let me.

  He moves to the side, blocking my exit, and when I move to the right, he does the same. “A little sleep’s made you brave,” he says, tapping on my nose before I lean back from his touch.

  “It gave me a reprieve from you. Bravery is always here.” I point to my heart, but at the same time, I can’t believe we’re having such a stupid conversation after everything that transpired between us earlier.

  “I never would’ve guessed,” he muses, and I step closer, ready to give him a piece of my mind, because what do I have to lose really? Acting agreeable won’t work anyway, and I’m not succumbing to his psychological tactics, which pushes all the blame onto my shoulders. I heard that abusers do that: blame victims for their bad deeds, claiming they deserved it.

  Yeah, no.

  But then a loud grumbling sounds between us, and my cheeks heat up as mortification zaps through me. I groan inwardly, because way to go… facing a psycho when my stomach lets him know I’m starved.

  It’s an easy way to torture me too. What if he withholds food and then makes me do tasks to earn it? Images, one worse than the last, flash in my mind, but they stop the minute his amused chuckle registers. “You should see your face, brave heart.” He leans closer, whispering, “Don’t worry, starvation is not my method. Although there’s an appeal to it.” I can do nothing but stand there silently while he dishes his sarcasm at me, but then he orders, “Let’s go eat.” And he spins around, heading upstairs while I follow him.

  Because he’s right.

  I need to eat, and I don’t care if it makes me weak. I’ll be no use to myself dehydrated, so I’ll gather as much strength as possible. He can stuff his amusement down his throat and choke on it for all I care.

  We get up to the deck and my eyes widen at the sight that greets me.

  The round table from last night that was knocked over in my haste to run away is standing firmly again with fruits, cereal, and toast placed on it. Tea and coffee steam in different cups, and the cutlery is put neatly next to the plates.

  There ar
e even flowers in the vase right in the freaking middle. If one didn’t know what happened last night, they’d think my lover prepared a morning breakfast for me.

  “Sit down, Em.” Although his voice is soft and welcoming, I don’t miss the steel lacing it, and I do as he says.

  I throw the napkin over my lap while he does the same, and I comment, “I’m surprised I’m allowed to hold a knife.” I pick it up, while catching his stare, but he shrugs, munching on toast.

  “You can’t do much with it, unless you press it really hard here.” He points at his artery under his ear and then does a slicing motion. “And then did this, then yeah, you’d kill me. Blood would go all over the place,” he says, taking another greedy bite while washing it down with his coffee.

  However, his words have a different effect on me, because my stomach flips, and I cover my mouth with my hand, feeling nauseous just at the idea of what he described. “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’m not the one who brought it up. Eat.” Swallowing past the bile in my throat, I dip the knife in the butter and spread it on the toast, quickly stuffing it into my mouth and eating it without really tasting it. It’s about sustenance, after all, and not enjoyment.

  We continue the rest of breakfast in silence while seagulls caw loudly above us as they fly around, and one of them even ends up sitting on the edge of the boat. I want to give it some bread, but Micaden speaks up, ending the prolonged silence. “You feed one, everyone else will show up. Let it be.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask, pushing away the plate and staring at him. Although my body is grateful for the chance to have food, all this makes no sense to me. He shouldn’t be acting nice or civil, and that’s what his behavior can be called in a way.

  “What happened earlier?”

  His question comes so unexpectedly I blink and then shift uncomfortably on the seat.

  “You tried to rape me.”

  He probably doesn’t miss the loathing in my words, but he brushes it away. “Not that. After. When you were sitting on the floor.”

  I gulp a breath and freeze, because for a moment the feeling returns, a sinking coldness in me bringing back the hopelessness that drives people insane. “I remembered,” I simply say, and he raises a brow at me to indicate I have to elaborate, even though I don’t understand why.

  Doesn’t he know it anyway, since he was the one to inflict all those sorrows on me? “I know why I wrote the statement. My book… all those things never really happened with us, did they?” He frowns, but I continue before he can reply. “You hurt me, keeping me prisoner. Bringing me pain. I wanted to escape all the pain. And probably in creating a story so different from reality, I hid from it. But you didn’t rest and brought it back,” I say, holding back tears. I’ve never cried so much in my life. Why do tears come now with no intention of stopping?

  “Punishment.”

  “What?” I’m confused as hell with him constantly changing the subject of our conversation.

  “I brought you here for punishment.”

  Panic swirls in me and I get up, wanting to run back to the room, but he’s quicker than me and grabs my hands, dragging me to the edge of the boat while I do my best to drag my feet and not follow. “What are you doing? Let go of me, you idiot!”

  “Emerald, your rape—or rather… re-enactment of your statement—was never my ultimate goal.” The tone in which he utters those words is far scarier than the words themselves. “It’s the death.”

  “My death?” I rasp, searching for anything to help me battle him, but he shakes his head.

  “Death of the madness.”

  And before I can plead my case or beg, he pushes me forward. Something wraps around me and screams tear from my throat as I plunge into the water with a loud splash.

  Micaden

  The best kind of torture… is the one you don’t expect.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  New York, New York

  Micaden, 25 years old

  The music blasts from the speakers while the club’s walls thump from the dancers on the dance floor. The smells of sex, alcohol, and cigarettes fill the place as people rub against each other and seek pleasure in this expensive establishment.

  Arson sure knows how to create a proper cover; I’ll give him that.

  Resting my back against the bar, I sip my whiskey while catching the eyes of several women who check me out, with their not-so-subtle moves as they try to seduce me into joining them.

  Turning around, I place the glass on the counter with a loud thud and motion to Rio for another one. “Want to get drunk tonight?” he shouts over the music, quickly shaking the bottle of vodka along with some other shit he likes to add to my drinks, and pours it into my glass. “This one is strong. Should do wonders.”

  Fucking great. I intended to get as drunk as possible today and then fuck whichever chick is available. This fucking dry spell has lasted long enough; it isn’t like I have anyone to keep my dick in my pants for. I was busy with training and studying and adjusting to my identity before, but the time has come to seek the pleasures of the flesh.

  “No one else?”

  “There will be no one else. That’s my vow to you, Emerald.”

  The words of the young fool echo in my mind, bringing all the unwanted memories with it, and I quickly gulp my drink. The hot liquid burns my throat and the sensation spreads through my lungs, as I rasp, “Another one.” Rio gives me a worried look, but then his eyes travel up, and he complies with my request.

  No matter what I do, I can’t escape her. She’s everywhere.

  In my hate.

  In my love.

  In me, and I despise her for that.

  While she lives happily in Seattle, oblivious to our shared past… I’ve had to relive for years the nightmares her family inflicted on me.

  I don’t search for her, try to find her, although with Arson’s help, I could have done so easily. But no, I want to face her once everyone else is gone. I’m not sure I’ll be able to execute my plan properly if my eyes land on her. The control would leave me and everything would go to hell.

  So I wait for the perfect time to strike, and when the time comes, I’ll even know what kind of milk she buys.

  Hollow laughter bursts from me when I remember the vow. I salute the old, naïve me with my glass and gulp it again, munching on the nearby lemon in hopes the sour taste will wash away the pain that shakes my entire system at the prospect of going against my word.

  I used to be famous for always keeping my promises and vows, because in my opinion a real man always does it. Everyone should rely on what one might say.

  But she destroyed even this part of me.

  Emerald shattered Brochan, and in his place lives Micaden. And Micaden can fuck into oblivion anyone he damn wishes.

  I spin around, and that’s when my eyes catch a gorgeous blonde staring at me from head to toe with her brown eyes.

  The beat of the music changes to slow, and she picks up her hair, swaying to the rhythm of the music, showcasing her curves and the legs that go on for miles. She knows how to tempt a man with each breath and movement, almost becoming one with the song.

  And while I watch her, what I’m supposed to think of is the way I can wrap those legs around me, but instead another memory flashes in my mind.

  “Your girl is an awful dancer,” Tom hoots, clicking his glass against mine while I just glare at him. “It’s like she just shakes her head.” We both sit at the local annual fair where old songs play and people dance their asses off.

  While Eve knows what she’s doing, Em has no clue. Her hands and legs are just a weird jumble, which makes her so fucking cute. I can barely restrain myself from keeping my ass on the seat and not go after her.

  I blink and now she’s in front of me, smiling, and places her hands on my chest, murmuring, “Hey, handsome.” She circles my neck, bringing us ever closer, and instantly the smell of her perfume fills my nostrils, the sweet scent probably driving o
ther men insane.

  Since I stay silent, she takes it as encouragement and leans closer, her lips skimming my chin and traveling to my mouth. Finally, she places her lips on mine, and that’s when I finally react.

  Grabbing her hips, I push her away and she blinks in surprise, her jaw dropping open when I say, “No.”

  “But—” She must read resolve in my face, because whatever she wants to say dies in her mouth as she snaps it shut and then shrugs. “If not you, then someone else.”

  “Good luck,” I reply, and then finish one more drink before storming off through the sweaty bodies, needing fresh air. My throat is squeezing in spasms from lack of breath.

  Slamming the door to the club behind me, I roar, pulling at my hair as the frigid air fills my lungs and snow flutters down on me, but my body barely registers all this. The only thing I can focus on is the fact that even in hate I can’t go back on my word. I can’t touch another woman.

  “She was pretty.” I freeze at the deep voice next to me.

  Lachlan taps his cane on the concrete between us, drawing some circles in the snow. He waits a beat before speaking. “I imagine after prison your dick needs a wet pussy to entertain it.”

  “I’m not in the mood right now for your sarcasm.”

  Lachlan chuckles, lighting up his cigarette, clearly not giving a flying fuck about my wishes. But then he reigns all of this with an iron fist, not allowing anyone to wander away from the rules.

  “Is there a woman you love?” There’s something in his voice, a steel that isn’t usually present, like my answer matters to him.

  But why would a man who has little value for human life care about my so-called love?

  “There's a woman I hate,” I rasp, coughing and then blowing on my fists to warm them up. I still don’t want to go inside and face the usual jazz. I’m here to learn, but I could never imagine participating in all the crazy shit these men do.

  “They say there’s a thin line between love and hate.” He exhales smoke, like we are discussing the fucking weather here.