The Hated (Sleeping With Monsters Book 3)

by Cassie Alexander

I snuck out the back of our compound, past men already gloating, and reached the street.

  My first stop was blocks away, a gas station that we’d copied the bathroom key for. I let myself in and sank to my knees on the dirty tile.

  He was gone. He’d always be gone. They’d killed him, taken him away from me and now I would never see his face again, feel his touch, lie purring against his chest after sex. All of that was in my past -- and once again, the only future I had was on my back. I put my head in my hands and let myself cry.

  Get it together, Sammy. His voice snapped at me in my head, and I caught my breath like I always did when he spoke like that. Sometimes I was bad on purpose to make him have to use that tone – other times, I’d genuinely screwed up. It’d been followed by a whip’s bite enough times that it made my world narrow down to just him from habit. What did he want? How could I make him happy?

  But he wasn’t here anymore. In my head, or otherwise. I blinked and realized I was curled up on the bathroom floor. I didn’t know how much time had passed. It could’ve been minutes – or hours.

  Come on, Vincent. Talk to me again, baby.

  I waited, hoping beyond hope, and nothing answered. I was alone. But – I looked at the backpack by my knees. I did know what he wanted, and what would please him most. Me, living, even if my only reason for living was gone.

  I bit my lips not to cry and stood up, putting the backpack into the sink.

  My new life. Here we go.

  The clothes, shoes, and wig I’d packed months ago were still in the bag. I put the clothes on and shoved the robe in, right beside several thousand dollars in twenties – which wouldn’t be suspicious at all if I ever got pulled over. Just leaving the strip club, officer. .

  Then I opened up the front pouch of the backpack. There was a charged burner cell phone and an envelope full of new drivers licenses. The top one said I was Sarah Hartford, and there were ten more below it, all with different names. Vincent had thought of everything – except for how I was supposed to live without him.

  I pulled the wig out and tugged it on, going from long blonde hair to shoulder-length brunette, wishing that looking like a different person would really make me one.

  The last thing to do was the only one I hadn’t practiced. I reached for the heavy silver chain around my neck and let my fingers sink down to the locket it held. It’d been a gift from Vincent. Oval, small, and silver, not ostentatious at all. I’d never taken it off, not even when it clashed with what I was wearing.

  I fingered the locket and looked at myself in the mirror. My relationship with Vincent would be hard to explain to anyone in the outside world. He was a gangster, and I’d been a whore. Normal people would make assumptions, and say that we were broken. Shit yes we were, but what we’d had was good and real.

  Which was why when he told me not to open the locket unless he’d died, I’d listened to him and never had. He trusted me. It was a token of his love, and it’d become a good luck charm. On some subconscious level I believed peeking would cause Vincent’s demise, and that not looking could somehow keep him safe.

  But that hadn’t worked, had it.

  What was inside? Diamonds to sell? Cyanide to poison myself with? A picture to remember him by? I carefully pried it open with a thumbnail. Inside was a small piece of paper. I took it out, unfolded it, and found a series of numbers – it was a phone number I didn’t recognize.

  The only thing left to do was call. I turned on the cellphone and dialed.

  Three rings – six rings – who the hell was I calling? Why didn’t you tell me, Vincent? – and a gruff voice answered. “Who is this?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. In the four years since I’d been given the locket, Vincent had never once taken it back. Maybe whoever had had this number in the past didn’t anymore, maybe they’d been killed by the Carminos too –

  “How’d you get this number?” the man on the other end of the line asked, sounding annoyed.

  “Vincent.” Either his name would mean something to this stranger or it wouldn’t.

  There was a thoughtful pause at the far end. “Why’d he give it to you?”

  I didn’t know – but I thought fast. It hadn’t been a birthday, Christmas, or an anniversary gift. It was when things had started to take a dark turn, when he’d been out later, getting his hands bloody, forced by the family to do things he didn’t want – I bit my lips and gave an answer I knew to be true.

  “He wanted you to keep me safe.”

  The man contemplated Vincent’s request. Then: “Where are you at?”

  I gave him my address.

  “You’re way too near eastside. Can you get to International and 35th?” He named a cross-section on the south of town.

  I knew about the southside. I didn’t want to go there, but I could. “Yeah.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty.”

  “K.” I began to put the phone down.

  “Hey –“ he shouted, getting my attention again. “Destroy whatever he gave you that had my number on it. I don’t care how, but don’t throw it away.”

  “All right,” I said, but it was too late, he – whoever he was – had already hung up.

  I stood there in the bathroom, swaying like a losing prizefighter, pummeled by my loss. Vincent was gone. I would never see him again, never hear his laugh, never know his pleasure. All of my memories – photos, hard drives, quickly scribbled love notes on pieces of paper -- with him were back inside our house, and going back would be suicide. The locket around my neck was the last thing of his I had. I reached for it and hid it protectively inside my shirt. That – and this – the small piece of paper I held, that he’d written the stranger’s number down on for me, just in case of tonight happening.

  I stared at the phone number, memorizing it without meaning to – and then put it in my mouth and swallowed it to destroy it like I’d been told.

  What was one more bitter pill after a long and bitter night?

  I knew where southside was because I used to work there. Our city straddled a county line, dry on one side, wet on the other, creating a mini-Las Vegas along the edge. Along with the looser liquor laws on the southside came looser women, some in strip clubs, some standing around outside of them. I’d been both, at different times. Walking towards the neon lights of the Liquor Barns I’d like to say it wasn’t so seedy then, but while prostitutes might wear rose colored glasses, none of us actually saw the world through them.

  I walked like I belonged, tough enough not to be a victim, but not so tough as to be a threat. I could have jogged to the intersection in fifteen minutes, but the only people who moved quickly down here were running from the cops.

  Vincent had saved me from this life. Going back felt like admitting defeat.

  I passed a group of people, head bowed, while watching them from the corners of my eyes and listening in case they followed me.

  I know you wanted better for me than this, baby. You can’t be sending me back here. I reached up to touch the locket and caught myself. I didn’t want anyone I was passing to think I had anything worth stealing.

  Vincent always knew what was best for me – better than I did myself. He’d shown me that, time after time. And he wouldn’t betray me, even after death. I reached the intersection and stood in a shadow, putting my back against a wall.

  I just had to keep trusting him, like I always had before.

  To read more of The Hunted, click here.

  The Haunted

  Daphne Vance's life is perfect -- she's a beautiful, devoted wife, and her husband has just bought her a vast countryside estate to start their family in. But when her husband leaves on a business trip, it doesn't feel like she's alone in the mansion -- she can feel eyes watching her, and hot hands trailing up her thighs. The domineering spirit of the mansion's former owner is still present -- and when she discovers her husband cheating on her, she doesn't want to resist the Master anymore….

  Daphne stood on the cool white t
ile of her new entry hall, looking up at her husband with distress. “But we just got here –“

  “I know, pet, I know,” Richard said, but he didn’t set his briefcase down.

  “And there’s so much unpacking to do — I don’t even know where everything goes.” Boxes were piled everywhere, their belongings and those the house’s prior occupants had left behind. She didn’t even know how many rooms their new home had, it was immense — and how could it feel like a home to her, if Richard left her alone their first night there?

  “You’ll put it all right. You always do. I’ll be back before you know it.” He reached out and gently held her chin. “It’s just a week.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll come back and you and I can spend the rest of our lives together.”

  “You always say that. And it’s never just a week.” She stared at him, for once refusing to back down. They’d bought this place to have a child in, and children didn’t just make themselves.

  The driver idling outside cleared his throat -- Richard had a flight to catch. “This time I promise,” he said, turning to leave.

  “That’s what you said last time,” she said quietly to herself, watching him go.

  She sat down on the wide stairs leading to the second floor. It was always like this with Richard — in the battle between her and his work, work won. She’d known it going into their relationship. It’d been fine when they’d been nearer civilization – she’d gone to movies, bookstores, lunches. But now that he’d moved her here, miles away from the nearest town, with the nearest city far past that – her sense of abandonment was overwhelming. The size of the house he’d bought her only made it worse. It was too big, too easy to imagine that the house was like a mouth, swallowing her alive.

  She’d begged him not to buy it, but he’d been enchanted the moment he’d stepped on the grounds. Something here had intoxicated him, even though they would never own enough things to fill it up, that half the rooms would be gathering dust, never used. It’d given him some old world vision of himself as the lord of a manor, and once the grandeur had gotten hold of him, there’d been no way to shake it loose.

  No matter that she couldn’t see herself out here, in this massive place, completely alone. Or rather, awkwardly not alone. There were servants — servants! — and Daphne found that distasteful. But there was no way to manage a home this big without them. The real estate agent had called some of the old owner’s employees back and only the fact that she and Richard were paying them handsomely combined with the fact that she planned to require as little from them as possible made it okay.

  Of course, now they were nowhere to be found, and she didn’t know how to call for them. Daphne imagined herself wandering the halls, shouting like a madwoman or wildly ringing bells. Perhaps she could ask them to listen for whistles, like little Von Trapps.

  “Mrs. Vance?”

  She couldn’t see who asked, but she jumped to standing. She didn’t want anyone else to see her despairing on the stair.

  “Sorry to startle you, Ma’am.” An elderly man in a black suit bowed deeply. She knew his name was Arthur. Could she call him that? Or was there some foolish title she ought to be using instead?

  “No. It’s okay.” Both of their voices echoed in the hallway, uncomfortably loud.

  “I came to ask what time you wanted Mrs. Dudley to serve dinner.”

  Servants, cooking for her -- it was preposterous! But they were getting paid, and she didn’t even know where the kitchen was yet – or a grocery store. “Seven?” she guessed, hoping he’d agree.

  “Very good.” He gave her a precise nod. “We’ve unpacked the kitchen — which room would you like us to work on next?”

  She would need a place to sleep tonight, but couldn’t stomach the thought of strangers rummaging through her intimate things. “I’ll work on the bedroom — maybe you can work on the library? That’s if you have the time.”

  “Of course, Ma’am. I’ll just let Mrs. Dudley know about dinner.” He nodded again, and Daphne turned. The bedrooms were all upstairs. She walked up three steps and felt something like a warm hand caress the back of her thigh beneath her skirt.

  “Arthur!” she protested, whirling.

  “Ma’am?” The servant reappeared, trotting back into view from down the hall. “Did you need something?”

  Daphne put her hand to her mouth in horror, and felt a rising flush of shame — he was going to think she was one of those people, the kind who shouted — “No — my ankle twisted —” she pointed at her foot, quickly lying. “I thought I was going to fall.”

  “I see,” he said, in the same tone of voice he used for everything apparently, neither frustrated nor surprised. “I can bring tea or coffee to you in a bit, if you’d like. Mrs. Dudley’s got bad knees, she can’t handle stairs anymore.”

  “Tea, please. Thank you,” she said, sheepishly.

  “If I may, Ma’am,” he said after waiting half-a-second more. She nodded to encourage him to continue. “Moving is stressful, and moving into a magnificent house doubly so. Rome was not built in a day, and neither was it unpacked in one.”

  She broke into a soft smile. “Thank you, Arthur.”

  “You’re welcome, Ma’am,” he said, and bowed curtly before going back the way he’d come.

  To read more of The Haunted, click here.

  The House, a Come Find Your Fantasy novel

  The House is a hot experimental novel – it’s a choose your own erotic adventure book. Extremely explicit and written in 2nd person, with guys, and girls, and guys and guys and girls and girls and more guys with some whips and…yeah. It’s a completely adult and very intense experience, where you get to choose what happens next, making your continued consent a part of the game….

  You are a modern woman recently on the outside of a rough marriage after a rougher divorce.

  While immersing yourself in the business of putting your radically different life back together, you receive a small package in the mail. Convinced that it belongs to your rental’s prior tenant and dismayed that they left no forwarding address, you leave it on your kitchen table for three days with good intentions to contact the landlord – after you finish unpacking and forwarding all of your own bills.

  It is not until the fourth night that you realize that it is indeed addressed to you.

  You pick the package up and take it into your living room. There’s something inside that moves when you shake it but it doesn’t feel fragile. Alone on your couch, you cut through the tape sealing the box and open it up – upside down. A key falls to the floor at your feet, and when you flip the lid of the box, you notice a note on fine stationary pressed inside.

  The key is strung on a ribbon. It is silver, ornate, and delicate and looks like it was meant for a very fine jewelry box. You question just what it does open – and why someone would be sending it to you. You pick the key up and set it on the coffee table you just bought at a thrift store earlier in the evening.

  The note, like the package, is addressed to you by name. It’s on the type of paper that you only see in movies, linen with frayed edges so thick it’s almost fabric, which seems to give the words written on it greater weight.

  The Master of the House has chosen you.

  This key opens the House and all the doors inside. You will be in complete control of all your experiences in the House – and what you find there will exceed the heights of your imagination.

  The opportunity of a lifetime awaits you -- all you need to do is bring me back my key.

  M

  In the bottom of the box are two airline tickets. One to the House, and one back. The flight leaves tomorrow.

  Will you take it? If so, touch here.

 

 

 
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