by V. F. Mason
Copyright © 2020 by V. F. Mason
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Hot Tree Editing
Cover Design: Sommer Stein
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover Model: Lucas Loyola
To the power of love.
Contents
Prologue
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Callum’s Hell Excerpt
Also by V. F. Mason
Acknowledgments
Contact
Prologue
Briseis
A raspy breath of distress slips past my lips when my hold on the bouquet in my hands tightens, the roses’ thorns digging into my skin and probably drawing blood.
The priest’s booming voice echoes through the space of the church, his smile so bright I wonder if it hurts his face.
Or do despicable creatures have no idea about the devastating emotions of mere mortals?
“Do you, Briseis Dawson, take this man…” With each word, I zone out farther and farther from this situation while the ringing in my ears replaces his rusty voice. I barely hold myself back from spitting on him for what he’s allowing to happen inside these walls that should have been my sanctuary.
Instead, this place fed me to the wolves so they could shred my flesh to pieces, their sharp teeth sinking into me so harshly they won’t rest until I bleed out on the floor… with God as my witness.
Monsters, hideous monsters led by the devil who….
A single tear slides down my cheek, hidden behind my veil made of the finest tule. Nothing but the best for the bride of this groom, after all.
The groom, who I promised to hate till my last breath for what he has done to my family, stays oblivious to my begging, only a small smirk on his face while pleasure at his deeds radiates from him.
The King of Darkness and Deceit.
He chuckles, and I can almost imagine how his sapphire-blue eyes glisten with something wicked—the only expression that fills those orbs whenever his gaze lands on me—and I have to run far away from him… well, as much as I can in the current circumstances, in order to avoid it.
Not that he lets me do it for long; the freaking sadist enjoys my discomfort in his company, if his constant grins are anything to go by.
Madness has many forms and faces on this earth, covered in the masks of beauty and power, sneaking up on you when you least expect it, snatching you into its web of deceit and pain that follow you wherever you go.
His madness though?
Has no boundaries or control. Instead, it soaks up all the chaos around him.
The corset of my wedding dress is impossibly tight on my waist, and each gulp of air becomes a struggle, the pressure reminding me of the invisible chains the man has placed on me with no way of breaking them.
Shifting my focus from the priest, I stare at this unusual church they brought me to with its expensive colorful glass in the windows and the ceiling carved in an oval shape that almost gives a fairy-tale-like experience.
Except I’m trapped in a nightmare, which—no matter how much I pinch myself—doesn’t transform into the fairy tale I’ve pleaded for my entire life.
Despite its beauty that has the power to make one gasp in awe, the place reeks of doom and hopelessness that no amount of expensive artwork or luxurious design can hide.
A princess-cut diamond and sapphire engagement ring on my finger bumps against one of the thorns, the stone glistening in the shimmering light from above me, and I resist the urge to snatch it off and throw it at the groom, along with a few colorful word choices.
I catch Father Paul’s stare on me; conflicted emotions cross his face along with distress that he soothes with his gentle smile, as if it can reassure me.
Nothing on this earth has the power to reassure the inferno burning in my chest or the monster claiming me as his because he wishes to.
The priest’s lips stop moving, and he looks at me expectantly while my brows furrow, since I’ve no clue what he wants.
Panic shadows his face, and his lips move once again. I shake my head, hoping the ringing will go away so I can listen to him.
Still nothing though, and instead, my heartbeat speeds up in my chest, beating so fast I’m afraid it might jump out and land on the floor where the monster can stomp all over it.
Literally this time, since he has done it figuratively already.
A strong hand wraps around my waist and spins me so fast my head gets dizzy. I bump into the hard-as-brick muscles of his chest as his other hand captures my chin between his fingers, raising it so our gazes clash. “He asked you a question, mi novia.”
Rage flashes through me so violently that for a second the air gets stuck in my lungs while I want to shout in despair from not being able to unleash it on him with full force.
Maybe then he would have choked on his words, because calling me his bride is an insult to all the married couples all over the world.
The only appropriate word is captive.
His deep, husky voice sends shivers down my spine, and revulsion runs through me at his touch, the rose thorns digging sharper this time, and I wince in pain, finding no wiggle room in his hold to step back and throw away the stupid bouquet I never wanted in the first place. “Will you take me as your beloved husband and promise to cherish and love me till the day I die?” A sinister smile widens his mouth while he winks at me. “Or, in other words, till death do us part?” His thumb slides over my cheek gently, evoking fear inside me, reminding me how this hand can kill someone with just one strike.
I twist my face to the side, avoiding his caress, but he tightens his fingers on me, digging them painfully into my skin, and a whimper of distress escapes me. “The choice is yours, querida.” He prolongs the last word, as if tasting it on his tongue when he addresses me.
I wish to slap him hard, so he won’t call me his darling again, then fist the skirt of my dress and, with my high heels clicking soundly on the marble floor, run through the heavy, wooden doors at the end of the church’s hallway to hide far away from here.
“I always keep my word, darling.”
He won’t chase me, granting me my freedom he has promised from the very beginning, and with time I can forget all the events that have happened, like a bad dream that should have never even involved me.
However, all this musing has no point.
I stay silent, waves of shock rushing through me while I will myself to say the words everyone expects, yet they seem to ge
t stuck in my throat, not wanting to be spoken for the destruction they might cause in my life.
The groom sighs, winking at me. “Querida, I’m starting to get bored. And it’s never a good sign.” Someone clears their throat, and I shift my focus to the bench on the left where a blond-haired man flips a knife between his fingers while the man next to him, bound in tight, black ropes, groans in pain, blood seeping from various wounds on his torso and head.
The blond man puts the sharp tip to his victim’s neck and nicks the skin, chuckling quietly, finding amusement in how his victim bursts into tears, his eyes pleading for mercy he will never get from the likes of them.
The victim mumbles something through the tape covering his mouth, and I don’t have to read minds to know what he thinks.
Or rather asks of me.
After everything he put me through… he still expects me to do it.
“Choose, Briseis,” the groom says, boredom lacing his tone as he snaps my head back to him so his hot breath fans my face, his lips inches away from mine. “Either become my wife or I’ll kill your father.” He waits a bit and adds, “Choose wisely. Don’t bargain with the devil if you are not ready for the consequences, mi amor.”
Yes, Santiago Cortez has given me a choice.
But no matter the outcome… my soul will be crushed like a porcelain mug hitting the floor.
Turning away from him, I focus my attention on the priest and finally find the strength to utter the words that cut me from inside out, while self-loathing fills my entire being along with hate that burns brighter with each passing second toward the man standing next to me. “I do.”
My life has become a nightmare.
Because a sinner decided to own me.
Chapter One
“All the things you do should bring you pleasure.
Otherwise, what’s the point of them?”
Santiago
Chicago, Illinois
Santiago
Whistling loudly, I step inside the arena, and a grin spreads across my mouth when the familiar energy of doom and chaos settles over me, joined by the smell of desperation and fear twitching my nostrils.
Fear has a certain kind of scent only a true hunter can detect, floating in the air invisibly, yet it rushes the adrenaline through my blood in anticipation of a fresh kill.
After all, there is no greater pleasure in this world for me than the destruction I bring to my victims, as true glory lies in their cries of pain.
Inhaling deeply, I open my arms wide and say, “Let the light touch the darkness.” The minute the words slip past my lips, one by one, the lights above turn on, brightening the place so much a person might go blind from it.
If you are delusional enough, you might think your end found you, and Dios somehow allowed you into heaven, not suspecting you’re in purgatory engaging in foreplay before endless hell, where el diablo awaits you.
And once fucking again, just like every time, I’m in awe of the beauty of my own creation that has taken me years to get right, yet I don’t regret a second spent on it.
The oval-shaped arena spreads horizontally so far it looks like there is no end, with a thousand benches spread outside the circle. Awaiting onlookers watch my brand of torture with interest and even have a drink from the nearby bar—located on the second row—with a broad selection of liquor.
Nothing but the best for me.
A black, iron ceiling covers the enclosed space of the arena, but with one click on the remote, I have the power to slide it open to showcase the second, glassed ceiling, allowing everyone to gaze at the stars and wonder how they ended up here with me.
Or just muse about philosophical questions while the cries of victims echo in the distance adding to the “cozy” atmosphere around you.
However, the true beauty of my hunting ground lies inside the circle where several tables hold countless weapons, from the most expensive knives acquired in different parts of the world to poisons that are almost impossible to find if you don’t have the right connections on the black market.
Ah, my collections are my most prized possessions, a legacy I would have been able to leave for generations to come in how to properly torture people.
For the true beauty of the skill lies in the weapons and what you can do with them, and not the rage fueling your blood every single day of your life.
Too bad I have no plans to ever have children or students.
“Please,” a voice murmurs, snapping my attention to the middle of the circle, where a man breathing heavily is standing with a tight chain, which is attached to the ceiling, wrapped around his neck. His fingers are digging into the metal and trying to rip it off. He huffs in exasperation.
I shake my head, sighing heavily as once again I have to deal with the stupidity of humankind. One of these days, an idiot will end us all, and we’ll have no one but ourselves to blame for it.
He licks his dry lips, shifting a little, his bare feet slapping against the concrete while he extends one of his hands to me and croaks, “Please, help me.”
The pleading in his voice ignites the familiar excitement at the pit of my stomach, yet it extinguishes quickly with the boredom that has lately been my constant companion.
When will I finally get an interesting victim who will say something original and act a little bit more… I don’t know… brave?
My chuckle echoes through the space at this. The idea of someone issuing me a challenge is hilarious in itself. I walk to the table and grab a bottle of tequila before pouring a generous amount into my glass while he continues to beg. “Someone kidnapped me from the club.” I hear the clanking of the chain as I take a greedy gulp of my drink, closing my eyes when the burning substance travels through me, the taste grounding me in the present and blocking away everything else. He coughs a little before adding, “I think they want a ransom. Please help me.”
Slamming the glass back on the table, I spin around to face him again with a wide smile on my lips. I barely control myself from killing him with one single shot, as his annoying voice grates on my nerves. “Why should I?” I ask him, picking up the bottle and slowly going back to him, my boots thumping on the floor and making him blink with each of my steps.
He shakes his head and mutters, “I have money. I’m very wealthy.”
My hand tightens so hard on the bottle it’s a wonder it doesn’t crack, though I manage to keep my tone even, wanting to play with my victim a little bit more. “Do you now?”
He nods enthusiastically, hope radiating from him as if he finally found the way out of darkness and holds on to it with everything he can. “Whatever you want, it will be yours. Just please help me before he comes back.” He swallows hard. “They put a bag over my head and kicked me so hard I hurt all over.” He casts his gaze down, his cheeks heating up. “Even took away my clothes.”
Ah, right.
He is standing naked in front of me, various tattoos covering his body, and I wouldn’t have given a fuck about them… if it wasn’t for the one right in the middle of his chest.
“That’s so rude,” I say, placing my hand on my heart and sighing dramatically before exclaiming, “They shouldn’t have done it!” Snatching the keys from my pocket, I jangle them loudly in front of his face. “I bet that shackle around your neck hurts.” Someone should give me an award for the concern lacing my words while the only thing I truly want to do is laugh in his face. “I thankfully have the solution for it.”
He pulls at the chain again. “If you have a cell phone let me call my people, and they’ll come. Then you’ll have your reward.” When I stand still and don’t obey his command, he frowns and sneers. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Use the damn key and let me call.”
All the cowards are brave when they think their money rules the people around them, but in the light of true danger, they beg like the weak motherfuckers they are.
I clack my tongue. “I don’t think so.” He freezes, blinking at how deadly my tone turns, and I lea
n closer, whispering, yet I might as well have screamed for how much impact my words have on him. “You’re awfully whinny, Peter. Your daddy didn’t raise you right?” His eyes widen as recognition settles in his gaze, and he retreats, wincing when the chain brings him back to me while a little bit of blood drips from the shackle. The sharp edges from the inside of the collar dig into his skin. “First, you do as I say, and even then, no one gives a fuck about your wants.” I throw the phrase he loves to say in his face before dropping the bottle on the floor where it shatters around his feet, and he cries out when the glass cuts him, but I pay no attention to that.
Instead, I walk back to the table, grab another tequila bottle along with the silver knife, and click my fingers when music fills the space, booming through the arena while I shout over it. “Let’s dance, Peter. Like old times, shall we?” I raise my arms up, swaying them to the beat of the music as I slowly dance toward him and add, “Come on, Peter. Or do you want to die?” He trembles a little but starts to move, wincing every time his bare feet step on the glass, while his eyes water. He bites on his lip hard as if not wanting to cry, but who gives a fuck about his tough-guy act?
We both know he’s a useless piece of shit who should have never graced this world.
Taking a gulp from the tequila again, I then throw some at his feet, listening to his screams as more glass hurts him along with the alcohol dripping on his open wounds.
“Peter, move your legs. Up and down, up and down.” I show him, thumping my feet harder and harder while he follows, tears streaming down his cheeks as he chants, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” But I don’t give a fuck about that either.
