The VIOLENT Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Linnea May

  I roam over to her desk, absentmindedly stacking a few papers and touching the mouse in the process. The motion brings her laptop from sleeping mode back to life, and an open Word document appears on the screen.

  I know I shouldn't be snooping. It's exactly the kind of thing I've always accused her of doing. But I've always wondered what she could be working on. I've seen her writing a lot, almost daily, and she's always super engaged in it. The day when she almost burned down my kitchen wasn't the only time her attention was soaked up by the screen. She doesn't know it, but I've been watching her type way from afar many times, when she was still working in the living room. Lately, she's been retreating to her room to write more often, which fed my growing curiosity.

  I lean down, scrolling up to the beginning of the current page she was working on.

  And a moment later, I see my entire world collapsing in front of me.

  The trust that has begun to grow inside me. The strong connection I thought I felt between us.

  And with all of that, my political career that was just beginning.

  My eyes are glued to the screen as I read.

  It doesn't look like an article, but it sure as hell sounds like one.

  An article about me.

  An article about "A dark soul, struggling to shine on a new stage".

  First of all, what kind of terrible title is that?

  Secondly, what the hell is she planning to do with this?

  I read on, my heart hammering in painful fury as I follow the details she’s penned about recent events between us. The text is almost verbatim at times, reflecting on conversations we've had and on the thoughts she assumes may be going through my head while I close my hand around her throat and watch her choke as she climaxes on my cock.

  I wouldn't mind her writing these things down, I seriously wouldn't. It's not the fact that she wrote about all of this, but the way she did it. She puts herself in the background, the writer disappearing almost completely while she focuses on me, shaping the entire text like an expository article that is meant to destroy my public image.

  "What are you doing?"

  Her voice cuts into my wildly running thoughts and I almost explode with rage when I turn to see her standing there, her eyes wide and an accusing look on her face as she's wrapping herself in an oversized towel.

  I'm standing there like an idiot, and couldn't feel more exposed, physically or emotionally. She flinches away from me when I dart toward her, ripping the towel off of her body and wrapping it around my waist instead. It's the only thing I can think of to make her feel at least somewhat as lost and exposed as I'm feeling right now.

  "What the fuck is that?" I yell at her, pointing to her laptop.

  Her face grimaces with pain and she raises her hands as if to protect herself from an imminent attack.

  "Please, Jared, calm d-"

  "I'm not going to fucking calm down!"

  I charge against her, ignoring the girlish shriek she lets out when I grab her by the shoulders and push her against the wall.

  "Please, no-!"

  "Are you fucking writing about me?" I exclaim. "Who are you working for? Who ordered you to write this?"

  "No one!" she bellows at me. "It's not what you think! I was never going to-"

  "Don't lie to me!" I cut her off, ignoring the pained grimace on her face when I shake her with an almost surreal and furious strength. "This must have been commissioned by someone!"

  "No, it wasn't!" she insists, looking at me with fear in her eyes.

  I bite my lips, trying so fucking hard to calm myself and not let the rage win over. We've been there. She has told me about her fear of encountering another uncontrollable thug, and I promised that I'm no such thing. Ever.

  But she...

  "You planned all of this from the beginning, didn't you?" I hiss, trembling with bitter exasperation. It's all there. The pain. The feeling of horrible betrayal. I vowed to never let it happen again. I saw the danger in her. From the beginning.

  Yet here we are.

  "It was all a set-up from the beginning, wasn't it? You, at the agency, allegedly running into me, making me fall for you, playing me, extracting intimate information..."

  She's shaking her head the entire time I list all the things she's done to me, denying every single one of them, the tears pouring down her face. Fake tears, I'm sure. She's good at this, I have to give her that.

  "Please, Jared, you have to trust me," she begs, her voice weak and as untrustworthy as they come. "You have to believe me. I didn't-"

  "It was that guy, wasn't it?" I interrupt, as I suddenly remember her weird encounter at tonight’s event. The guy who came up to her, the press guy she spoke to and was reluctant to share any details of their conversation with me. She wasn't shocked because he said something to scare her, she was shocked because he approached her when she was in plain sight of me.

  "How much?" I hiss through gritted teeth.

  She stares at me, her face frozen in a horrified and tortured expression.

  "He... I'm not going to do it," she whispers, and my heart sinks. "I was going to tell him no, and..."

  Her voice breaks off as she sees my reaction to her words. I let go of her, bringing distance between us and glaring at her with utmost disgust.

  So it's true. She just admitted it. She was offered money to sell her story about me, just as I suspected.

  And now she's trying to calm me down by making me believe that she was going to say no? After all that work she's put into her work?

  I shake my head and realize that I have to get out of here. I can't stay in the same room with her for one more second.

  "Jared, please listen to me!"

  Her pleas follow after me, but they're not holding me back. I head for the living room, hastily picking up the clothes I've left scattered on the floor when I fell for yet another one of her devilish seductions.

  "Will you please listen to me?" she yells, standing at the top of the stairs. "Jared, you're misunderstanding-"

  "Shut up!"

  Even I am shocked at the volume of my voice, echoing through the living room in gloomy shock waves.

  She freezes, watching in terror as I finish getting dressed, not wasting another second to look at her before I flee from this fucking nightmare.

  Chapter 37

  Ann

  He's not back.

  I roam through the living room area, the kitchen, the hallway, knocking and eavesdropping at his door to see if I can hear him rummaging inside the room. I fell asleep at some point last night, the tears still not dried up from my excessive crying. I only slept for a few hours and haven't heard a thing since he left the penthouse last night, but I wanted be sure. There's an off chance that he came home during that window of time I spent sleeping, curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around me, because I didn't want to miss his possible return.

  I didn't try to call him right away, but waited a few minutes to let him calm down, to maybe get some fresh air and take a few breaths before he was ready to face me again. Because I sure as hell know what this is like, what it's like to be a victim of your own emotions, to be overtaken by blind rage that makes it impossible to think straight, to act normally, or to listen to the person who's causing you the pain.

  I get it.

  I get him.

  Of course, he's hurt. He had just told me his story! The memory of it was still fresh when he chose that very moment to snoop around my stuff and satisfy his curiosity about my writing. He's asked me about it a few times, but I always played it down, telling him that it little more than diary writing and a way for me to spend my time, just like other people watch TV in their spare time.

  I lied to him, that much is for certain. I hid things from him. And even though I never actually planned to sell him out, or even was following an elaborate long-term plan such as the one he's suspecting right now, he has every right to be mad, furious, suspicious.

  But God damn it, why won't he talk
to me? I thought he’d just leave the penthouse for a little while, taking in some fresh air and then coming back upstairs, giving me an opportunity to explain. I thought all he needed was a chance to get ready to listen.

  More than twelve hours have passed since he raised his voice against me in a blood-chilling way. I didn't say a word, I didn't move. I gave him the room I thought he needed and deserved. But now that he's been out God knows where, leaving me to wonder by myself all night long and still ignoring my calls this morning, I'm not only beginning to worry, I'm actually mad at him.

  Why is he acting this way? Why won't he even give me the slightest chance to explain? Is he really that hurt? That blind? Does he really believe all the things he said?

  I'm standing at the panoramic window in the living room, watching as the city wakes up dozens of stories below me. I can still feel the impact his belt left on me and am sore around my throat. My hand wanders up to my neck, carefully caressing the sensitive skin, wondering if this was the last time I'll ever feel his hand wrapped around my throat. I don't want to believe that, but the thought is persistent, because if nothing else, it would make perfect sense.

  He said he'd protect himself. He said he's suspicious and needs to be careful, and he's accused me of being dangerous more than once, even before finding what appeared to him to be the perfect proof for his suspicions.

  I try to call him one more time, but this time the phone doesn't even ring. He has either run out of battery or turned off his phone.

  A part of me hopes that it's the latter, because the first option would give me too much reason to worry.

  "Fuck," I hiss, audible to no one but myself.

  What am I supposed to do? How long does he intend to keep me waiting?

  Then I remember. There's actually something that I can do, something that he won’t know about, but something that will ease my mind tremendously.

  I turn around, hurrying upstairs to my bedroom and searching for my purse, frantically rummaging through it until I find what I'm looking for. The card is crumpled because of my hurried attempt to hide it from him when I shoved it into my purse.

  I turn it around and dial the number that's written on the back, certain that this call won't be rejected like the previous ones have been before. Yet the phone rings for what feels like an eternity before I hear a click sound and someone breathing on the other end.

  "Stewart here," a voice greets me.

  I furrow my eyebrows, unsure what to think of him introducing himself with his first name.

  "Stewart, it's Ann," I say. "Ann Porter. You approached me at the-"

  "Yes, Ann," he cuts me off. "Of course, I know who you are, don't be silly. I've been waiting for your call. Got something to tell me after all, do you?"

  "No, actually I don't," I tell him, and nothing has ever felt better. "I just called to tell you that I don’t, and I wanted to make sure that you won't approach me again or try any devious methods to get to me."

  "Devious methods?" he repeats, letting out a disgusting chuckle. "What kind of movie are you living in?"

  "I'm just letting you know that whatever you're trying to do won't work," I insist. "You're digging for dirt where there is none. I have nothing to tell you because there is nothing to tell."

  "Did he threaten you, is that it?"

  I scoff, knitting my eyebrows. "What a vile idea. This is sick."

  "Is it?" he probes. "Based on Mr. King's history, I'd say it's safe to assume-"

  "Have you actually ever checked his history?" I ask. "Because if you did, you'd know that whatever you heard about him is simply not true. You're just trying to dig up dirt based on old rumors. I can tell you as a fellow journalist that you're pathetic at your job."

  I hear Stewart chuckling at the other end, and even though I can't see him, I can imagine the kind of face he's making right now.

  "This is a mistake," he tells me. "You're making a giant mistake, little girl."

  "No, that's where you're wrong," I reply. "You're the one who's making the big mistake here."

  I hear him getting ready to argue with me about my conclusion, but I've said everything I needed to say and end the call.

  Chapter 38

  Jared

  This has undeniably been the longest night of my life. I didn't even know where I was going when I left the building.

  Luckily, a man of my standing doesn't need to bother himself with such mundane details. I didn't want to bother my driver for the night because it would mean dragging staff into this fucking mess when I wasn't ready for it yet.

  So I called a cab and asked that I be driven around town in endless circles, blocking any attempts by the driver to start a conversation with me.

  "I need time to think," I told him. "Alone."

  "Got ya’, buddy," he said, winking at me through the rear view mirror. In any other situation I would have reminded him that I'm not his buddy, but I refrained from doing so last night because it would have prolonged my interaction with him. I gave him money up front, probably a lot more than he would have earned all night without having to spend most of it with me as his customer. It bought me the time and space I needed.

  I watched the city pass by, observing the bustling night life in one area while staring into almost complete darkness in another. Cities have always fascinated me for that very reason. They have a distinct way of combining lively energy and dark contemplation in a confined space, co-existing and breathing the same air as the other.

  Going to a bar would have been the obvious choice, but I didn't want to be among people. I didn't want to risk sitting at the bar, sipping on a lonely Scotch and having to worry about being roped into a dumb conversation I didn't want to have, or be seen by someone who could inflict further damage than what has already been done.

  I needed to be out of my house, surrounded by life as it went on without the devastation caused by the woman who almost made me believe there could be such a thing as a second chance for me. A woman who betrayed my trust just as Elsa did all those years ago.

  Maybe all of them were right. Maybe the devil did find a host in me. Maybe I don't deserve better than this. Darkness attracts darkness.

  I should have known.

  That's what infuriates me the most. I should have fucking known!

  I was skeptical from the get-go. I had a bad feeling about her right from the start, and I was proven right.

  My thoughts whirl around the same circle of thoughts again and again, bouncing against my skull as I try to let go of them. I can't get rid of them, I can't even think clearly for hours.

  I let myself be chauffeured around town until dawn announced the beginning of a new day.

  The first of many days that I will have to spend without her.

  Without my Button.

  I don't dwell on the thought, though, and tell the driver to take me to my office when he infers that he'd like to call it a night. I leave him with a generous tip, and he throws me a look that is a little too friendly for my taste. Too much sympathy, too much pity. I hate being looked at like this. I hate being pitied.

  It's still way too early for anyone but the cleaning ladies to be around when I march into my office as if it was the most natural thing to do at this ungodly hour.

  I sit at my desk, checking my phone that has been turned to silent for the entire night. There are calls and text messages from her, all trying to convince me that I'm wrong, that whatever I’m thinking right now is not the truth.

  Unfortunately, it is.

  I turn off my phone and begin pacing up and down the length of my office like a caged lion, before I decide that a lack of sleep is as equally mind-numbing as rage or intoxication.

  I lay down on the couch in my office and doze off within a few moments.

  My sleep is cut short when a familiar voice cuts right into a vivid nightmare that tortured me during my short rest.

  "Jared, you idiot!"

  I frown in surprise at the sight of my assistant Silas standing
before me, his hands on his hips and head tilted to the side as he tried to mimic my position.

  I hurry to sit up straight, fixing my hair in a futile attempt to appear proper.

  "What the hell, man," Silas hisses at me, shaking his head. "What the fucking hell?"

  I wave him off.

  "Rough night," I say. "But nothing you have to worry about. It's all under control."

  I get up from the couch and move over to my office chair, taking a seat at my desk.

  "You turned your phone off," Silas says in an accusing tone, walking around the desk and building himself up in front of me. "You can't fucking do that, Jared."

  "Calm your shits, it was just for a few hours."

  "What the hell is going on?"

  "Nothing," I assure him, leaning back in my chair and trying to be as nonchalant about the whole matter as I possibly can. "All you need to know is that the girl is gone. I don't need her. On the contrary, I've decided that she poses an unnecessary risk. My campaign is better off without her."

  Silas rolls his eyes.

  "And no, before you ask," I hurry to say, "I won't be looking for a new one. I'm sure we can do this without a fake girl at my side, don't you think?"

  Our eyes meet across the desk, and I try to make sense of his expression while he processes my words.

  "What happened?" he wants to know.

  "Nothing that concerns you."

  "Oh, for fuck's sake, Jared, of course this concerns me," he insists. "But you don't have to tell me. Would you allow me to guess?"

  I look at him, knitting my eyebrows. "Whatever you may think, you're-"

  "She was approached by the press, wasn't she?" he interrupts, causing me to shut up and be all ears within a split second.

  "She was approached by someone who offered her a lot of money to sell him some dark secrets about you, wasn't she? She had a very lucrative offer to sell you out, and you think she was ready to do it?"

  I continue to fixate on him with a frown. "She told you?"

  Silas shakes his head. "No, Jared, she didn't tell me. She didn't have to tell me because I already knew about it before it even happened."