Savage Kingdom: A Dark Romance (Sekten Book 1)

by C. Lymari

  He swallowed and gave me a quick nod. I dropped all pretenses of being something I wasn’t. I got off the stool and handed him the cash.

  “Go down the hall, turn into the door that says Faculty, then take the left door, and knock.”

  I didn’t say thank you for nothing pleasant was about to happen. I followed the directions the guy gave me and made my way to the real reason why this bar was getting funded.

  It wasn’t the drinks or the ambience; it was the sex club that hid underneath. Sex clubs were a dime in a dozen once you knew where to look. This one, in particular, offered something a little more exclusive. All the women and men had been trafficked. Nothing said gold mine like having a bite of something you shouldn’t want. Putting my hand out, I knocked on the door. My hand came to my pendant, and I said a quick prayer hoping I wouldn’t die today. I made a vow, and I would go to hell the day I saw it fulfilled and not a moment before.

  The door opened, and I flashed the guard a smile. “I need a toy for the night, preferably one who can’t talk.”

  My eyes stayed on his, unwavering as he looked me up and down. My tight black clothes served to my advantage. I looked more like a dominatrix than a bimbo.

  Damian hated it; he would parade me around naked if he could. He wanted me to get everything on my back rather than by the bullet and switchblades.

  “Madame.” The guard gave me a small bow and stepped aside.

  There was no need to square my shoulders, since I never dropped them. My head was held high and my senses on alert. When you lived in a fucked-up world, evil didn’t scare you.

  The room was dark with a yellow ambience, the smell of smoke thick and the music soothing. My eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and I scanned my surroundings as discreetly as possible. Sex clubs weren’t “walk in and join our orgy”; they were so much more sophisticated than the men that ran them, respectable businessmen, the people who attended them monsters in socialite clothing.

  I could feel eyes on me, but I ignored them. I cared not for what others thought of me. I learned from a young age that it didn’t matter if people formed an opinion about you. Either way, when you needed them, they would not be there to save you. The only person you could count on was yourself.

  Feelings were a weakness—a disease. I’d learned to shut them down a long time ago. Why? Because feeling nothing was better than feeling everything. If my family did one thing right it was to raise me to be fearless and ruthless.

  I made my way to where the people or pets were chained up, since I had to play my part and pick one. My eyes traveled over their faces, the lifeless look in their eyes, the look of despair. Killing them would be mercy. I picked the one who still had some fire in his eyes. His bones and skin had been damaged, but his soul was still there. You could always tell who had fight in them by looking into their eyes.

  My cold hand made him flinch. I ran my finger over the sharp edge of his jaw and under his chin. I kneeled in front of him, and his eyes grew with fear. He was more alert than the others who were with him. He had a pretty face that looked carved from stone, and eyes that seemed plucked from emeralds.

  “Give us a room,” I told the guard that was protecting the merchandise. He looked at me and nodded. I felt eyes boring into my back, but I ignored them.

  I waited as the guard produced a key attached with a metal parchment that contained the room number. He then unchained the pet and gave me the leash. I felt nothing as I touched the metal chains that dehumanized the man below me.

  “Let’s go,” I commanded. Making my way to the back rooms, I pulled the leash with more force than necessary. A statement needed to be made, and I had no qualms about making it.

  The heels tapped against the marbled floor, and with my head held high, I walked with a man kneeling at my feet.

  When the door to the room I had requested opened, I pulled the chain on my pet to signal him to go in.

  “Adrik.” I called the guy’s name, and his eyes closed in fear or perhaps relief. He had been someone I somewhat trusted. He didn’t deserve the end he was getting, not when he had joined Sekten, but that was the world we lived in today—a back must never be turned.

  I kneeled at the man who was a shell of whom he had been. I cupped his cheeks and wiped the tears that fell with my fingertips. He knew his end was near.

  Slowly I gave him a kiss. His mouth parted, and I slid the small blade into his willing mouth.

  “You will be avenged,” I vowed.

  He knew I couldn’t take him out of here without arousing suspicion. He wouldn’t be the same man if I did. Instead, I offered him to die with a little dignity. He would die, but not before killing who had hurt him the most.

  Now that my work here was done, I needed to leave.

  The man didn’t look at me anymore, and I wished I could say I felt remorse when I pulled open the door. My heart was just an organ, incapable of feeling. As soon as I was out, I was slammed back into the wall as a man passed in a blur.

  I bit the insides of my cheeks, pissed off. I might be here on official business for the Sekt, but I also had a debt I had to pay.

  “Sorry” was shouted, the words getting lost in the evolving chaos.

  I straightened myself and used the distraction the man had provided and walked out of the bar.

  Curiosity always got the best of me, so once outside, I ran, trying to find the man who had slammed me. When I cleared the alley, I saw him. He wore all black too, from his leather jacket to combat boots. He grabbed a helmet and got on a Fatboy.

  Shaking my head of unwanted thoughts, I raised my hand and hailed a cab. I made my way to the house, where I should have been twenty minutes ago. Any other time I would pay, but since the Sekt came first, there was nothing Yorovich could do about it.

  Yoro was the head of the bratva here in Chicago. He was fifteen years my senior, and he was also the one who’d wagered a deal with my father and owned parts of me. Everything in the world had a price, and so did a daughter.

  The ride was smooth. The driver ignored me as I started to change in the back of his car, my commando clothes gone and replaced by an Yves Saint Laurent silk dress. The color was pink because Yoro liked to pretend I was a lady and not a paid whore. Someone who was docile and not a weapon. Someone who wanted him and was not fucking him since she was sixteen because he paid for it.

  The car came to the entrance of Southernwoods, and my heart accelerated. This was the playground of the rich, and once you came in, what happened behind the gold doors stayed inside. The outside world was forgotten.

  The mansions varied in size the deeper you got into the Southernwoods maze. The car stopped at the gated entrance to Yoro’s house.

  I lowered the window, feeling the cool Chicago air on my skin.

  “It’s me, I have arrived.” I forced my voice to hold back my usual sarcasm, and the bile, when I spoke to him.

  “You’re late.”

  He didn’t say more, and neither did I. The gates opened for me, and I leaned back, already counting the hours before I could leave this hellhole.

  The car came to a stop, and I slid my black Amex on the card reader. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my clothes and stepped one heeled boot out, then the other.

  The mansion was big, with a fountain in the middle of a circular driveway. It had a set of stairs, and at the top was the master of the house. Yorovich Morozov, bratva leader in Chicago, and he was one of the most powerful men in Moscow too.

  Power was dangerous to men; it made them feel invincible, untouchable, and they forgot they were still mortal.

  I never forgot that every single person could bleed.

  “Damian needed something handled,” I spat at him in hopes his scowl would go away. “We might have an arrangement, but you will always come second to what the organization needs.”

  His jaw went taut at my comment. Yoro would never be a priority for me. Damian and the Sekt would always triumph.

  “When you are in my kingdom, y
ou play by my rules,” he stated.

  Haven’t I always?

  I lowered my head in submission at his response. I knew the game. I hated the rules, yet I played it well.

  “I am at your command, master.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me, then gave a nod and opened the door for me to follow him. I walked into the house, my skin crawling as I did so. Being forced to submit was one of the worst things in the world.

  My life was not my own, and sometimes I feared it never would be.

  Five lashes.

  That’s how many times Yoro whipped my back for being tardy. This was his kingdom, and I was a mere subject to him. It was part of the contract that when I stepped foot in Chicago, I was his. Outside of this fucking place, I was feared. My name trembled from dying men’s lips—one day, maybe even his.

  He whipped me, and then he fucked me. He tarnished my body, and then once I was weak and bloody, he worshiped me as if I was royalty.

  Outside of this house, I was.

  Since Yoro wasn’t stupid and he only trusted me as far as he could throw me, he left me cuffed. The floor was cold against my bare ass. The see-through nightgown was bullshit; it didn’t lessen the cold. My arms were sore from being over my head; they were looped through one of the handles in the armoire. My back ached against the wood. The whoopings I got last night needed tending.

  Still, I had been in worse situations. At least this time, I knew Yoro would eventually come back. He would force us to bathe in some bullshit rose-petal bath to soothe my skin. He would feed me, put pomade on my wounds, lie to himself that one day I would fall for him or some shit.

  Then I would leave this hellhole, go stain my black soul a little more, and come crawling back when I was needed.

  Keep your friends close…

  All my enemies were as close to me as I could get without arousing suspicion. Patience was a virtue, and boy did it cost me to have it, but that was neither here nor there.

  My head snapped up when I heard noises. It sounded like footsteps, but I knew it was way too early for Yoro to be back. He had just left for some meetings in the city, and I had calculated him to be gone for about five hours. Surely, it was too soon?

  I took a deep breath, ready to put a remorseful mask in place.

  Then I heard a noise. I cocked my head to the side as if that would let me hear more. The steps that got closer were slow, unhurried, but light…cautious. There was a shadow that was getting closer.

  What game was Yoro playing now?

  Across the room at the entrance of the hall was a man. My heart sped up when I realized I was a target at the moment, but I didn’t dare make a sound. He was tall—then again, everyone looked tall to me. He was also slim, wearing head-to-toe black but no mask on his handsome face. There was a youthfulness to his demeanor that made him seem…safe.

  He leaned back, taking out a small gun, and looked down the hall to make sure it was still clear. He then grabbed something from his back pocket and put it behind one of the statues adorning the hall.

  He then made his way into the room with another bug in hand. He stopped dead the moment the furniture I was cuffed to came into view.

  Since I was a child, I knew I was different from my peers. They were all playing with toys, cars, dolls, and I was alone reading about aliens and different worlds.

  My parents were murdered when I was three.

  I don’t remember much and when I did I tried to forget it. Doctors figured I’d seen enough. It made sense for my abnormal behavior. I became socially disconnected.

  There’s a lot of things kids did that were considered normal. My hobbies involved none of them. Once I noticed my wards and doctors become concerned, I stopped talking about everything I thought would be a red flag.

  I was ten when I realized I didn’t think like the other kids around me. I was way outside the box. By the time I got to high school, I was qualified for Mensa.

  Certified fucking genius. School didn’t intrigue me; it was all too basic. When girls came into the equation, they didn’t hold my attention. They were annoying little bitches that whined too much.

  Then as soon as I turned of legal age, an agent came to me. I didn’t know what they wanted but knew they offered me a challenge. To a guy like me, that was a gift. Nothing called to me, nothing challenged me. I didn’t fucking feel.

  No remorse, no pain, no love—nothing.

  I was just numb.

  So, eighteen-year-old me said why the fuck not.

  I was trained, made into a weapon, one that was going to do good for my country. My mind was learning at the speed of someone two years older than me. As I grew older, my body honed itself into a machine to match it.

  Then I wasn’t so empty anymore. Challenges fueled me, and fear, it excited me. Knowing how to kill made you dangerous. A killer with nothing to fear was fucking lethal.

  My country would never admit it, but they were happy they had created a monster. Emotions could be faked, and a smile could go a long way. I was their number one spy.

  This was the perfect job for me. It was solitary work that engaged me. It was a ride-or-die situation. If I fucked up, no one would be coming for me.

  My country sent me to Chicago. They had posted another agent a few months ago, and he was radio silent. He’d either turned coat, was way knee-deep in his persona, or was killed.

  I was here to find out which one it was.

  My target was Yorovich Morozov. Bratva pakhan, arms, and flesh peddler. The first thing I did when I got to Chicago was to get Lou Malnati’s pizza. Bringing down a seedy fucker could wait until after my stomach was full.

  The second thing I did was to go to a sex club. In the underworld, when you were looking for information, always going for the most depraved place was your best bet at finding answers, and I needed them fast.

  Caused some mayhem in a club I knew wasn’t owned by him, and found my answers after I got in a bit of trouble. Bloodshed followed me wherever I went, so I wasn’t worried about the fallout. I couldn’t be traced.

  I didn’t exist.

  There was something so freeing in being invisible. The world was your playground, and you did as you wished.

  Getting inside the gold gates to the Richie Rich town was a piece of cake. I had someone who owed me a favor hack into the Uber Eats website and got myself a golden ticket inside.

  Once in, I ditched my car and went into a van I had waiting for me. This was all on my government and the answers they wanted. Not that they gave a fuck about a missing agent. They cared about the information he knew and how he could bring a nation to its knees.

  I whistled calmly as I made my way to the house behind Yoro’s. It was huge, and the owners of it owned half of Chicago as well. I pressed the intercom button and got buzzed in.

  A bunch of dipshits were in the driveway smoking. All of them trying to act hard. Things might get messy if they didn’t buy my act. I smiled.

  I walked up to them, my smile bright and wide, trying to contain the monster lurking inside. There was a set of twins, a pretty blond boy, and then there was the trio with money that could be traced back to the Mayflower.

  “Hello, I am here to check on the cameras in the back of the perimeter. We got a call they were glitching.”

  The tall ginger with gauges mumbled, “Whatthefuckever.”

  I kept my smile as I walked to the back carrying the clipboard I had grabbed from the truck.

  Sometimes I amused myself when I changed my accent just to see if I could pull it off or if I would fuck it up. The thrill of getting caught got me hard, not going to lie. I was fucked-up that way.

  Once I got to the back of the house, I went to the corner where both houses were connected by an electrical pole. I pulled a pair of electrical gloves from my back pocket and put them on. Then I climbed the vines and pine that adorned the back, glad rich fuckers loved their fancy shit.

  When I made it to the top of the fence, I hid behind the pole o
n my side of the yard. There were men near the front of the house guarding it. Ten minutes was how long it took for them to start moving in panic. I smiled and popped a gum into my mouth. I had a half hour at most of being completely alone.

  I might have caused a turf war between Gio Estacado and Yoro today, but I didn’t give two shits about it.

  Looking down at the five-foot drop, I grabbed the edge of the wall, quickly hanging, then letting go.

  I ran inside the house, my gun still tucked away, but a blade handy. I know you shouldn’t bring a knife to a gunfight, but I banked on the fact that if caught, these fuckers would want answers, and for that, they would need me alive. Gave me enough time to maim.

  I made it to the house with ease. Guess Yoro hadn’t left many men behind, and the ones he did, he would have stationed at the front of the house and at the gate.

  Quickly I started to put bugs in the areas I deemed hot. The ones where Yoro would be most likely to have conversations. The fact that fear was nonexistent to me kept me calm and collected. I didn’t feel my heart accelerate when I heard a voice down the hall, nor did my palms get sweaty.

  When I made it to the second floor, I hurried, knowing my window would come to an end soon. I made it to the master bedroom, something I knew from looking at the Zillow listing from a previous owner. People were dumb as fuck putting everything online now. Nothing digital ever went away.

  The moment that I stepped inside, something felt off. I felt the burn of someone’s gaze on my skin. My gun was drawn and ready to shoot. I would never hesitate to paint the world red if it meant saving my own arse.

  Quickly I scanned the room, and when I found what I was looking for, I staggered. There was a woman cuffed to an armoire. Her hands were above her head, jet-black hair, with a black baby doll that was see-through. Pink nipples that made my mouth water were jutted toward me. Her lips were a soft pink, her body was pale, and then when I got to her eyes, it felt like I had fucking died.

  It was like getting caught in the middle of a snowstorm. Icy gaze full of chaos, and there was nowhere to go. Her gray eyes were pale, unique-looking. I’d traveled the world and never seen any quite like hers.