Page 28 of Ruthless Rebel

My heart thunders at his words, at how he so clearly sees himself, and without warning my hand presses into his chest, yet instead of pushing him away like it’s my instinct to do so, it just lingers there as I breathe, “Being a murderer doesn’t make you a monster, Lincoln, we’re all guilty of taking a life in one way or another.”

A resigned sigh leaves him, as his eyes flick between me and the article still on the screen. “Yeah, well, I’ve got more victims than most,” he grunts, before dropping his stare to where my hand still lingers against his chest. I snatch it away instantly as if it’s on fire, and I swear I see a look of disappointment in his eyes before it turns smug. “I didn’t kill those five men, you’re right, I am better than that, but if you ever want a front row seat to how I make my victims scream, just say the word.” He pairs his words with his body pressing harder into mine, and something in the pit of my stomach swirls as the scent of him surrounds me.

Another scoff leaves my mouth as I cover up his effect on me, pushing him away with a shove, rounding his desk and storming away from him without looking back, as I snap, “Fuck you, Blackwell.”

I’m barely through the threshold of the door as he tosses back, “Any time you want, Dark Prince.”

His words linger as I leave the office and drive straight back to my penthouse in the hopes of escaping him. Of escaping this feeling of dread, and something else I can’t describe, taking over my entire body until I can barely breathe. Usually when I feel like this I would calm myself with the presence of Cassie, seeking her out far more than she probably will ever realize, but rightnow there is nothing to save me from the pit of my own despair. Not the sleek burn of vodka as it caresses its way down my throat, or the fiery scald of the shower as it batters against my skin. No, nothing can erase the rage inside of me, or the words of the person I love to hate the most that are still lingering in the air around me.

Any time you want, Dark Prince.

Well game fucking on, Blackwell.

12

LINCOLN

Blood drips from my gloves as my knuckles smash into his face again and again, my entire body rejoicing in the grunts of pain that slip through his lips without pause. Grunts that I know he would get off on, if he were the one inflicting the pain like he is so used to. I’ve seen countless files of his victims, pictures of their bruises, paragraphs of their pain, yet now he is the one beneath the monster, I’m not sure he finds it all that erotic.

David Bennet was predictable in his routine, which made watching him and capturing him almost too easy. I didn’t even bother dragging it out. Last night I stalked him in the shadows, imprinting his crimes to memory as he strolled through the shit hole bar he favors like he was invincible. Knocking him down from his self made pedestal was almost poetic, beautiful even, not that anyone else would appreciate my art. Erasing men like him is a service, one I perform well, even though the girls he hurt will never know peace after what he did to them, they will know safety, and that’s all thanks to me.

“Please, just stop,” he begs, his words slurred as the blood spills from his mouth and nose, and in response, I kick him in the chestand force him down to the floor.

“Did you stop?” I spit, pressing the tip of my knife into his skin between two of his ribs until more of his blood begins to pour, and he cries out even louder. “When they begged and pleaded for you to stop touching them, stop hurting them, did you?” I ask, repeating the same motion with my knife again and again, until his sides are completely sliced up. “No, you didn’t, did you? You got off on their fear, their screams. They thrashed and cried and you got harder and rougher, stealing their life from them without ever letting them meet their maker.”

Blood and tears stain his face as he looks up at me in horror, seeing the monster I only ever unleash inside the walls of this place, and I see the moment he realizes. The second he knows that he isn’t getting out of here, not alive anyway, and the pleasure it brings me is unmatched. There is nothing quite like watching the life disappear out of someone's eyes, especially when that someone thought they were untouchable.

Words tumble from his mouth, no doubt more pleas, but they aren’t recognizable, not anymore. Instead of answering his pleas, I force my blade to his sternum, slicing right down the middle, deep enough to see bone. He passes out, his life lingering right on the edge, as I reach for my mini saw and start to cut through his ribs one at a time, until his breath slowly stops. Okay, so maybe I accidentally slipped the saw into his heart, whoops.

“This one is for Clara,” I spit, tossing one of the bones aside. “This one is for Sophie.” I repeat the motion, adding bone after bone to the pile, until every last one of his victims' names have been plucked from his body and he lays lifeless beneath me. Only then do I stop, slumping down to the floor beside him in the pools of his blood, as my exertion forces me to take a break.

This is the moment where most people would feel guilt, some grief even, but me? I feel nothing. There is no regret, no anger, no shame, there aren’t even any feelings of justice or accomplishment, just an agonizing emptiness that has lingered since the moment my mother took her last breath. It doesn’t matter what I do to try and fill the void she left behind, it never works, and as I sit here in this prick's blood, I feel just as helpless as the eight year old little boy who sat there in hers.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, but once I have my breath back and my heart rate has returned to normal, I push myself back onto my knees and get back to work. I use my saw and other tools to break down his body until he is nothing but a mound of body parts, then I mix up the chemicals I need to erase him and heave what’s left of him into the container, letting the liquid work its magic.

While he is being broken down into nothing I get to work cleaning up. I gather up the last bits of him and toss them in the container, while also washing away his blood from all the surfaces. Then I put away my tools, and wait until the mixture has fully claimed him before I clean out the container too. Once everything is done I head outside and strip, tossing my clothes away to burn, while rinsing off any stray bits of blood on my skin until I am clean and my clothes are nothing but ash.

As I start my long walk back to the car, my mind can’t help but wonder about the murders Asher accused me of this afternoon. I looked into them at length after he stormed from my office, and I can’t help but feel uneasy about them, because he was right. The victims are my type, and their murders are right up my alley, yet their disposal is sloppy, almost like someone wants there to be a trail back to them. Which is stupid, because what kind of person wants to be caught for murder? I know I need to do some more digging, find the culprit before they accidentally lead police to the hoard of missing victims I have made disappear, but after tonight my sole focus is going to be on the fact my best friend is getting married. Anything else will have to wait until I get back.

As soon as my car is in view, my eyes laser focus on the dark shadowy figure leaning against the trunk. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m in the middle of the fucking woods, but apparently Asher Donovan’s skill knows no bounds. It doesn’t matter that it’s almost 3am, and it certainly doesn’t matter that he shouldn’t have been able to find me. There he leans in his custom three piece suit, like a king waiting for his servant.

“I know I said any time you want, but I didn’t take you for the type to get down and dirty in the woods,” I call out, not quickening my steps as I erase the space between us, and only when we are standing almost toe to toe do I add, “Are you stalking me, Dark Prince?”

His body appears casual despite the fancy suit, as he leans back against the car with his ankles crossed, but I can see the tension in his jaw as he grinds his teeth. His eyes bore into mine, not daring to drop down my body for even a second as he grits, “I think the more important question is, why are you naked?”

A thrill like never before races down my spine at his presence, and my cock jumps beneath his tone. “Why? Do you like what you see, Ash?” I ask, purposely using his name in a way I know he loathes when it comes to me, and from the way his eyes darken, I know I’m getting under his skin.

“Lincoln,” he warns, in that tone of his that usually makes people fall at his feet, but not me.

Ignoring his warning like always, I push on. “Is there a reason you’re following me? I mean, I know we’ve established how much you love my company with the way you pinned me to the floor earlier. Did you come out here for a rematch?”

He opens his mouth, no doubt to toss back a cut-throat retort, but as I take a step closer, his eyes drop and before he can getanything else out he snaps, “Can you please put on some fucking clothes.”

My heart starts to race in my chest as I ask, “Why, does my cock offend you?”

“Everything about you offends me, Blackwell,” he snaps back without pause, and all I can do is smirk, as I lean my hand down by his hip and bring our bodies flush together, relishing in his sharp intake of breath.

“Want me to show you just how offensive I can be?” I breathe, inhaling his sweet scent as it mixes with the smokiness of mine. “Then instead of spitting my name in exasperation, you could scream it in exhilaration.”

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