In Silence She Screams (Midnight Mayhem 3)

I ran my tongue over my bottom lip and carefully pushed it open. There, in the middle of a fuckfest with a young girl the same age, was Benjamin.

I watched as he thrust inside of her. Blonde hair, fat tits that smashed the bottom of her chin every time his runty hips slammed against her ass.

“Oh my God!” The girl’s eyes found mine, her cheeks turning a blatant red.

Benjamin stopped, looking over his shoulder. “What the fuck, asshole? Get the fuck out!”

I had two options here. Well, to be fair, I didn’t really. There was only one. A better man would have let the girl run, but a better man wouldn’t have rolled up to fucking kill, and besides, this bitch played a part, too.

I kicked the bedroom door closed, sliding the lock over until it clicked. “I’m tired as fuck. Lucky for you because this will be quick, though you really don’t deserve that.”

He pushed the girl off his dick and came closer to me. I watched in pure fascination when he realized just how different we were.

He was around five feet.

Me? Six-three.

He would have been pushing one fifty of underdeveloped tissue.

Me? Two hundred of lean muscle.

But that wasn’t even the exact moment he knew he was fucked. No. It was when my lip curled and my eyes darkened.

“What do you want, man?”

“My little sister was here tonight…” I murmured. “You fucked with the wrong one.”

I pulled out my hunting knife from the holster around my waist, flicked it around my fingers before stabbing him under his chin. The girl started screaming, so I yanked it out of Ben and flung it directly into her. Her screams were muffled when the handle of my knife stuck out from between her eyes and blood started spilling down the curve of her nose.

The boy—Ben—began sinking to the ground, landing on his knees. I stepped forward, pulled the knife out from the girl’s skull, and came back down to Ben. I leaned over his dying corpse and smirked at the sound of gargling blood rising in his throat.

“I’m not quite done with you.”

I had every intention of making this easy. I should have been freaking out that I just killed someone, but I wasn’t. Corrupted adrenaline still pumping through my veins with no sign of running out. I pressed the tip of my knife into the corner of his jaw and started carving the edge of his jawbone. I didn’t stop until I got to the other side, following his hairline.

“Ky, all I can see is his face. There. On top of me. His face, Ky.”

I’d rectify that. I didn’t stop cutting until the tip of my blade was back where I had started. I curled my finger beneath the skin between the muscle and fat tissue, tearing it clean off and tossing it across the room.

Two things happened this night.

One, I called Keaton to come and help me clean my DNA out.

Two? I hit dial on a name that I didn’t want to dial…

When I was four, I remember my mother telling me she hated my fucking guts. She had pulled our car over to the side of the road, unbuckled my car seat—or whatever the fuck those seats are called when a kid is four—and told me to get the fuck out.

Apparently, she was pretty pissed about something. What? I didn’t know at the time. All I knew was that the hate she spewed at me all of my life left invisible scars over my flesh. People saw the cute smile and ravishingly good looks, the money and—let’s be real—the fame, and thought, Well, shit. This little fucker has it all.

Money and fame don’t amount to love. Money, fame, and my killer looks were merely the concealer for the torture I endured as a kid. My story wasn’t an obvious dirty—naahh, none of that.

Sometimes dirty doesn’t start with being tied to a basement floor. Sometimes dirty starts from being fed abuse by a silver spoon over the surface of Pietra Firma LuxTouch tiles.

Now my father, on the other hand, was like my hero. He knew how to tell a joke and make people laugh, but that didn’t mean you would want to cross him. My brothers and I were raised together. Elite fucking Kings. The notorious secret society that you either feared or wanted to be a part of. My brothers and I were all raised with our fathers and uncles. All good for some things, shit for others, or in Brantley’s case—fucking evil for all. When my parents died, it was a relief people would never be able to relate to. I remained in school, Riverside Prep Academy, and graduated—barely. And now… well, now I was doing exactly what my father did.

Well, at least I should have been. Until her.