Unsettled: Thriller Standalone

I slowly pass the alley way they went down, turning my face to find them almost hidden from sight. If I wasn't specifically looking, I wouldn't have seen them halfway down it and engulfed in shadow. I pause, leaning my back against the building behind me while pulling my phone from my back pocket. I pretend to text as a group of people pass, quickly glancing to make sure no one is looking before diving into the dark myself.

Tucking my phone away, my fingers find the handle of my knife once more. My sneakers are almost silent on the pavement under my feet, my eyes blinking to adjust to the darkness as I creep toward the hushed tones farther down th

e alley. I almost can't hear them over the pounding in my ears, my heart losing it when I realize I'm not hearing whispers but soft moans. My fingers tighten painfully on the handle in my hand, pulling it from my pocket as I move to silently stand behind the man rubbing the dust from my butterfly.

With angry, trembling fingers, I slam my knife into the side of his neck. His filthy hands leave my butterfly, slapping uselessly at his neck while I pull it out and shove him out of my way. My butterfly doesn't even see me, her hands reaching for him in confusion. They really chose the best spot for this because it's so dark she can't even tell what's going on less than a foot from her face. Reaching forward, I grip her soft curls and yank her away from the man she's trying to speak to. A short startled scream escapes her kiss swollen lips, but I quickly silence it by smacking her head against the building behind her while releasing her hair.

Poor thing is so confused she's not even fighting me, barely even aware of me it would seem, as her arms raise to cradle her bleeding head. The man at my feet is still gurgling but otherwise disposed of. This feels rather uneventful after all that angry buildup, and that makes me even more angry. How dare he tarnish my butterfly and then give up so easily. How dare she allow such pathetic waste of human to stroke her wings. My arm snaps out to grip her cheeks in my palm, squeezing as hard as I can while making her look at me.

It's so dark I can't see the color of her eyes, but I know the chocolate is melting, can feel her tears running along my fingers. I can vaguely see her blinking up at me, small whimpers leaving her pinched lips. She's not even fighting me, just crying. "I'm disappointed in you."

She must recognize my voice because her hands latch onto me, her nails scraping against the material of my jacket as she finally gives me some kind of reaction that isn't pathetic. "What the fuck is wrong with you! What did you do to Daniel? Daniel! Dan..."

I bash her head back against the building once again, effectively silencing her once more. Her hands try to yank my arm down, but I don't budge. I've done this many fucking times, her weak little arms aren’t going to move mine anytime soon. "None of that now."

I smash her head once more when she starts to wiggle again, small whimpers leaving her lips. Her body sags just a bit like she's getting close to losing consciousness, and I lightly shake her face. "Did you know that butterflies have scales on their wings?" I shake her head no in my palm, answering my question for her as she blinks at me, her knees trying to buckle. "Well, they do. And do you know what happens when people touch their wings?" I shake her head again, tutting at her. "You're kind of stupid, do you know that?" I make her nod, smiling to myself. "Their scales get wiped away when you touch them. Their already thin wings become weakened and more prone to tears and damage. Just like yours are now."

I can tell she's about to pass out on me, her eyes barely open now. Fucking pathetic. She'll be added to my collection like the rest, but her box will be shrouded with disappointment. She had so much fucking potential. I angrily slam my steak knife into her gut, her droopy eyes suddenly wide awake with shock as her mouth creates a perfect "O". I drag it up to the bottom of her rib cage then step back, pulling it with me. She slides down the building at her back, arms aimlessly clutching at her waist as she drops to the ground.

Looking at her tangled with her douche lover isn't the ending I wanted, and I angrily toss my makeshift napkin butterfly onto their limp bodies. How fucking disappointing. Taking one of the spare napkin pieces from my pocket, I scrub the knife's handle down before throwing it down next to them. Looking down at myself, I can't even see if I have blood on me or not; good thing it's dark. I'll just have to avoid the lighted areas on my way home, I guess. I'm wearing dark denim and a black jacket, or this may have been an issue. It's just a reminder that I didn't plan this, and I feel myself getting annoyed over it all over again.

Eyes dropping to my butterfly, I shake my head. For the first time in a very long time, I don't feel even the tiniest bit satisfied with the bloodshed. Walking toward the end of the alley and the main road, I listen for anyone walking my way before stepping out onto the sidewalk. I won't let this happen again. I won't let myself feel this again, but that doesn’t help me right fucking now. Hidden in my pockets, my hands won’t stop shaking. My heart is still angrily pounding against my ribs, waiting for the grand finale that won’t happen. I can’t leave myself like this without risking having a complete fucking blowout.

My shoulder bumps against someone as I turn the corner, but I don’t bother to apologise. I’m not sorry, if anything, I wish I’d pushed them hard enough to get struck by oncoming traffic. Seeing their face stuck to the grill of a car might have helped settle my racing lungs. I need fucking something to quell the manic need to feel satisfied. I need someone. But not just anyone, I need someone who can handle my very specific set of needs for the night, and the more I think about it, I think I have the perfect little weirdo for the job.

I'm sitting in my bay window, staring out into the black woods behind my house when I hear the front door open. I already know who it is, so I don't look. An hour ago, I got a random phone call asking for my address from a very familiar voice. It would be an understatement to say I was surprised. He sounded rougher than usual, off. The urgency that leaked through the conversation told me he needed me, and the desperate, pathetic part of me loved that.

Turning my face from the window, I watch as Rhys steps into my small living area. His hair is damp as if he showered recently, wet strands hanging over his brow as he shucks his jacket off of his big shoulders to fall onto the floor. I can feel his eyes piercing into my skin, his gaze unwavering as he silently reaches behind his back to rip the hoodie he's wearing over his head. It drops to the floor with his jacket. It's almost strange seeing him without either, my lips parting as he loses his shirt next. I don't know how I was expecting things to go, but I'm not mad about where we're ending up. If anything, I'm nervous.

He toes off his sneakers as he walks toward me, the hard flat expanse of his chest begging for most of my attention. His muscles ripple in the dimmed lighting of my loft, all of his dips and edges highlighted by the shadows. Shifting so that my feet find the floor, I face him head on, my eyes blinking at the sting when his hand finds the hair at the back of my head to jerk me to stand before him.

"I don't have time for your weirdo nonsense tonight, Hadley, so listen carefully." I swallow as his breath hits my lips, my pulse pounding against the press of his thumb as his other hand grips my jaw. "I'm going to fuck you until you're crying for me to stop. Begging me to leave you alone." The hand in my hair tightens, pulling the hair at my scalp painfully, but I don't blink, don't give him any indication his touch affects me. "Whether you want it or not, I don't care. In fact, I hope you don't."

My mouth opens before I can stop it, shameless words spilling from my lips. Those demons of his are swirling just below the surface, and I can't help myself from trying to get them out. "Promises, promises. Don't get my hopes up if you don't intend to keep your word." It's false bravado I'm spitting, but not a lie. Fuck, I want that. I want nothing more than to feel every ounce of pain this brutal man has to offer. I don't know what has him so wound up, so bent on destruction, but I'm fucking here for it.

He smiles. A full blown, toothy grin that has my gut clenching with anxious energy. It's absolutely stunning and nothing short of terrifying. My head is titled further for him by the hand in my hair, a small, almost inaudible gasp falling from my mouth at the bite of pain. His tongue reaches out to lap at the part in my lips, dipping to taste the space between my teeth. I want to touch him, feel the warmth of his skin against my palms, but it almost feels like I need permission. My fingers have a slight tremble as I risk it, the tips of my nails making little divots in his skin as I press them to his chest.

I suck in the breath he lets out at the contact, swallow it down as his teeth turn vicious on my lips. I can already taste the coppery ting of my blood, the bruising grip of his fingers on my face telling what's just in store for me. His hands leave my head to grab at the front of my cotton tee. He fists my tits, painfully squeezing them in his palms as his teeth scrape down the column of my throat. My head falls back, the pain he's inflicting lusting up my wicked mind.

"Take it off. Take everything off."

It's growled into my skin as his teeth continue to brand me. His fingers have found my nipples, yanking at their tight peaks ruthlessly as I try to do what he's commanded, his hands angrily slap mine away when I take too long. He rips it over my head, and it disappears across the room, followed by my bra that is practically ripped from my skin. My breath is knocked out of me as he shoves me onto the floor unexpectedly, my elbows banging painfully against the carpet as I catch myself. My chest is heaving under his gaze, the cornflower blue of his eyes almost black as he stares down at me. I should feel scared, or at the very least, worried, but I don't. Not if the dark pink swirling in my mood stone indicates anything. The shadows are where I always feel the most comfortable, and right now, Rhys is nothing but dark.

He drops to his knees before me, and they thud between the part of my legs, loud and hard. Silently, he grips the top of my leggings, fingers scratching the skin of my lower belly as he jerks them down. I lift my hips to help him, watch the slight tremble of his hands as they work the fabric down my legs. I don't think the tremble is his nerves getting the best of him; I think he's holding back. Keeping whatever monster he's hiding behind his navy blues at bay. My leggings disappear like my shirt and bra, Rhys's eyes narrowed on my thighs. Although he could be glaring down at the only clothing remaining on my body, I think his eyes are fixed on something else.

I almost forgot where we were, that I had the lights on because I let myself get lost in his magnetism. I try to close my thighs, hide the jagged scars lining my skin like thick white lightning bolts, but he grabs my knees, s

topping me. One of his rough palms slides down from my knee, thumb bumping along the ridges of white. His eyes find mine, "Why?"

His hands aren't shaking anymore, I notice, like seeing the slices of hate in my skin has tempered whatever beast he was keeping confined. I swallow as he stares me down, waiting for an answer. I don't like talking about my scars, much less letting people see them. It's no surprise to anyone that I'm a fucking wreck of a human being, but my scars are just that, mine. They're the only marks on my body I've willingly made with my own hand, carved into my flesh with an aching heart and sad mind trying to feel something that was purely mine. When I mark my flesh, I'm the one controlling my emotions, I'm the one dulling out my punishments or rewards. It's one of the few moments I feel even remotely in control. I don't need my ring to tell me how I feel, for a brief moment in time, I just know. "Because the pain is the only thing I'm sure of."

Something resembling understanding purses his lips as a hand slides even higher, thumb pressing along the seam of my slit through the fabric of my panties. If he was surprised to find the wet spot soaked through, he doesn't act like it. Instead, he reaches behind his back with his free hand, reaching into his back pocket to bring forward a pocket knife. My heart thumps against my ribs as he flicks his wrist, a short curved blade glinting in the light from the lamp as he holds it above me.

"You going to gut me, Butterfly? Flay me like a fish?"

His thumb moves upward, making my breath catch in my chest as he presses ruthlessly on my clit. He leans over me, the warmth of his chest brushing along my aching nipples. I arch into his touch, desperate for more even as his knife disappears from view. His teeth scratch over my chin, breath meeting my lips, "Not a single word." His lips close over mine, the touch achingly sweet compared to his usual bite, and I practically moan, lips chasing his when he pulls away to sit back up. "Not a single sound." His thumb dips to my slit, rubbing the wetness through my panties. "Nothing but silence."

He raises the knife for me, showing it off by turning it side to side in the light. His eyes aren't on my face, but on my chest, trailing their gaze to my stomach, then further down to settle on my pussy. The knife is cold when he places the flat side of its wicked curve on my hot skin, my skin puckering with anxious goosebumps as he makes it follow the same path as his eyes. I feel the fabric of my panties split, the cold tip of the knife sliding just inside the wet lips of my pussy. I gasp at the feel of it, my thighs involuntarily trying to close but catching on Rhys's hips.