In Peace Lies Havoc (Midnight Mayhem 1)

Killian’s arm hooks around my torso from behind, pulling me into his chest. “Have you come yet?” he whispers from behind me.

“Killian, put her down,” Keaton grumbles, dropping down onto the ground to remove his biker boots.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Killian’s looking at Keaton now.

“Know what?” Keaton tosses the boots across the ground before getting back to his feet and undressing.

Killian chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, this is great.” He looks back to me. “Go get ready for the final act, Little Bird.” He brushes up closer to me, running his hand down my ass. “And wear something that shows your tits.”

I shove him away playfully, but his face doesn’t wave. “I’m not kidding. You owe me after this, though.” He winks before walking off.

Owing Killian isn’t something I want to do.

Dressed in black straps that crisscross by covering my nipples—and only my nipples—and my private parts, I’m bound with my arms tied above my head and my ankles tied together on the ground. Darkness cloaks around me like a safety barrier, the knot in the bandana that’s tied around my eyes secured around my head. Earbuds are in my ears, because Killian said he doesn’t want me to hear anything. I don’t know who has control over the music, but I want to thank them for putting on something good enough to distract me.

It switches to “You Can Cry” by Marshmello just as I feel a soft breeze of wind brush over my bare stomach. My eyes roll to the back of my head as the breeze turns more forceful. I don’t know what it is, but I want it harder and lower. Harder. My back arches off whatever it is that I’m strapped to as the feeling intensifies. Like ice being grazed over my hot flesh. My lips part, and my hips roll slightly. Blood red strobe lights flash inside my head, as if I’m in the middle of a club dance floor. The song remixes into “Play” by Alan Walker. My mind is an empty vortex, with nothing but the flashing of the red light and the deep pounding from the addictive base line of the song. The feeling is in tune to the song, and then from the far distance in the red, I see a shadow. He’s wearing a hoodie. The song slows for a second. He gets closer and closer, the song coming back in full force as the light flickers faster and faster and the feeling is coming harder and harder—until everything stops. Dead silence. Slowly, the red light comes alive again, only slower, and standing right in front of me is the man in the hoodie with half of his face showing. I can see by the profile that it’s King. The sharp edges of his jaw and his sunken cheekbones. What. The feeling hits me right in my core, just as his mouth slowly kicks up in a wicked smirk.

He comes closer, and my body is pulsing, reacting to whatever is going on outside without seeing it. I reach up, curving the hoodie around my fingers, and flicking it off his face.

He hisses, baring his teeth like a wild animal. His eyes are feral, but his hand comes between my thighs. “Mine,” he growls, his teeth scraping against my collarbone. The song is still thudding in the background as his knee separates my legs and his lips are on mine. My chest is humming, everything throbbing with need. It’s a cruel kind of torture. My eyes open, seeking him out, but the room is empty again with nothing but the red light.

The ties around my wrists are loosened, and I reach up, ripping the earbuds out of my ears. The curtains are already closed, and I don’t care enough to figure out what is going on around me because tears are clouding my vision. I push away from all of them and run toward our RV, bypassing all of the people who are spilling out from the show.

Tearing open the door, I head straight for my room and drop down onto my bed. My head pounds from whatever it was that just happened.

“Little Bird,” Killian says from the threshold of my room minutes later. Did he chase me? Why couldn’t it be King who chases me? Why is it always Killian?

“Go away, Killian. What the hell was that?”

He pauses, searching my eyes. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. About us. But whatever you think of during an episode is on you—not me. I don’t force you to see what you see. I just shuffle things to the surface.”

I flop onto my back, counting the dots on the roof above. “Why am I here?”

There’s shuffling that moves around the room, and when I turn my head to the side to see why he hasn’t answered me, my eyes connect to King’s.