Madness: Part 2 – Chapter 8

I immediately left the café after my call from the Lord. I didn’t even tell my friends that I was going. Pulling into my driveway, I see a box on my front porch. I stop my SUV, get out, and pick it up. Taking it inside, I place it on my kitchen table and open it. It has a laptop, cell phone, Apple watch, and a wallet. Going through it, I find an ID with a new name and birthday on it, but my address is the same. What the fuck is that going to do for me? I feel like I’m going into the witness protection program.

Opening the laptop, I turn it on to see they’ve given me a new email address to go with my new identity, and I have one in my inbox. In the subject line is HAIDYN JAMISON REEVES.

Clicking on it, I read over the information listed in the email.

That’s it. They didn’t give me a birthdate or age. He has to be at least twenty-two because he’s an active Lord. That means he finished all three years of initiation while attending Barrington—he wears the Lord’s brand. But that also means he could be fifty for all I know.

I don’t know much about Carnage, though. I’ve heard of it, but the Lords keep it under wraps for the most part.

What the fuck does denied mean for Lady? Does that mean that the Lords have denied him a wife, or he denied her? I’ve never heard of that before. Every Lord has to take a Lady as far as I’m concerned. They have to reproduce. If they don’t give back, then they’re useless.

Scrolling to the bottom of the email, I click on the attachment. It’s a slideshow of pictures. The first one is of a guy on a blacked-out motorcycle. You can’t see his face because he’s wearing a helmet. But he’s got a black T-shirt on with the sleeves cut off, ripped jeans, and combat boots. He’s sitting at a stoplight, glove-covered hands resting on his thighs and both boots on the ground, waiting for the light to turn green. He looks tall even sitting on the bike. His arms are ripped as the sun beats down on them, showing off his veins.

The next is of the same man leaning up against a car. This time, there’s snow on the ground. Too much for him to even be driving the white McLaren Sabre if you ask me. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, denim jeans, and combat boots. A black pair of Aviators cover his eyes, but you can get a better look at his face. Sharp jaw, clean-shaven, dark hair spiked on top and shaved on the sides.

The next picture is the same with him and his car, but he’s now standing with his back to the camera as he opens the passenger door for a woman. She’s dressed in a glittery silver miniskirt and six-inch heels. Her black top has a deep V cut, showing off a large, fake chest.

She’s a prostitute. It’s the only thing that makes sense due to how she’s dressed in the middle of the day with an inch of snow on the ground. He’s parked on a corner in what looks to be an abandoned area, and two other women stand farther down in the photo dressed just like her.

The next is of him and three other guys with a girl. She stands in the middle with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a cell in the other. One guy stands behind her with his hand around her neck as she looks down at the camera. Haidyn stands to her left.

I scoot forward, enlarging the picture of him. It’s the first one that has a clear shot of his face. His eyes are a pretty blue—like the ocean. It’s also the first one that he’s smiling in. Straight white teeth and a perfectly lined nose. He’s clean-shaven and has a cigarette tucked behind his right ear. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows and a pair of jeans. He’s the tallest one out of them all. If I passed him on the street, I’d definitely turn around to watch him walk away.

The next has me blinking. It’s him, but it has to be the most recent because he’s now covered in tats. And blood. He’s got a knife in one hand. Blood drips down it and onto his ripped jeans. His black combat boots stand in a puddle of it as well. His tatted knuckles grip the handle of the knife. Ink covers both arms and chest. He’s got a nose ring, and he’s shirtless, showcasing his defined bloody abs and deep V.

“Fuck me,” I whisper.

What the fuck do they expect me to do with him? Especially a Spade brother? From what I know, they’re the devils of hell. The rumors are that Carnage is where the Lords send those who betray their oaths.

Now, from what I grew up believing—Lords who betrayed their oath—was that they were taken to the cathedral and put through what the Lords call confessional. They’re tied down to the Lords altar and tortured until they confess what they did wrong, then they’re blessed with a bullet in their heads. But as I got older, I overheard my mom and stepdad talking about the Spade brothers. My stepdad had a friend who betrayed his oath and was sent there back when they attended Barrington. My mother assures him that his best friend must be dead by now, but my stepdad doesn’t agree. He said Lords don’t go there to die. They go to pay for what they did wrong, which means more torture. Typical Lord. Always wanting to make you bleed for the littlest things.

Blood, blood, and more blood until you have nothing else to give them. They enjoy sucking the life out of you. That’s why I plan on giving them whatever I must. These Lords want you to go above and beyond and show them what you’re worth. The Lords don’t give you more than they want you to have. That way, they can hold it over your head or take it away when they decide you no longer need it.

Those who have power were born at the top. And the rest are left to feed off the bottom.

I go on to the next, and it’s of a luxurious black house sitting secluded back in the middle of the woods. It reminds me of a modern church. High peak rooftops that look like steeples and a lot of glass windows. Three stories tall and a wraparound porch. Even the outside furniture is black with white pillows. It’s gorgeous. The same white McLaren Sabre in the first photo with Haidyn sits in the driveway, but no one is around.

Is this his home? He’s supposed to live at Carnage. Maybe it was his childhood home. It did say his parents are dead. He could have kept the house. Or maybe it’s a weekend getaway? I guess he could be renting it, and this picture was taken while he was inside with the prostitute in the picture.

I wonder why a man like him needs to pay for sex. The women in our world fall at the Lords feet on any given day. Most want to become a Lady. The girls who attended Barrington do anyway. They want a lavish life with endless shopping sprees. Who cares if their husbands cheat on them? It just means they don’t have to put out as much. Plus, higher-ranking Lords are placed with higher-ranking Ladies, so it’s not like they’re marrying down. We are raised and groomed from an early age to accept what our future holds. It’s like anything else in this world—it’s all we know.

A new email pops up, and I exit out of the one I’m in to open it. It’s of me. A picture that was taken today while I was on my UNKNOWN call standing outside of the restaurant. Then below is outlined like Haidyn’s was.

I read over it again, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do. A therapist? I know nothing about that shit. And Charlotte? I sound like an elementary school teacher. I’ve always hated the name Annabelle. I asked my mother why she named me after a doll that haunts and kills people. She told me it was after her and her best friend…but Charlotte isn’t much better if you ask me.

Closing the laptop, I sit back and slump in the chair, trying to wrap my brain around what to do now. I have three months to make a new life, find new friends, and get a boyfriend—who doesn’t want to fuck me. This is going to be harder than I thought. Can’t I just kill someone instead?

Opening it back up, I type out a response.

And press send. Chewing on my nails, I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply. Maybe it’s just a cover, and I’m not actually his therapist. That would make more sense, but still…

I have a response and open it.

I send the reply. My new phone rings a moment later.

“Hello?” I answer the UNKNOWN call.

“Carnage,” the altered voice growls in greeting.

“Carnage?” I ask.

“He’s a Spade brother,” he barks at me as if I haven’t read the emails he sent. “Look…you either take the assignment or walk away. That’s your choice.”

“Yes, of course.” I sit up straighter before he can hang up on me. “I…just—am I not allowed to have questions?” I need a little more information than what he’s given me, and I don’t think I’m asking for the impossible.

“No,” he replies. “You have three months to change your life. If you don’t get it done, then we’ll decide for you.”

Click.

HAIDYN

Senior year at Barrington

The vow ceremony is quickly approaching, and my father is on my ass. He’s mad because I refused to choose my best friend’s girl.

No amount of money or power will make me betray Saint like that.

I pull up to my father’s house and make my way inside. He spends most of his time at Carnage, so I’m surprised he’s here. I already know he’s in his office. His doors are closed, but I enter without knocking. He’s expecting me.

Entering, I see him sitting behind his desk, a glass of brandy in one hand and a pen in the other, as if he’s just signed a deal. “Son.” He gets to his feet, motioning me to come have a seat.

I cross my arms over my chest and say nothing.

He gestures to a man who sits on the couch to the left. I immediately know he’s a Lord by the way he’s dressed and sits there like he fucking owns the world. We’re all conditioned to have that mentality.

“I have a proposition for you.” The man stands and buttons his suit jacket.

“I’m not interested,” I say, stopping him before he goes too far. If my dad is involved, then I want nothing to do with it. Turning, I give them both my back and go to walk out.

“Haidyn,” my father growls. “You’re lucky I was able to find another one.”

I spin back around to face them. “Another what?” I demand, but of course the bastard ignores me and looks at the other Lord. Women are a dime a dozen in our world, so I’m not sure why he’s acting like they’re limited.

“Let me introduce myself.” The guy steps toward me with his right hand out. “I’m…”

“I’m not interested,” I repeat, stopping him. I’m not dumb. This man has made some kind of deal with my father, and they both think they can fuck me over. It’s not going to happen.

I’ve done things ordered by the Lords, and until they tell me I have to take this bullshit deal my father is trying to lock me into, it’s not going to happen.

Once you get an order, you don’t negotiate with them. One day, my time will be up, and the Lords will call for my death, and it will be granted.

I wouldn’t say I have a death wish, but I’m not afraid to die.

“Haidyn,” my father snaps, slamming his hand down on his desk.

“Sorry you wasted your time,” I say, giving the Lord my back. I walk out of the house, not caring if I just pissed off my father or what it cost him.

It’s been three months since I fired Lana. And I’ve been assigned a new therapist. The Lords have ordered me to talk to someone. They act like words fucking matter. They don’t. Not in our world. Actions are what make a Lord. You show up, and you do what you’re told.

So I sit here in a room at Carnage on the seventh floor, watching the rainfall from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s been this way for days. I like it, though.

Saint and Kashton are somewhere around, probably down in the basement. Saint lost his mind the day he woke up from Ashtyn shooting him. Kashton tries to hide everything with sarcasm and a knife. Me? I just don’t give a fuck. Life is boring. It’s the same ole thing every day. Torture and kill. Then repeat. There’s no thrill like there used to be.

Where’s the challenge? We don’t have assignments like other Lords. We run Carnage. Lords are brought in; we initiate them and then place them in a cell to play with later.

My life is missing something, and I’m not sure what it is. But I know it’s something that I’ve never had before. I’m itching to find it.

A door opening behind me has me shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans when Jessie announces, “Miss Charlotte Hewett, sir.”

A soft, “Thank you,” follows as I’m guessing he holds the door open for her. Jessie is a gentleman above all. The only one who exists in this prison.

It closes, and I turn around to see a woman bent over the desk to my left. She rummages through a Louis Vuitton bag, oblivious that I’m standing right here.

And a smile tugs at my lips because I’ve seen her before. It’s been years, but I’d never forget her face. She was on the yacht. The girl in the white dress—little Miss Priss. This may be my lucky day, after all.

I clear my throat, and she spins around with a gasp. “Haidyn,” she breathes, and my cock instantly hardens. Women see it as a compliment. It’s not. My cock stays this way. Fucking is my therapy. Making others feel pain makes me feel better.

I know it’s not fair, but I also don’t give a fuck. If a woman is willing to crawl into bed with me, then she better be prepared to get fucked—in more ways than one.

She’s younger than the other therapists I’ve had. Chocolate-brown hair pulled tight and secured in a perfect bun at the nape of her delicate neck. I can tell by the blush on her cheeks that she’s embarrassed just to be in the room with me. It just furthers the point of my first impression of her—she’s too good for me. A woman who probably prefers missionary and doesn’t like to mess up her perfect hair or makeup. I bet she’d look even better crying with her face covered with my cum.

Straightening her already straight pencil skirt, she runs her hands down it nervously. “Good afternoon, Haidyn. I’m Charlotte.” She walks toward me in a pair of black—very short and professional—high heels, holding out her right hand. “It’s great to meet you.” Coming to a stop in front of me, she tilts her head up and takes a deep breath for courage when the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen finally meet my stare. They’re a deep, dark blue and remind me of two sparkling sapphires.

She can’t be over five three. A petite little thing. Like a doll. Or a toy. Either way, I’d chew her up and spit her out. I’m always up for a snack.

My eyes drop to her black button-up blouse, and I imagine ripping it open to see what her tits look like. They don’t look to be on the large side, but I know how deceiving a shirt can be.

I cross my arms over my chest, and she drops her hand along with her smile. “Uh…shall we get started?” She steps back and points at the couch like I’m going to lie down and spill all my secrets to this bitch.

“You may leave.” I turn and gesture toward the door.

Her dark brows pull together, and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.” Turning her back to me, she returns to the desk, and I take the opportunity to look over at the pretty brunette.

Her modest heels only give her about an extra two inches, she has on a pair of pantyhose, and there’s a short slit up the center of her skirt. My hands itch to rip it all the way off, remove her underwear, and shove them into her mouth while I press her tits to the window and fuck her ass. I bet she’d never let a man near it. Women like her don’t like to be treated like a cheap whore. They want the boys who pretend to love them and tell them what they want to hear to get into their pants. I’ll tell her she’s a pretty whore while I make her crawl to me with a butt plug in her ass and a vibrator shoved up her cunt.

She grabs a notepad and sits down in the high-back chair. She crosses her legs and looks up at me. “The sooner we get started, the sooner I’ll leave you alone, and you can get back to work.”

I want to laugh at her but decide to play with her instead. I prefer my toys to be dirty. “Tell me about yourself, Charlotte.” Did the Lords pick her because they know I’ve seen her before? I don’t believe in coincidences.

“This isn’t about me, Mr. Reeves,” she says in a tone that tells me she’s uncomfortable. The way she shifts in her seat also gives her away.

Mr. Reeves? Isn’t that cute. How long before she starts calling me sir? “Then what is it about?” I dig.

“You were ordered by the Lords to seek therapy,” she says matter-of-factly. “You’ve been through what? Four over the last two years?” she inquires, scanning some notes.

I look over her left hand and see no ring. She doesn’t have a Lord. Interesting. Women are married off very young in our world, which makes me question her age and ability to even be qualified for this job. “Five,” I lie, not bothering to tell her the term is wrong as well. She makes my sixth in three years. Did she not do her homework? Honestly, none of it matters.

“Are you taking any medications?”

I laugh at that, and she looks up, narrowing her blue eyes on mine. Then they drop back down to the notebook. “It says you’ve been prescribed zolpidem.” Her eyes meet mine once again. “Are they helping you sleep?”

“I get plenty of sleep,” Another lie.

I’m not one who requires a lot of it. Sleeping slows you down. I have to keep going because something always needs to be done. Plus, I’m not one who dreams. It’s always just the past, and I don’t like to live there.

“I brought you something…” She walks back over to her purse and pulls a small notebook out of it. “This is for you to keep a log of the hours you sleep. I’ll check it at each visit.” She smiles at me as she holds it out, but I make no move to take it from her. “Mr. Reeves⁠—”

“We’re done here, Charlotte.” I interrupt whatever she was about to say and hold the door open.

She lets out a huff and grabs her bag off the desk. Throwing it over her shoulder, she walks toward me. “I’ll see you at the same time, same day in two weeks.”

“Charlotte?” I call out when she walks out of the room, and she turns to face me. I lean against the doorframe, and my eyes drop to her heels and slowly run up over her legs, thin waist, and chest, letting them linger. When my gaze meets hers, she swallows nervously.

I like the way her breathing picks up, so I slowly make my way toward her in the hallway. She tilts her head up, and I reach out, running the pad of my finger along the buttons on her button-up blouse, letting her know how vulnerable they are. I could rip it open at any second and shred the precious silk. Her pretty blue eyes are wide, and her pouty lips part, but she doesn’t dare push me away. “Want me to tell you all my secrets?” I give her a threatening smile and go on. “The only way I’m going to talk to you is if you’re naked and on your knees with a gag in your mouth.”

She gasps, stepping back, and my hand drops to my side. Turning, I give her my back and enter the room. I slam the door shut, knowing that the bitch won’t show her face here again. No matter how much I want her to.