Total pages in book: 266
Estimated words: 250787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1254(@200wpm)___ 1003(@250wpm)___ 836(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 250787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1254(@200wpm)___ 1003(@250wpm)___ 836(@300wpm)
“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.