Page 1 of Darkness Tempt Me (Bloody Desires #7)

Chapter one

Mavik Blackwood

I t started with revenge. I think to myself as the man I have tied to the chair passes out from the pain. Just one tiny fingernail and he’s out like a light.

“Poor little Carl,” I coo, delicately tracing my blade over his cheek like a sweet caress. “You didn’t even last five minutes before passing out. Such a disappointment.” I yank the blindfold from Carl’s face. His head lolls forward violently enough to startle him awake.

He blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the low lighting.

Sue me, I like to set the fucking mood. Carl squirms on the chair, testing the ropes around his wrists and ankles.

He’s already forgotten my brief introduction to torture.

Good thing I’m here to remind him. Sliding my brass knuckles on, I backhand the man across the cheek so hard, blood flies out of his mouth. He doesn’t even see it coming.

A tooth rolls across the floor. I must have knocked a few screws back into place because he immediately starts screaming, not even bothering to glance my way.

Dear lord, the man has a set of pipes on him.

Leaning against the wall, obscured in the shadows, I use my phone to pass the time while Carl throws his little temper tantrum.

Damn. Three unread texts. Peyton is going to be pissed.

When Carl’s gaze lands on me, I step out from the darkness, causing him to pause mid-struggle. His eyes narrow as he stares, probably trying to figure out why I look so damn familiar. “Wait. Finn? Is that you?”

I grit my teeth in anger. “Wrong, asshole.” I’m not my fucking father.

He blinks again, studying me. Then recognition dawns. “Fuck, Mavik? Is that you, boy?”

I scoff at the word ‘boy.’ I’m thirty-fucking-six years old.

“Damn. Scared the shit out of me.” Carl’s entire body sags in relief.

“Some psychopath in a mask kidnapped me. Hurry up, help me out of these binds before he comes back.” He smells of piss and sweat.

His eyes are still wide with fear. He glances behind me, hunting for his attacker, who used a syringe and hog-tied him like the disgusting pig he is.

“The guy’s a fucking monster. Don’t just stand there, boy. Help me.”

A wide smile spreads across my face, and I tsk as if he’s been naughty. The sound of my voice causes him to freeze. “A psychopath? Nah. I don’t think so. It hasn’t really been proven. A sociopath? Maybe, but I don’t think that fits either,” I say with a small shrug. “But a monster? I like it.”

Carl’s eyes jerk up to mine, and there’s a layer of sweat and snot pooling on his upper lip. “Wha-what are you talking about, son?”

Rage swirls in the pit of my stomach like a tornado, poised to unleash devastation. Son.

That’s the last thing this man should be calling me.

“I’m not your son.” I grit my teeth, peering down at Carl in disgust. Images of my abusive piece of shit father come to mind.

He’s the reason I’m here today. No, I’m not a monster.

That title is reserved for my father and his sick friends.

Regaining my composure, I let out a deep breath, reminding myself I’m in control.

“I might be driven by anger, but I’m one hell of a planner.

This has been a long time in the making. Years. I’m not impulsive.”

“Now, son, listen here—”

I slam my blade into his thigh, making sure to avoid the femoral artery.

Sure, I might be in a hurry, but there’s no need to rush.

Carl needs to know why I’m doing this, and having him bleed out that quickly would defeat the purpose.

Plus, slicing one of the largest arteries in the human body is messy as fuck.

Carl howls in pain. “I said, I’m not your fucking son,” I snap, yanking the knife out of the torn muscle.

Carl gurgles when he sees his blood seeping out of the open wound.

A profound sense of tranquility washes over me, and I feel instantly calmer once I see his blood.

My body relaxes, and the tension leaves me.

“Okay,” I chuckle softly. “ That , I admit, was a bit impulsive.” I wipe the bloody knife across his chest, using his sweater to clean it off.

“But you really should listen when someone tells you something, Carl.”

Carl is now sobbing in pain, thrashing against his binds. More snot and sweat drip everywhere, mingling with the scent of iron. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not your father. He—he was a good man.”

“Oh, Carl. Carl, Carl, Carl,” I cluck. “Just when I thought you were ready to tell the truth. I know what kind of man my father was. Just like I know what kind of man you are.” I trace the tip of my sharp knife over the bleeding wound in his thigh before slowly going higher.

The moment my blade travels over the small bulge in his thin suit pants, poised over his tiny dick, I laugh.

One small move and the man will be in even more pain.

I make a slow circle around his package, half tempted to end this sooner rather than taking my time.

My kills typically happen later, in a secluded area, under the moonlight. A place where the screams are muffled by the night, or in a staged kill room where I can take my time and bask in the moment. Not this early before work.

As though the mere thought of the office is enough to make my phone vibrate, I feel the telltale buzz alerting me of a new text message. Peyton must be getting impatient. My lips twitch. When did the need to see my assistant become more important than my thirst for revenge?

“It’s not true,” Carl pleads, shaking his head vigorously back and forth. “I never did those things.”

I laugh, casually checking my watch. I don’t have time for this shit. “That’s odd. I haven’t even started listing your crimes, and yet you’re so sure you haven’t committed any. Nice try, Carl. But you’re forgetting one important thing.”

Tears continue to stream down his face as blood drips onto the floor. “Wha—what’s that?”

“I. Was. There.”

“No, it wasn’t me. It was someone else,” he whispers.

“Finn Blackwood. Andrew Faletti. Jacob Larsson. Tony Russo.” I continue to name the wealthy assholes in my father’s inner circle.

The men who hurt my mother and passed her around.

The men who have all gone missing or shown up dead.

My kill list. Or at least the names relevant to the prick in front of me.

Carl’s whole body begins trembling. I would almost be convinced he was having a seizure if I hadn’t seen this so many times before.

I love this part. It’s the moment things click into their tiny little brains.

It’s the moment they realize they aren’t making it out of this room alive.

The moment when their fight-or-flight response really kicks in.

What are you, Carl? A fighter? No, something tells me he’s even more cowardly than the others. Men like Carl can hurt women and children without batting an eye, but turn the tables on him and he’s ready to piss himself and surrender.

“All those times you and my father passed my mother around like she wasn’t even human.

The way you treated her like she were an object.

A little toy to throw away once you were done with your sick games.

I was there. Those things you did to those poor girls?

I have proof.” I slam a single photo down onto his wounded thigh.

To my shock, he doesn’t scream in pain this time.

He just stares at the evidence on his lap, eyes bulging, breathing shallow.

The photo of the girl he did awful things to.

“Her name is Elssie, but you know that. She’s a brave one.

Stronger than the others. When I told her what I planned on doing to you, she told me everything I needed to know.

It’s too bad I won’t be able to take my time. ”

As soon as I found out Carl planned on leaving the country for a few months, I knew I had to act fast. It was either this morning or waiting several months, breaking my silent promise to the girl who couldn’t defend herself.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I haphazardly shove a gag in Carl’s mouth before fishing it out. A small smile plays on my lips as I answer, bringing the phone up to my ear.

“Blackwood,” I say by way of greeting.

“Sir, is everything okay?” Damn. His voice. So beautiful and calm, like a fucking angel sent to tempt the devil.

“Mmm,” I hum, basking in his concern. Carl is thrashing, trying desperately to seek help by making as much noise as possible.

Peyton pauses. “I texted you several times… and your coffee is getting cold.” Warmth fills my chest. Even though my assistant has only said a few words, a range of emotions can be heard in his tone. Sarcasm. Irritation. Worry.

Fuck. When was the last time someone worried about me? Other than my mother, my uncle, and Hunter, that is.

There’s no use arguing, and I sure as hell wasn’t explaining what I’m doing with a bleeding man tied to a chair.

Peyton has been my assistant for years, and not once have I ever been late without informing him first. Not to mention, Peyton is around me all day at work.

I’m pretty sure he knows when I’m lying.

I might not let him see this dark side of me, but he’s seen everything else.

“I’m fine, Peyton,” I answer honestly.

“But, sir, your meeting with the Sinclair Group. I’m going to have to reschedule, and I know how long you’ve wanted to set this up. Not to mention—”

“Thank you for checking on me,” I say softly, letting my emotions bleed into the words.

Peyton sucks in a deep breath. I’m usually cold and efficient with my words. Sharp and to the point. But there’s something about my assistant that makes my walls come down. It’s also why he can’t ever see the real me. The one whose evil pit of blackness grows with every kill.

If I’m darkness personified, then Peyton is the sun.

Carl continues to scream behind his gag until he’s able to spit it out.

“I’ll be there in two hours,” I say quickly. “See what you can do about the Sinclair meeting.” I hang up before Carl can get a full scream out.

“Please. Please, Mavik,” Carl begs, already sounding defeated.

He knows it’s a losing battle. “My wife. My daughter. They depend on me.” Sometimes, at moments like this, I wonder if the terms psychopath or sociopath fit, because I feel nothing when these fuckers beg.

But I know that isn’t true. The first time I killed, I threw up, but it didn’t mean my rapist father didn’t deserve to die.

I feel remorse, compassion, and love. I feel all kinds of emotions…too many, honestly. I’m just conditioned to turn them off when I need to.

Tugging my mask free from my back pocket, I place it over my face and angle the camera before flicking it on. Carl’s gaze travels up to my mask, and his eyes bulge. It must be a terrifying sight because his screams become shrill.

Thanks to our truly unfortunate lack of time, I quickly slash a clear plastic bag through the air and cover Carl’s sweaty head with a satisfying whoosh.

I take a moment to enjoy his screams as he thrashes around, struggling against his ropes, until all he can do is suffocate as he desperately tries to suck air into his lungs.

When his body finally falls slack, I smile, kicking the chair over with a loud crack to the floor. It’s been too damn long.

Another one down.

And three more to go. I peer down at the dead body on the floor as a sense of calmness washes over me.

It started with revenge, but now it’s an obsession.