Page 1 of Promise of Destruction (Destruction & Vengeance Duet #1)

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Declan

Declan Evers, the Bruce Wayne of Covington.

A man who has it all… wealth, power, and a harem of women.

He has managed to keep his secrets under lock and key for years, maintaining an aura of mystery despite the modern age where most people play out their lives in the public eye.

Is it the trademark of a hero, protecting his loved ones by burying the truth?

Is our resident Playboy a vigilante for justice?

Or, as the evidence suggests, is he actually the villain?

I notice my hands shaking and grip the paper tighter, reigning in my rage. A deep breath helps the words that have blurred before me to snap back into themselves, the text that was quivering beneath my rage stabilizing once more.

This is the second time I’ve read this part of the article, and I’m as pissed as I was the first time. Maybe more.

It's a hit piece disguised as an opinion column, though what opinion the author was trying to make, I am uncertain. Their disdain is fairly obvious in their splashy vocabulary, but beyond that, the only opinion I can gather the writer has is that I’m the big bad wolf.

It’s salacious drivel, nothing more. But it hits fairly close to home.

Somehow despite having no proper sources, the author managed an entire article dedicated to assaulting my character—suggestions of sexual misconduct, claims of embezzlement, bribery, and blackmail.

The writer even went as far as to suggest that I would murder someone to cover up whatever truth they think I’m hiding.

I’m furious .

Not because all of the claims are untrue, but because they’re half-truths that no one should have possibly been able to discover.

No self-respecting editor would approve such a drastic, clearly biased column in their publication. It’s the physical equivalent of click bait, which tells me that the author is either the editor of the paper or sleeping with the editor.

There’s a photo to accompany the article, and the fact the author didn’t use my professional headshot tells me that they were aiming to piss me off with this article.

It’s a good picture of me, one snapped outside the city’s annual Christmas gala months ago.

It was chosen strategically, thanks no doubt to the women on both arms in the photo.

To be fair, I didn’t show up with either of them.

But I did leave with both of them. I never even asked their names; I was a bit busy for all that.

My eyes flicker up to the byline, taking in the name printed neatly above the photo.

Soren Palmer.

The name doesn't ring any bells, but it’s pretentious as fuck.

If I were to bet on it, I'd say Soren is a blonde trust fund brat freshly dumped out by his fraternity, who thought he could hang with the big dogs.

Mommy and daddy needed him to contribute to society somehow, so they paid off the editor of the paper to let their precious boy hide behind his keyboard and feel powerful.

No matter.

Soren may have been fucked before, but now he’s as good as dead… or at least, his career is. His social life.

Despite the suggestion that I may kill to keep my secrets, I’m not a murderer. But I can make Soren Palmer wish he was dead. And I will. Not because he’s offended my delicate ego, but because he is far too close to the truth, and I simply can't have that.

The redhead notices that I’m distracted and tries to pull away, her lips squelching as I guide her head back into position, slamming her over my cock until I feel her panic setting in and she tries to pick up her pace.

I like her best when she is quiet. In fact, the only sound I like to hear from her is her spluttering and gasping as I hammer the back of her throat with my cock.

I toss the paper aside, and tangle my fingers in her hair, offering her no escape.

I don't even remember this whore’s name, but it doesn't matter.

She probably didn't give me a real one anyway.

Everything about this bitch is fake… the eyelashes that are starting to peel away from her watering eyes, the tits that don't even bounce as I rail into her mouth, the hair I'm holding onto for dear life. Her roots indicate she’s a natural brunette, but I think the red suits her. It’s the color of a fire engine, a candy apple, blood.

I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of the roof of her mouth dragging over my cock, her throat trying to close every time I retreat only to be rammed open when I shove back in deeper.

Her nails dig into my thighs, and I feel her surrender to me finally as her body starts to give up the fight.

I imagine her heavily-painted eyelids fluttering as consciousness evades her, and my balls tighten.

I’m so close.

I’m not a killer.

But I like to break things. I like to destroy them.

And I like it best when people make it so damn easy for me to do it.

Like this slut, so desperate for my money that she’s willing to let me hold her life in my hands and pump her stomach full of my cum for the chance that it will be so good I’ll want to put a ring on her finger.

I’m not such an asshole that I’d tell her, but she’s far from the best I’ve had.

Even if she was a little more inspired, her personality is insufferable.

I’d need to keep her gagged for the rest of her life to suffer her companionship.

She moans as I come in her mouth, spraying my thick seed down her throat and coating her tongue in it.

As I withdraw from her, she makes a show of licking every inch of me clean, her lips popping as she releases my cock.

I slap it against her flattened tongue, shaking off the last of my release before she licks her lips too, moaning louder.

Jesus, you’d think she’s coming herself the way she’s carrying on. Posturing, it turns out, because when I show no interest in her, she gets up with a harrumph and stalks to the bathroom to finish herself off.

I waste no time getting up and dressing quickly. I have no desire to see Red when she gets out of the bathroom… or ever for that matter. She can find her own way out of my house.

I have something much more exciting to attend to.