Page 24 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)
A row of shelves, from floor to my height, lines the back of the room. I built everything in this place. LED lights run the length of each handcrafted shelf, lighting what I’ve collected over the years—my pride and joy.
Arms down at her sides, her frame unusually tense, Sola examines the specimen jars. One by one, she looks at what I’ve preserved with Rot’s help and reads the small description I typed, laminated, and fastened onto the wood in front of each trophy.
“You collect uteruses,” she whispers to herself. “There are so many.”
Pressing my lips together, my heart slams against my breastbone as Coffin stands in front of the only exit, far too quiet for my comfort.
Not that any of this is comforting. Hundreds of women’s body parts are displayed in vessels, preserved in liquid, and illuminated by light strips.
If this weren’t horrific, I would praise him for his quality of showmanship.
It’s all exhibited beautifully, down to the cards.
I stop in front of an unusual trophy. This one isn’t a uterus. It’s… I lean in closer to get a better view. Yep. That’s a vagina. The outside, the inside. It’s all there. A glob of flesh without bones floating in fluid. Unlike some men, I know a clit when I see one. That’s a clit and labia.
My stomach tightens, and a twinge of phantom pain tears through my vagina at the thought of what this woman must have endured.
I don’t have to ask if he did it when she was alive.
He definitely carved her up like a turkey while she still breathed.
There’s no pleasure in postmortem torture. That’s not a thing. This was personal.
Her card reads:
Name: Jennifer
Age: 49
Crime: Sold nude photos of her grandchildren to sickos on the internet for money.
Lot: 34
I drag my pointer finger over the smooth, laminated card. “She’s buried outside, isn’t she? That’s what lot thirty-four means.” Not everyone has a number. Most don’t .
“Yes,” Coffin grinds out as if he’s thrown off by my curiosity.
“If I want to ask questions, will you answer?”
“Um.” He roughly clears his throat. “Sure. Anything you wish to know, I’ll tell you.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find him rocking back on his heels in front of the closed door. “Why?” I ask, reading his body language. Someone’s off his game. I’ve never seen him this unsure before.
“Because Rot wants to keep you, and you can’t live like this much longer.”
“How do you know how I’ve been living? You’ve been busy,” I sass.
“I pay attention, Sola.”
Ha. Yeah. Right.
“Not to me, you don’t.”
“Is this about Tiffany?” A smile threatens his lips, and I hate him for it.
“Yes.” I throw out an arm, needing to move, wanting to punch him, or something.
Anything. “No.” I huff and shake my head to clear it before I reel in my emotional baggage and speak like a normal person.
“Fuck. I don’t know. I’m so confused. Why am I here?
What’s the point?” I jerk my chin at the jars, at him, at everything.
“To find your place,” he answers so easily it pisses me off.
I rear back like I’ve been slapped. “My place is with men who don’t like me beyond my pussy?
” A brutal, humorless laugh rips from my throat and echoes through the trophy room.
“I don’t belong anywhere, Coffin. Don’t you get that?
Nowhere. I’ve never been on a real date.
I’ve never been in love. People use me.” I smack the center of my chest, where my heart cracks with the truth.
Angry tears coat my lashes, but I refuse to let the bastards fall.
“That’s what I was born to be. A tool. To be used.
Then, put away when they're done. When you’re done.
” I point to him. “When Necro’s done. When Rot’s done.
When my sisters are done. I don’t know the first thing about real relationships or friendships… ”
“Or yourself,” he cuts in.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I growl.
“You don’t even know what you like or what you don’t like. Or who you are when you’re not working. You don’t know yourself.”
“That’s real rich comin’ from a man with a room full of women’s body parts.” To drive my point home, I gesture to said parts with the flick of my chin.
“This is how I cope.” Coffin spreads his arms wide, chest out, abs abbing, chin up, revealing the ugliest parts of himself along with me, like he isn’t afraid. When I’m over here, hurting. Hating myself. Hating life. Hating everything.
“It’s a shitty way to cope,” I throw back in his face, hoping it stings.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But it works, and I know what works. Now, look down there.” Coffin points to the bottom row, where two jars rest. A white card sits all by itself without a trophy.
Tiffany
I gasp at the name and glance up to find Coffin standing closer than before.
“She’s one of the many,” he explains.
“You’re going to kill her.”
“Yes. I am, and I’m going to carve out her eyeballs,” he states like he’s talking about the weather, not torturing a woman he’s currently fucking every single day, in front of me, rubbing her in my face.
“What. Why?” I gasp in surprise.
“She saw you naked.”
What does that have to do with anything? “I… I don’t understand,” I stutter, my brows glued together in confusion.
“She saw you naked,” he repeats, his voice smoke and whiskey, arms tucked across his chest.
“I got that. But you collect uteruses, uteri, whatever they’re called.” I wave off the correct pronunciation and pick something easier to say. “Wombs. You collect wombs.”
“I do.” He nods along, agreeing, his tone oddly calm. Soothing. “But her eyeballs will go in Necro’s office, and her uterus will remain here.”
“That. Still. Doesn’t. Answer. My. Question.
” I clap between words, so maybe it will sink in.
Why? Why? Why? Seeing me naked isn’t a legitimate reason.
We’re both women. The brothers have seen me naked.
All of them. They watched the piercings, the initiation.
They still have eyeballs in their skulls.
Make it, make sense.
Ugh!
“I already answered it. She saw you naked, so I’m going to cut out her eyes.”
Oh. I give up .
“While she’s alive,” I guess, staring at him like he’s lost all his marbles, which he has. They all have. We all have.
He nods. Just once. A simple, strong dip of his chin. “Of course.”
“That’s sick.”
“Yep. I’m a sick man,” he concurs.
“Wh…” I clear my throat. “Why will they go in Necro’s office?” I ask, when I know I shouldn’t, and rub my hands up and down my bare arms to stave off the sudden chill. It dawns on me that I’m shut in a room with a murderer. There is nobody else around to save me should things go sideways.
“Because you’re his,” Coffin replies, looking directly at me. No inflection. No gotcha.
“I’m… what?” I squeak, eyes flying wide.
“Keep up, Sola...” Coffin snaps his fingers in front of my face. “His. You’re his. Part of this club. You belong here.”
You belong here.
His strange admission bounces around in my skull like a Ping-Pong ball.
“I…I…this is a lot. You’re murdering Tiffany...” Trailing off, I glance at her card again to focus on something tangible. I find the reason he’s ending her life there, in basic typeface— Slept with her ten-year-old nephew for money.
Ah. That makes sense. The same thing happened to Coffin, and now he’s exacting revenge for the kids like him. Each of the women who died at his hand had a similar backstory—harming kids from trafficking to far worse.
Warmth blooms in my middle at his… thoughtfulness .
Oh. No.
No.
No.
No.
I’m not doing this.
Swooning over a murderer is not on my bucket list.
I don’t belong here.
Well, she hasn’t freaked out yet. She’s emotional, yeah. But not over… ya know—the organs.
I’m gonna take that as a good sign.
When we finish in my trophy room, and Sola’s gotten her fill reading each of the cards, I usher her back to the main part of the barn.
“What do you do in here?” she asks, waving her hand around.
“I build coffins and other shit the brothers need.”
“Will Tiffany get a coffin?”
“Yes.” I walk over to the corner of the room and pull the blue tarp off the coffin I spent hours building this week when she was with Necro and Tiffany was locked in her room.
Working with wood and listening to death metal while I prepare to end someone’s life is cathartic.
It feeds the soul. Even if the act itself turns me on.
It always has. There’s something about holding a woman’s life in your bare hands and torturing them to the brink of death, then waiting for the moment.
Some go quickly. Others slow. It takes time and precision.
The more women I play with, the more I learn about the human body.
They’re living medical specimens that nourish my morbid curiosity and my needy cock.
Just the thought of slicing through Tiffany’s supple, unblemished skin gets me hard.
I fix my budding erection to keep it from pinching as Sola examines my newest coffin.
Most people don’t know the difference between these boxes and a casket.
Sola sleeps in a casket. They’re fancier, padded, and commonly used at funerals to host a viewing of your loved ones.
Coffins are old-school boxes made of pine, used to bury a corpse.
The lid doesn’t have hinges. It’s nailed shut.
Sola drags a finger across the smooth edge of my latest build.
“It’s beautiful.” The wistfulness in her voice isn’t lost on me or my dick.
I wonder if she’d be down with me fucking her in here sometime. Maybe on top of a coffin with a fresh corpse inside.
Damn.
That’s a new fantasy unlocked.
If she handles the rest of our little experiment today, I bet I can convince her. Rot could join us, and Necro could watch.
Yeah.
We’re doin’ that.
Tiffany’s demise might be too soon. Too fresh for Sola. Seein’ as she’s met the whore. But I’ll figure somethin’ out. Maybe the next one. We’ve got plenty of time.