Page 28 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

On the desk beside me, he opens his laptop, taps a few keys, and the screens attached to the wall behind me flare to life. He hits another button, and every monitor fills with Necro and blood. So much blood. At six different angles.

Shoulders hunched forward, his skin coated crimson, Necro’s entire scarred torso rises and falls with laden breaths.

Sooty war paint is smeared around his blue-white eyes up to the top of his brows.

It blends down into his mask and descends further into the contours of his corded neck like you’d expect to see in a Viking documentary.

In the corner of the video is a number that keeps changing—8,584. 8,598. 9,210. Back down to 8,573, all in a matter of seconds.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to it.

“That’s how many watchers we currently have.”

“This is streaming on the actual web?” My voice jumps a few too many octaves.

“Sure is.” Rot chuckles and pats the side of my leg. “Welcome to Kings Cursed and our club’s revenue stream.”

“Wait. People pay to watch this?”

Holy moley.

“Yes. A lot of money, too. Today’s a slow one. People get bored when Prez plays too much.”

On the screens, Necro looms over a heavyset man sprawled out on the floor. The bald biker’s head glistens under the eerie mood lighting. Holding a machete, Necro whirls it around like it’s an extension of him.

“Is that man dead?” I ask when the body doesn’t move.

“Yep. He killed him about an hour ago. You missed the screams.”

I… I don’t even know what to say.

There’s a dead man on the screen. A dead man in the jail cells. Dead parts of women in jars in a trophy room.

Death.

Death.

Death.

“Now, what’s he doing?” I ask when Necro slinks around the room like a predator, his shoulders rolled forward, transfixed on his kill.

“The same shit he’s been doing for the past twenty-four hours. Creating art.”

The pictures plastered to his office walls flood my mind.

As if on cue, Necro swings the machete and severs the arm clean off the man’s body.

Fat jiggles and bone cracks as it drops to the side.

What little blood is left in the corpse pools on the concrete floor beneath him, funneling toward the center of the room to what must be a drain.

A rush of little gold coins fills the bottom corner of the screen.

“What’s that?” I nod toward the counter, racking up numbers faster than it can keep up. The metallic trill of a quarter machine dispensing coins echoes throughout the room.

Rot presses a button on his computer, and the noise disappears, but the numbers continue to climb. “Necro has a fan club of about three thousand or so,” he explains. “They never miss a live stream, and they’re generous donors.”

“So, they tip him?”

“For his art. Yep. We email ‘em photos of the finished picture whenever he’s through.”

“Are those the images in his office?” I ask.

“Sure are.” Rot affectionately pats my bare thigh. “You pay attention.”

Ignoring his unnecessary praise, I focus on Necro as he paces another slow circle around the concrete room. “This is what he’s been doing since yesterday?”

Ah. Now it makes sense. Why he didn’t meet me this morning. Why I showered alone. Why they live here and don’t go on runs like normal clubs. They don’t need to. This is their purpose. I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before.

“We got a shipment in, and he’s been wound pretty fuckin’ tight lately. The brothers and I agreed to let him take care of the entire lot. It means less coin in our pockets, but he’s our prez.”

“And the woman?”

“They’re always Coffin’s. On occasion, Necro might piece together a bit of art after Coffin finishes the job, but he don’t kill women. Well. Not usually, anyhow.”

Not usually.

I snort at the sentiment.

Standing over the dead man, his booted feet on the outside of either side of the guy’s thighs, Necro swings his weapon with fluid precision and chops the other arm clean off like he’s done this a million times before.

He probably has. If I tried, I'd probably hit his collarbone, get the machete stuck, and spend an hour trying to pull it free from the bone.

Setting the machete down, he collects the limbs, pries open the fingers of one hand, and forms them around the man’s wrinkly, limp dick.

The other, he sets to the side as he messes around on a tray of tools, where he selects a scalpel.

Whoever set up the cameras in this room is a genius.

They follow him everywhere, focusing on the right things.

You get every detail from his furrowed, overly focused brow to the ripple of his abs as he shifts.

Even the dead man’s toes. Something so simple you wouldn’t think about.

But they’re thick and yellow from living for years with an untreated foot fungus.

It's all too surreal. Like I’m watching one of the hundreds of horror movies Ted subjected me to. Only the gore isn’t paint and special effects, and the man isn’t a paid actor. Well, I suppose he kind of is. His fans are paying to see whatever he creates.

Kneeling on the floor beside his victim, Necro slices open the man’s sternum, expertly uses a spreader to crack open his ribs, and reaches into the cavity with a bare hand.

Rot clicks something on the computer, and one of the cameras zooms in to give everyone a grotesque view of a literal heart being ripped from a person’s chest. It detaches far easier than I’d ever guess.

Either that or Necro’s insanely strong. Probably a bit of both.

Resting the organ on the ground, Necro retrieves the other severed limb, fits it into his chest cavity, pries open the fingers, and sets the heart in the man’s palm—so he’s holding his own heart in his hand.

As if that isn’t enough, Necro stabs the scalpel through the lifeless organ and just leaves it there as he dusts his hands together before pushing off his knee to stand.

Humming to himself, Rot clicks a handful of keys on his laptop, and the feed dies, to be replaced with a green screen and a note that promises to be back soon, accompanied by a bloodied smiley face emoji.

“So?” Rot prompts to gauge my reaction at the exact moment Creature pops his head into the office. “I’m setting the next room up now. If you’re sure he’ll be ready to go again,” the biker says.

Rot waves him off. “Sure. Go ahead, brother. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’ll send the prospects down to clean up and take whatever parts you want to your lab.”

His lab?

Rot has a lab?

A lab for what? Like a mad scientist ?

“Make sure they don’t mix bone with organ this time. That was such a clusterfuck last time,” Rot comments.

Creature double-knocks on the doorframe. “Will do,” he says, then looks at me with one focused eye and offers a polite smile that kicks up on one side, considering the other half of his face doesn’t function right. “It’s good to have you here, ma’am.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a ma’am and never to call me that again, but he’s gone before I can get the words out.

“I’m not a ma’am,” I grumble under my breath, and Rot laughs.

“They don’t know what to call ya, Red. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“How about they call her mine?” Coffin offers as he strolls in, freshly bathed and smelling of expensive cologne, rocking the sexiest lopsided smirk and no shirt. Always no shirt.

Relaxing back in his chair, Rot rolls his eyes. “One kiss, and you’re turnin’ into a pile of mushy mashed potatoes.”

“You’re a fuckin’ moron.” Coffin kicks the side of Rot’s chair and sends it rolling out of his way as he sidles up to me and notches himself between my legs, something he seems to like doing.

He tips my head back to look up at him. “Hey, Sweet Cheeks.”

“Hey, you.” I blush like a silly schoolgirl as those same butterflies take flight.

“Christ. Will you two go fuck already? All these pheromones are makin’ my dick hard, and I’ve got business to handle. I don’t have time for distractions.” Rot fixes said appendage in his jeans.

Coffin grunts, drops my chin, and takes a step back, where he tucks both arms across his big, beefy chest.

“What about Necro?” I ask, looking between the two of them.

Rot gets out of his chair and rolls it up to his desk. “What about him? He’s got another solid twenty-four hours left in him.”

“Another whole day?”

That seems like a long time to me. Does it to you? Forty-eight hours of nonstop murder. When will he eat? Sleep? Or rest? That can’t be good for him.

Clicking another round of buttons on his computer, Rot snickers. “Yeah, Red. He’s got some shit to work through.”

“You think we should pay him a visit before he starts in on the next one?” Coffin asks his brother.

“If Necro sees anyone with her.” Rot jerks his chin at me. “With where his head’s at right now, someone’s gonna die.”

Coffin hums as if he agrees. “Should we maybe move this shit along and… You know.” His intense gaze swings my way and lingers a little too long. An eerie chill ripples down my arms.

“We could. But that puts Sola’s safety on the line in more ways than one.”

“We could mask her,” Coffin suggests.

“We’d have to mask her. It’ll be live.”

My safety on the line ?

Mask me?

“Hello.” I snap my fingers. “Can you stop talking about me like I’m not here and talk to me? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“We want to send you in with Necro,” Rot throws out.

“When?”

“During his next session.”

“When he murders someone?”

Rot nods as if he doesn’t think that’s a craptastic idea. “Yeah.”

“Let me get this straight… you want me.” I thump my chest. “To go into an itty, bitty, tiny concrete room with one of those dangerous prisoners and a mentally unhinged Necro, where he plans to kill and dismember the guy while people on the internet pay to watch.”

“That’s what we want. Yes,” Coffin confirms in a blank, no-nonsense way that has smoke billowing out of my ears at how much this doesn’t bother him.

Sure. Put me, a woman who doesn’t know much self-defense, into a room with two killers twice my size.

It doesn’t take many brain cells to see how that’s a horrible idea.

Hopping off the desk, my bare feet smack the chipped concrete floor. Anger boils in my veins as I march up to get face-to-face with the idiot who put this idea out there to begin with. “Why in the hell would I ever agree to do that?” I poke Rot in the center of his chest, right between his pecs.

Quirking the most aggravatingly attractive smirk I’ve ever seen, Rot pats me on the head like I’m a pet. “Because we asked you to.” The bastard’s voice holds an edge of humor. He wants to chuckle at me. At how I’m acting. I can tell .

I don’t know how he finds this funny. There is nothing funny about it.

“No way,” I snarl. “There’s no fucking way.”

Still smirking, Rot looks to Coffin. Something dark and suspicious passes between the brothers. Before I realize what’s happening, Coffin bear hugs me to his chest and picks me up off the floor, leaving my feet dangling. Rot rushes in and plunges a needle full of lava into my ass cheek.

“Ah! I hate you both!” I thrash in the giant asshole’s arms and attempt to kick him in the shin with my bare toes as my vision goes wonky. In a last-ditch effort to save my life, I sink my teeth into Coffin’s pec and bite down as hard as I can.

Ha! Take that, bitch.

I swear I hear a chorus of bullshit apologies, and there’s definitely a kiss pressed to the side of my head before every muscle goes limp and my world blacks out.

Fuck my fucking life.

These men are dead.

D.E.A.D.