Page 3

CHAPTER 3

T wo weeks earlier

Zachariah

Seduction.

The act of making someone hunger to become engaged in a sexual act either by use of subtle or manipulative methods.

In my mind it was an act that should be considered an artform, one I excelled at.

There was something to be said about hiding behind a mask.

I chuckled the moment I glanced at my reflection in the mirror positioned just so above the entrance foyer table, taking time to admire my attire for the evening. Months had passed since I’d found the opportunity to wear a mask or engage in sinful carnal activity. Only partially by choice, the greater reason all about the volume of work I’d been involved in.

That didn’t mean desire to enter into primal activities hadn’t entered my mind more than once. My hunger knew no bounds, but the responsibilities I’d faced had taken precedence.

Not tonight.

Tonight was all about hunting, which would be done completely while I kept a drink in my hand. It was a far cry from racing through the woods or playing hide and seek in an abandoned warehouse. Maybe tonight’s hunt wasn’t perfect in the sense of what I preferred, a barren wasteland where my prey had no chance of escape, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Clubs were often used by dangerous criminals for hunting purposes. Why the hell couldn’t I enjoy quenching my thirst while searching for the perfect ingénue?

At least the yearly game was right around the corner, two weeks plus of full debauchery served up on a silver platter. I hadn’t realized I’d missed the actions of the Obsidian Society until this very moment. I’d once thought the game of shifting virtual reality into real life was ridiculous, even boring. Not any longer.

Perhaps my tastes had crossed the line into being heinous.

Selecting a contestant to enter the Blackwell Kingdom meant putting them through several tests. Most candidates wouldn’t pass the first. Only the top tier of candidates craved the depravity of the last.

Why not search for candidates during my evening out?

I wasn’t certain how my brothers felt, but I’d grown weary of the standard applicants. Several were employees who had no understanding of the game that provided them a paycheck. Then there were the corporate moguls longing to achieve their jollies while also garnering a piece of the lucrative Blackwell Group pie. My favorite were the countless number of reporters and influencers who’d believed they’d perfected an alternative identity so they could obtain a scoop that would provide them with their fifteen minutes of fame.

All boring.

Plus, the final selection process was extensive, including background checks that would rival being accepted into the FBI. Why not find a sweet, innocent flower who might shake up the game more than normal?

My mouth watered from the thought. I was personally sick of the candidates’ resumes reading like a roster from Who’s Who of America’s elite. Why not dig deep in the bowels of society to secure the right person? In my mind, a female. A beautiful replica of God’s greatest gift.

Now my cock was aching from the thought.

I snagged the mask selected for the evening’s festivities before heading out the door, careful to engage the security system. I was a very careful man after all. There were reasons to remain cautious at all times. Enemies could appear from the depths of every shadowed corner of the earth. I found myself whistling as I headed to my chosen car for the evening, the recently detailed black Charger waiting for me in the driveway instead of my six-car garage.

As I neared, I noticed the almost luminous glow highlighting my beloved muscle car. The moon was full, the outdoor lights positioned on the eaves adding to the perfect backdrop. As I approached, I thought about the evening ahead. A night of debauchery with good friends. What could be better?

The moment I was almost to my car, I sensed something was off, my gut telling me my privacy had been breached. My instincts were never wrong and right now, that pissed me off. I scanned the car, immediately discovering the reason my hackles had been raised.

A note slipped under my windshield.

No one gained access to my home without being permitted into the bowels of my private world. And other than the man who’d returned my detailed Charger, no one had been invited to my home in weeks. I preferred seclusion.

Anger controlled any thought of apprehension as I unbuttoned my tuxedo jacket, the gesture ensuring I had access to the weapon secured in a shoulder holster. One could never be too careful. The Blackwell brothers had learned that the hard way over the course of the last few months.

I scanned the perimeter, allowing the rage to fuel my actions when I snagged the folded piece of eight and a half by eleven copy paper. As soon as I read the quote on the page, I almost burst into laughter.

“Fear the sins that you commit in secret, because the witness of those sins is the judge himself.”

Oddly, I knew the saying and the author of the quip, Ali Ibn Abi Talib. I’d discovered the passage over a decade before, convinced the saying had been written about my life and the decisions I’d made. Of course that wasn’t true, but I’d found significant comfort in the thought.

I scanned the perimeter again, certain I was being watched. Whoever had left the note had balls. I’d give him that. With the note still in my hand, I returned to my house, barely managing to type in the security numbers on the system before heading to my office where the security monitors could be easily viewed. I was more than curious to learn the identity of the fucker who’d dared breach my privacy.

Whoever had managed to thwart the system had talent. That pissed me off more than anything.

Given my car had been returned only two hours before, that left a shorter window of time for the intruder to bypass my system. I thumped down in the chair behind my desk, pulling up the system’s software. Any breach would have provided notice on the computer and my phone, but there’d been none.

Less than three minutes later, I found what I was looking for. A figure clothed in dark attire and shrouded by shadows approached my vehicle from the woods located just off the driveway. By the size of the person in the camera frame, it seemed the intruder was a male, but I could be wrong, the boots worn easily lifting them by a couple of inches. Instead of taking purposeful, quick steps, the man was lackadaisical about his actions, sauntering around my vehicle twice as if admiring it before pulling the note from his pocket.

He was wearing black jeans and a matching hoodie, nothing to indicate age or social status for that matter. After leaving the note under my windshield, he did the unexpected. He turned around slowly, lifting his head to the closest camera.

As if knowing the exact location.

To my surprise, the man was wearing a mask. Not just any traditional ski mask worn by thousands of criminals, but a very special one, a creation both enticing and insulting my creative mind.

The garish piece was crude, likely handmade, but it told a perfectly macabre story.

A monster with glowing red eyes and blood dripping from its jowls.

How appropriate, especially for a man like me.

I sat back, studying the frame for only a few seconds. Whoever was attempting to scare or threaten me certainly had no understanding of the vile things that excited the hell out of me.

Was I pissed at the invasion? Hell, yes, but it was the first time in far too long that my blood was boiling. A perfect aphrodisiac for the upcoming evening.

Perhaps the moment I hunted and captured the fucker responsible, I’d thank him or her for the extra coaxing to my sadistic needs.

Then I’d sever their head from their body.

As I rose from my desk, I felt free to admit I was one dangerous, twisted fuck.