Page 17 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)
Dominic
Social media is a stalker’s best friend.
If Wren hadn’t shared a new post to her Instagram account, tagging the Trinity Hill Public Library, I wouldn’t have been able to find her today.
Imagine my excitement when I refreshed her feed for the hundredth time that morning to see a new picture of her latest library loan, a romance book, set on the stage of a scuffed wooden table next to disposable cup full of steamy tea. Her caption was simple: "Meeting a new book boyfriend tonight."
Even the thought of a fictional man having her attention makes my skin crawl.
I grabbed my jacket and hopped on my motorcycle before I even had time to contemplate how this day would play out. All I knew is I found her, and I needed to make sure I never lost her again.
My blood thrums as I shadow her through the bustle of downtown Toronto, slipping between pedestrians and ducking behind crowds each time her curious gaze sweeps the street.
At one point, I get too close, my hand reaching out to grab a strand of her long brown hair as the wind catches it. It slips through my fingers, and my body aches with her proximity. The obsession burns hotter, and I’m on fire with the need to have more of her. To have all of her.
This obsession is a new strain of sickness that has taken root in my very soul, tethering me to her.
Like a moth to the flame, the madness drives me to spiral right into her radiant light.
She is warmth and softness, everything I’m not—and there is nothing I want more than to corrupt the light of her with the darkness of me.
Just as I start to fall back, some dumb motherfucker slams into her, jostling her to the side. For the briefest of moments, she catches my gaze, and like the skilled predator that I am, I slip into the crowd before her eyes can cling to mine.
The red-hot bite of rage fills me as I turn away from my girl, falling into step behind the man that walked into her. He’s muttering to himself—slurred, incoherent shit I couldn’t care less about. He caused Wren pain. That’s going to cost him.
The second we pass by an alleyway, I grab the back of his jacket and force him into the narrow corridor wedged between two towering buildings. He stumbles ahead of me, flailing as I shove him deeper into the shadows.
He turns to yell at me, profanity already on his lips, only to be met with my fist as it rockets across his face. The impact is so hard, something cracks, and the skin of my knuckles split open
The sickening sound echoes between the walls, his pained moan like music to my ears. I draw my dagger from the sheath at my lower back and slam the pommel into his nose, just to hear the wet crunch of cartilage breaking. Another note in the symphony of his agony .
Pleasure surges through me as he collapses to his knees, his hands flying up to clutch his bleeding face as blood sprays across the filthy pavement. He cries out, a plea for mercy on his lips, as if that will fucking save him now.
I lift my foot and kick him square in the chest with my heavy black boot, knocking him into the unforgiving concrete at his back. His head crashes into the wall, and something pops, as blood sprays across the graffiti-covered wall behind him.
If we were anywhere but the middle of the fucking city, I’d slit his fucking throat and carve his head from his body, to leave for Wren as a gift. It’s too fucking bad that I can’t, because the thought of ending him right here has my cock straining against my zipper.
He’s unconscious now, slumped over like discarded trash. Blood blooms behind his head, and his hair turns dark and thick with blood.
The aching need to cause more damage overwhelms me, so I take a step closer to him and wrap my hand around his throat.
"You should have found someone else to take your shitty mood out on. Now you'll die, because she belongs to me, and no one else gets to touch her." I know he can't hear me, but it doesn't matter.
I grip his neck and pull him forward, then I bash his skull against the cement—over and over again. Euphoria zips through me, and I welcome the rush.
He starts to convulse, which is when I release him and step away. Foam and vomit spew from between his lips, and his chest heaves as his body dies .
I take a moment to savor the beautiful brutality I’ve laid out in this filthy fucking alleyway, grounding myself in the pleasure of his suffering, before spitting at his feet with a scowl on my face.
If this happens again, I'll need to call Ryker in for clean up. One messy kill is one thing, but multiple? That's a bigger investigation.
Not wanting to fall too far behind Wren, I break into a jog, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways until I’m several streets over.
I know where she’s heading, so I’m not too pissed off that I’ve lost track of her.
Two nights ago, while the guys were at my place, I pulled Ghost aside and had him hack into the systems connected with the various homeless services around the city until we found the places Wren was visiting regularly.
Good Shepherd Respite was one of the spots she visited nearly every day for food, so it was a safe bet that she was heading there now.
I slip back into the flow of the city, letting the crowds swallow me as I head in that direction.
Blood already stains the insides of my leather jacket, so I use the lining to wipe down my knuckles.
Only when I’m mostly clean do I notice the small splits in my skin—bruises already blooming across my sore knuckles.
When I get there, I’m grateful this place always has a line up, because I find a spot in the shadows of a nearby building and lean against the cold concrete, my eyes locked on Wren as she steps into the queue .
When she disappears inside, I pull out my phone to check the group chat between my brothers and I.
RYKER
Dom, I’m coming to walk Hunter.
GHOST
Fuck you, it’s my turn.
RYKER
Catch me outside the house and I’ll beat your fucking ass.
TORIN
Ryker thinks it’s always his fucking turn. Notice how it’s never me and Ghost having this issue? It’s always Ryker fucking Stone.
GHOST
Which is why I’m showing up. We’re gonna fight. I’m sick of your fucking shit, brother.
RYKER
Bring it, motherfucker. I’ll throw down for the goodest good boy.
I had no idea when I brought Hunter home that my brothers would constantly be at war over who gets to take him for a walk when I’m not there. What I also didn’t anticipate? Their apparent inability to walk the dog together, like they’ve developed a sudden, violent allergy to each other.
Groaning, I drag a hand down my face and fire off a response.
ME
WALK HIM TOGETHER.
RYKER
Nah. This is my me time.
GHOST
Your ME time? What are you, a tired housewife with four kids?
ME
I swear to fucking God.
I close the chat, shake my head, and run a hand through my hair as I glance up at the storm-heavy sky. The sun is kissing the horizon now, setting the clouds on fire—vibrant streaks of orange and crimson blazing against the encroaching darkness.
And all I can think about is her.
I can’t help but imagine Wren sitting inside, a tray of food in front of her, eating whatever the organization could scrap together for the day.
She deserves more, she deserves better. The thought of her enduring starvation, or not having the nutrition she needs every day, makes my skin crawl with an unfamiliar discomfort.
I don’t know why I care so much, but I do. Our encounter at the clinic changed my DNA, re-wired my fucked up circuits, all because she needed me. A complete stranger, but she needed me nonetheless.
It’s almost as though for the time she was in my arms, I was her god. Her vulnerable life was in my hands, and the part of me that finds so much pleasure in taking a life… evolved. It shifted against my will, changing into something different.
Something that craves her more than I crave the way the light leaves someone’s eyes when they die under my blade. An obsession I’m sure will be my downfall.
Thoughts of Wren fill my head as night falls, blanketing the city in shadows. I watch people go about their lives, completely unaware of the serial killer lurking just beyond the alley.
A myriad of unfortunate souls filter in and out of the building, and I find my patience wearing thin. Just as I begin contemplating slipping inside just to catch a glimpse of her, Wren comes walking out of the front doors.
The moment I see her, I feel the wrongness of her mood as sharply as I feel the errant drop of rain as it strikes my cheek. My gaze narrows, my focus sharpening as I push off the wall and step out of the darkness to follow her.
The look in her eyes is haunted; so full of ghosts that look foreign and familiar all at once. Her story may be a mystery to me, but I’ve seen that same expression in the eyes of my brothers at one time or another.
An expression Torin wears far too often.
Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, I fall into step close enough to monitor her but far enough that she doesn’t feel me too close.
Her eyes are fixed ahead, glassy and hollow. She wouldn’t notice me even if I were breathing down her neck.
She’s heading toward the women’s shelter, the only one that has her ID on file.
She tries to get a bed there every night, and they’ve kept a record of her check-ins.
She’s moving like she thinks she’s invisible, like she’s on autopilot.
Unseeing, and unaware of the people she weaves through or the danger that surrounds her.
I see her. I’m with her. I won’t let anything bad happen to her.
She doesn’t hesitate when we approach St. Augustine's Cathedral, abandoning the relative safety of the bright street lights in favour of the dirt path winding behind the old, towering church.
My phone starts ringing, but the quiet melody reaches Wren. I curse under my breath as I yank my phone out of my pocket to silence the call, turning down a darker side street just in case she decides to look back and locate the sound.