Page 9 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Someone just walked in.

Dr. Denton lives upstairs in the apartment above the clinic, making him available nearly twenty-four seven to anyone with enough cash. His wife normally handles the front desk, but she’s down with the flu. At least, that’s what he told me when I arrived earlier.

Someone’s moving around out there, clumsy and off-balance. The walls in this place are thinner than they should be, but Dr. Denton never overlaps appointments. It’s far too risky, letting criminals cross paths in a space this small.

It’s smart. We both know what kind of deranged people slither through the underbelly of Toronto.

Whoever is out there is now rattling the doorknob with a desperation that sharpens my focus. In an instant, I’m sliding off the exam table with practiced silence, my hand finding the leather wrapped hilt of the knife strapped across my lower back.

I flip the lock and twist the door handle. To my surprise, it’s a woman that falls through the door and slams into my chest with a startled little squeak.

My hand abandons my dagger, and I reach out to steady her. Her skin’s chilled, her limbs trembling from more than just the night air.

When she lifts her unfocused gaze to look at who she just crashed into, my heart kicks in my chest.

Her big, brown, doe-like eyes are bloodshot and glossy, her face tense from what I instantly recognize as profound physical agony. She’s suffering, and it calls to me like the wailing of a siren song.

I’m wide awake now.

She’s beautiful, and it’s not just those stunning dark honey coloured eyes of hers. Her heart shaped face is soft and feminine, framed by a cascade of dark brown hair that looks like silk even in this harsh lighting. I can see a few tangles, and my fingers itch to tug at them .

Her mouth—slightly parted, full and divinely shaped, is like something carved onto the face of a fallen angel.

And yet it’s the bone-deep suffering reflected in her pretty eyes that hooks me.

It hits like that first dose of heroine, and the beast in me stirs in recognition. Hunger awakens deep in my body, tempered by something worse: addiction.

I inhale deeply, and the faint scent of rain and sweat, sweetened by vanilla, infiltrates my senses.

Her knees buckle, and I instinctively pull her much smaller body against me to stabilize her and keep her on her feet.

The graceful hands she lays on my biceps are cold to the touch.

I ignore the traces of dirt beneath her nails, and the leaf trapped in her hair.

She’s a perfect, aching little creature in my cruel hands, and the sickness in me responds to her vulnerability and pain like it’s hard-wired to do—whether I want it to or not.

She sighs deeply, the sound a tumultuous blend of pain and relief, and her features soften just for a moment. Like being in my arms has given her the safety she’s been chasing.

Like I’m the cure to whatever ails her.

Which is insane… but lunacy is a language I understand better than most.

For the first time in decades, I’m holding someone broken, and I’m not the reason why. Her pain wasn’t put there by my hands, and her agony won’t end with me taking her life.

I can’t remember the last time I willingly touched a stranger, and it didn’t end in death .

She looks at me like I can stop her pain, not deepen it. Like I’m not a dysfunctional monster capable of bringing it to a brutal crescendo and giving her hard-earned peace.

And that fucks with me.

Something inside me shifts—insidious and seismic. Like the madness is reorienting and changing its shape.

I struggle to reclaim control of myself, but when I do, I gaze down at her to find her looking through me like she’s drowning in her own sea of sickness.

What’s your story, little lamb?

“Oops, sorry. I’m homeless.” She must see the conflict in my eyes, because her voice is sincerely apologetic, the angelic tone stroking my senses.

She probably assumes I’m offended by her touch now that I know she’s homeless, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Her quiet giggle has me lifting a brow in curiosity. She is completely unaware of the monstrous urges I’m currently battling in silence. The twisted desires I’m entertaining—because I’m fucked up and my depravity knows no limits.

In any other situation, I’d act on my impulses like a ruthless addict, one that operates with methodical precision. Getting caught puts an end to my fun, so I’m strategic with my violence.

But this… this is different.

My instincts are colliding with something I don’t fucking recognize.

Normally, I’d devour this opportunity: feed the monster caged within me, a feast of innocence to soothe the madness. A temporary balm to my insanity .

Instead of snapping like a string pulled too tight, the shift has me star-struck.

She’s melting into my embrace like I’m not a villain capable of destroying her life. Like I’m safety, and not the biggest threat she’ll ever face.

She’s so fucking fragile, and suffering so deeply, but her beauty and softness sing to me like a melody of redemption in the burning pits of Hell.

Her knees buckle again and her body tries to give out on her, but my arms are already around her. Her hands roam to my chest, testing the strength she finds there, and I tense under her curious touch.

Run, before I do something I might regret, little lamb.

A small part of me still wants to wrap my hands around her throat and watch the life drain from her magnetic eyes, to end her misery and release her from whatever this is that has a hold on her.

Luckily for her, that is not the part of me that wins.

“Sorry, sir, I'm looking for a d-doctor,” she explains while stuttering and slurring her words.

I narrow my gaze, trying to figure her out. She doesn’t appear physically injured, but the pain is there, stitched into the tension all over her delicate face.

Her eyes are haunted by ghosts I find myself wanting to understand, and stranger yet, needing to control.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, leaning back just far enough to look her over. She’s pale and sickly looking. There’s a thick, angry vein pulsing at her temple, throbbing like it’s about to burst .

“Yes,” she breathes, just before her face twists into a grimace so sharp it looks like someone’s carving her open with a blade laced in acid.

I watch her eyes closely, because they tell a story her mouth won’t give up to me.

I study every change in her expression as whatever is happening to her delivers surge after surge of pain.

Then her face relaxes slightly, and the delirium that usually accompanies extreme pain fills her from head to toe.

I recognize that pain induced delirium because I’ve coerced that beautiful hysteria out of my victims before.

“You look like the hero from my current mafia romance read,” she says out of nowhere, laughing gently like she just shared the world’s most charming secret. Before I can respond, she buckles again, collapsing against me.

“What’s happening?”

She tries to respond, but whatever she says comes out as gibberish. It reminds me of a viral video Ryker sent me a few years back of a news anchor having what everyone thought was a stroke on live TV.

She tries again, slowing down and trying her best to enunciate her words. It seems her brain doesn’t want to co-operate, but I manage to snag a few things from the verbal mess.

Migraine. Pain. Meds

That’s all she manages to say before her eyes flutter and roll back, her body going limp in my arms. Her body jerks, like she’s fighting it, and I can’t help but frown down at her .

I react fast, dropping a shoulder and slipping an arm beneath her legs, lifting her up with ease. For the first time since she crashed into me, her face relaxes completely.

Fuck, she’s so beautiful. Soft, feminine, and curvy, yet still so fragile-looking. And she’s completely at my mercy.

I should let this perfect stranger go. I know I should. She’s suffering enough without falling victim to a monster like me while so vulnerable and helpless.

But I fucking can’t.

When my arms should loosen their hold and let this nobody fall to the ground at my feet, they tighten instead.

I breathe deeply as I embrace the evolution of my fucking insanity. I don’t even attempt to fight the tide of possessiveness that washes over me. It makes no sense, it doesn’t belong, and yet here it is.

Mine. Fucking MINE.

The covetous thought burns through me like venom.

I still don’t understand why this woman is different, why she’s making me feel things I’ve never felt before. All I know is that this broken little lamb is mine now. I’ll figure out what that means later.

Dr. Denton returns from the pharmacy with my prescription in hand, and I turn around to face him with my girl still cradled against my chest.

His eyes instantly widen. “What the fuck?”

“She needs help,” I inform him, moving away from the door and back over to the examination table, carrying her like she might break into a million pieces at any moment .

“Fuck,” he groans, rubbing at his face in obvious frustration. “Any chance you want to dump her out back behind the clinic? You know, since you’re already holding her?”

Rage ignites like a struck match, and if I wasn’t holding her, I’d revisit the idea of opening up his jugular vein with the scissors he left behind.

I’d soak the walls with blood, paint every surface in red, and turn this from a clinic to a morgue in just a few dying beats of his worthless heart.

I scowl, forcing myself to focus. My fingers twitch with the effort it takes to restrain myself.

“I’ll pay for her care, so do your fucking job,” I snap, speaking through clenched teeth.

The doctor looks terrified, and I watch his throat bob as he swallows. “Of course, yes, Mr. Kael. Sir… please just set her down on the exam table.”

“No. You’ll treat her while I’m holding her.” I know I sound like a psychopath the minute the words leave my mouth, but I find myself not giving a fuck at this point.