Haunting Adeline (Cat and Mouse Duet Book 1)
Haunting Adeline: Chapter 9

I’ve committed homicide. Cold-blooded murder. On many men who have worn different faces of the devil. And I’ve done it for various reasons. Whether they raped a child, killed an innocent, or destroyed someone’s life that didn’t deserve it.

But I’ve never killed someone out of jealousy.

First time for everything, I guess.

Archibald Talaverra has his lips on my girl and his hands down her pants. He’s touching her. Fucking her with his fingers. Saying dirty things to her that elicits a pretty little blush of color to her cheeks.

And at that moment, I decided he wasn’t going to live tonight.

The second I saw them together it took all of my control not to storm into that club and drag her ass out of there.

Because not only was another man trying to lay claim to my girl, but Archibald Talaverra is a fucking psychopath.

A real one.

He beat his ex-wife to a bloody pulp on several occasions and made her life a living hell when she finally decided to divorce his ass.

The woman is still in a psychiatric hospital receiving treatment for severe PTSD. He literally broke the woman, and while she spends her days trying to heal from his abuse, he spends his nights in clubs and picking out a different woman to take home and fuck.

Last I heard, he’s not a nice fuck either. His form of rough play isn’t pleasurable by any means when the woman walks away with a bloody nose and a busted lip.

The asshole deserves to die. And I’m happy to get the fucking honor.

This man and his family’s crimes were small crumbs in the grand scheme of things. His family gets involved in petty crimes and sees themselves as Seattle’s mafia. But they’re ants compared to the fucking dinosaurs walking around in this city.

I’ve left them alone because there are much bigger fish to fry than low-life criminals who think they’re crime lords. Their threat to humanity is minuscule compared to the people I track and kill, and until they start trading in more than just powder, they’ve never been on my radar.

Until now, that is.

There’s no stopping Addie from opening her mouth and telling the cops she has a stalker. Doesn’t matter that I’ve destroyed all evidence of her police reports.

And if the Talaverra’s get wind of that, they’ll kill Addie for something way out of her control. It doesn’t matter that the family has enemies. Any possibility will be eliminated when they replace that the heir of the Talaverra empire has been murdered.

So tonight, I’ll rid Seattle of the little pests that have been congregating so I can focus back on the bigger things. Making Adeline mine and dismantling the pedophile rings.

I crack my neck, storm over to the front door, and bang my fist into the wood as hard as I can. I pour all my anger into it, not giving a fuck if I crack the wood beneath my fist. Just like the night that small dick asshole was here. Running out of the house naked with only one sock on, cursing Addie’s name.

I was relieved to see Addie kicked him out herself. It was the only reason I didn’t kill him that night. But it doesn’t mean I didn’t cut out his tongue for the names he called her.

She still isn’t aware of that since I ran him out of town and forbade him from contacting her again.

I duck back in the shadows beyond the porch.

I know Archie’s type. He’ll come storming out, ever the savior for the damsel in distress. Ready to take on the big bad wolf like he’s not the old granny about to get eaten.

Really, he’s just a rabid fox posing as a wolf. His bite hurts, but nothing compared to that of a real predator.

Right on cue, Archie whips the door open, his hands wrapped around a gun.

“Come on out, fucker. I know you’re out there.”

Come get me, Archie.

He hesitates on the doorstep, sensing the danger residing in the shadows.

But after a few moments, he develops a vagina and charges out the door and down the porch steps. His head turns, his eyes widening as he catches a glimpse of my face with a single red rose in my mouth, the stem caught between my teeth.

I bare my teeth, a feral grin that would chill even the devil. Before he can react, I dart out, grab his arm and twist him around. My hand slaps over his mouth as I pull his back to my front.

Twirling my knife, I stab him twice in the stomach. Both precise areas that won’t cut through vital organs. He grunts beneath my hand, the shock rendering him mostly silent.

Before the situation catches up to him and he starts shouting, I push him off of me and deliver one sharp punch to the back of the head.

Done in a matter of ten seconds, not a single peep out of his mouth.

My arm snaps out and I catch him by the back of his suit jacket before he can face-plant the cold, muddy ground. Out cold and bleeding profusely.

I need to staunch the wounds before he loses too much blood.

But first, I slide the rose from my mouth, and dip the petals in the crimson spilling from his wounds.

Can’t have my little mouse thinking there aren’t consequences for letting another man touch what’s mine. She’ll replace out soon enough that I don’t make idle threats.

I rest his body against the porch for a second while I walk up and throw the rose at her doorstep. I’m too pissed to do much else.

And then I grab his body and start the brief trek through the woods where my Mustang awaits. By the time the cops get here, it’ll be too late.

A blood trail will lead them to tire tracks, and they might be able to narrow down the make and model based on the tread impressions, but the evidence will run cold after that. It will all be destroyed soon enough.

The cops won’t know which direction to look. And Archie’s family will assume their enemies caught up to him.

And they wouldn’t be wrong. They just won’t be able to guess who until I’m standing in front of them with a knife in their necks.

“Let me the fuck go, you fucking prick. You think I’m someone to mess with? Do you have any fucking idea who I am and who my family is?”

His mouth is going to be stapled shut in point two seconds if he keeps running it, that I do know. I relay this to him, and he answers with a hyena laugh.

I turn and clock the fucker in the mouth, all the while keeping my Mustang straight.

Colorful words follow, but they’re no brighter than the blood pouring out with them.

Pretty boy isn’t so pretty now.

He’s going to experience a lot worse once I get back to my place. He laid his mouth and hands on my girl, and there’s consequences for silly mistakes like that.

He woke up about five minutes into the drive. Two strips of fabric from his shirt are tied tightly across each stab wound on his abdomen. His hands and feet are hog-tied—there’s not a chance of him slipping free of those.

I’ve had too much practice.

He’s been running his mouth since the moment he awoke, and it’s been grinding my gears into dust. He throws out empty threats like bullets, but instead, they’re paper in the wind. None of them make an impact. In fact, they don’t land anywhere near me.

It’s the mention of Addie that sends me into a murderous rage.

“Come on, man. Are you this worked over a piece of ass? Her voice may be cut out for porn, and her pussy tight as fuck, but shit, you can replace that in other bitches too. I’ve fucked plenty of them.”

What was going to be a fairly slow death is now going to be the slowest death to ever happen since the dawn of humanity.

It was bad enough that he spoke of my girl in such a disgusting manner, but then he went and topped it off by implying Addie isn’t anything special.

She’s the first of her kind to exist, and there will never be another like her.

I pull into the driveway leading into my warehouse. It’s a smaller structure, used to manufacture cameras for some shitty company that went out of business within five years.

The building was foreclosed on, and I bought it for dirt cheap. And then spent hundreds of thousands of dollars transforming it into an impenetrable fortress.

I converted the main floor into my living space with state-of-the-art security. An ant will not be able to replace its way into the building without me knowing about it.

The second floor is my workspace. Dozens of computers and illegal technology that make it possible to do what I do fill the space. And the basement is where I handle all of my business—meaning where I take the pedophiles to torture and kill them when they have information I need.

I built an underground garage that drives straight into the basement. Makes for an easier haul when I got a six-foot-two dickhead to carry to the table.

I’m a big man, but I’m just as capable of throwing out my back as the next person. I’m still a human fucking being.

Shutting the garage door behind me, I turn the car off and twist around.

I sigh at the sight. Usually, I’m more prepared when I kidnap people. They go in the trunk, and I don’t have to worry about getting my car dirty. But by the time I carried him back to my car, I was in a hurry and just threw him back there.

He’s already got blood everywhere, and I’m going to have to pay my cleaning crew extra to get those stains out. With that amount of blood, anyone would ask questions.

But they get paid way too much to ask stupid questions that’ll get them killed.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. I can knock your ass out, or you can be a good little bitch and stay still.”

His bloody mouth forms around the word fuck, and it doesn’t take a genius to know what word is going to come out next. I punch him in the nose before he can get the first syllable out.

The crunch of bone beneath my fist is nearly orgasmic. By the time I’m pulling my fist away, blood is squirting from his broken nose. He spits, and a tooth flies out of his mouth and onto my floor.

I’m going to shove my foot up his ass just for that.

I get out, round the car, and swing open the door.

He starts protesting, but the words become garbled when I grab him by the collar and drag his ass out. With his limbs tied up, he feels every drop and bump as I drag his body out of the car and haul him towards the table.

He squirms like a worm on a hook, and I can tell by the panicked look on his face that he has that feeling. The sinking feeling that his life is balancing on the edge, and I’m about to fucking Sparta kick him off.

Despite his struggles, I wrangle him on the surgical table, and systematically untie specific ropes so I can strap him to the table while simultaneously keeping him immobile.

He looks over and sees a dead Josh lying on the other table.

After I saw Sicily off, Michael dropped Josh off at my place while I went to Parsons Manor to snoop around. Addie and her friend were leaving, so I followed them to a club.

It took all my willpower not to put a bullet in every man’s head that grinded their dick against her ass. I decided to go home and take care of business before I did something stupid and actually kidnap her.

While I interrogated Josh, I set up a monitor and kept an eye on Addie through the club’s cameras. I’ll admit, my torture methods became a lot bloodier once I saw Archie lead her up the stairs.

I got the information I needed from Josh. Their process for extracting girls, names of some of the mules, and the name of who Josh reports to. Turns out the guy is in Ohio, so I’m letting one of the other mercenaries handle him. He’ll get the information on his boss and work our way up the chain.

The mules have already been located and targeted, so after I’m done disposing of these two fucks, they’ll be getting a sniper shot to the head, then on to Archie’s family.

“The fuck, man?” Archie spits, both terror and disgust evident in his tone. Josh’s face has started to bloat.

I shrug, unbothered. “I have a lot of bodies to dispose of tonight. It’ll be easier to dispose of them all at the same time.”

“Look, whatever my family did, we can work out a deal,” Archie negotiates, his words a little garbled and misshapen from his broken teeth. His nose has already swollen and bruised, along with his split, puffy lips. He looks as if he went five rounds in a boxing match with his hands tied behind his back.

“I don’t have any connections with your family,” I say calmly. “At least not until now.”

He’s silent for a beat, staring at me incredulously as his brain processes that I’m not an enemy of the Talaverra’s.

“Then why the fuck are you doing this? Because of that fucking girl?” he asks, his voice hysteric.

I lean close, letting him get a good look at my scarred face. If it’s not the scars that warn people away, the deadly glint in my eyes usually does the trick.

“She fucking wanted me. Not my fault that your girl doesn’t want you.”

I sigh and straighten. I’m not going to bother explaining myself to this prick. He won’t understand my obsession, and I don’t give a shit enough to want him to.

What he doesn’t know is that the minute I properly introduce myself to Adeline Reilly, she won’t be able to think of anyone else.

I will devour her from the inside out, until every intake of breath will only stoke the inferno I’ve created inside her. Like oxygen feeding a fire, I will consume every inch of her sweet little body until she will think of nothing else but how to get me deeper inside of her.

She’ll fear me at first, but that fear will only ignite her. And I will be all too fucking happy to deliver the pain when she gets too close to the flame.

Next to me is a tray of utensils lined up neatly. Without looking away, I grab the first tool my hand lands on.

A serrated screwdriver. Specially made for torturing. The military uses shit like this, unbeknownst to the public. Not that the government would ever willingly tell the country that they torture war criminals often and use pretty fucked up methods to do so.

The public isn’t ignorant by any means, but they sure as fuck don’t know the extent of the depravity of our government either.

His eyes widen comically when he catches sight of the screwdriver.

I smile. “Haven’t gotten to use this one yet,” I observe, twisting the screwdriver and giving us both a good view of each sharp point. Once this sucker goes in, it’s going to hurt even worse taking it out.

I can’t fucking wait.

“Bro, let’s talk about this. That girl is not worth you killing me over. Do you realize what my family will do to you? To her?”

“Did you really think I was going to kill just you?” I volley back, quirking a brow to show how unimpressed I am with his warning.

His face turns beet red, like the apples my mother used to pluck for me from the orchard as a kid. Always loved those things.

Threats spill from his mouth, fueled by rage from his family’s untimely fate.

“You’re doing this because I almost fucked a girl?! I didn’t even fucking know she was yours,” he bellows, veins popping from his forehead.

Not a pretty sight.

In response, I stab the screwdriver straight into his stomach. He gapes at me, his mouth parted in shock. A moment passes, and then he’s coughing up blood. An array of emotions filter through his eyes. Pretty sure I see the five stages of grief in there, too.

I bend down and grit out through my teeth, “What you and every sad motherfucker that even looks in her direction will learn is no one is safe when it comes to her. I don’t care if you only breathed in her direction the wrong way, you will fucking die.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he chokes out, looking down at the screwdriver sticking out of his abdomen in disbelief. Definitely hit vital organs this time.

Slowly, I pull the screwdriver out, the suctioning noise quiet against the backdrop of his scream.

The unbridled anger pulsating through me is relentless—unstoppable. And the image of his hand in her pants, kissing her, whispering shit into her ear, and making her come. It all fuels the violent storm in my head. I plunge the screwdriver back in when the image flickers of her face. Wanting him back. Climaxing for a shitstain like him. I’ll have to erase his touch from her.

And soon.

I rip out the screwdriver and take a deep breath. I have to remind myself she doesn’t know me yet. She doesn’t understand what true need is. Not yet, but she will. Because she’s going to hate the way she needs me. She’s going to fight it, rebel against the craving and attempt to search for something else that makes her feel even a fraction of what I will.

She’ll never replace it.

And I won’t let her try.

Cracking my neck, I take another deep, calming breath. My temper got the best of me. I’m not usually a reactive person, but I’ve already accepted the fact that my little mouse brings out new feelings in me, too.

“How many women have you hurt, Archie?” I ask, licking my lips and circling his body until I disappear from view.

It’s an intimidation tactic for the weak-minded. Makes them nervous when I vanish behind them for that brief moment. Their minds get away from them as they anticipate what I’m going to do. And then they get a little relief when they see me again.

Just to repeat the process.

It’s torture in itself. Not knowing if I’m going to strike. Or when.

“Do not call me Archie,” he snaps, seething as I stand behind him. He’s tense.

I circle back to the front and his shoulders loosen, just an inch.

“You’re evading the question, Archie,” I point out, deliberately using the name. He snarls at my defiance but doesn’t reply.

His mother always called him Archie. Up until she died of breast cancer when he was ten years old. That’s when his father lost it and started dealing drugs to make money to pay off all the medical bills and funeral expenses.

He raised his children to be cold and ruthless, and Archie here never let anyone call him by his mother’s nickname without stabbing them.

He’s stabbed a lot of people for calling him that name, including his best friend Max. His buddy complained about it a time or two in a bar Jay frequents.

“Don’t make me ask again,” I warn, my voice lowering to convey just how serious I am.

“I don’t know,” he shouts, frustrated. “A couple, I guess. The fuck does it matter?”

“I read up on your ex-wife,” I say, ignoring the stupid fucking question. “You beat her so badly, she was barely recognizable when she was taken to the hospital. Evidence indicated that you broke a tequila bottle against her face and then stabbed her with it. Not to mention the countless broken bones and bruises. You nearly killed her.”

Archie sniffs, not the slightest bit of remorse reflecting in his cold eyes. The narcissistic assholes never are. Somehow, they twist it in their head that the victim deserved it and whatever injuries inflicted upon them were their own fault.

“She was cheating on me,” he replies petulantly. Pouting like a child that didn’t get a birthday cake.

“Did you cheat on her first?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he snaps back. “She’s the wife and I make the money. If I feel like buying a stripper for a night, that’s my goddamn right. All she ever did was sit at home on her lazy ass and spend my money.”

I nod, accepting his answer for what it is.

“Would you have hurt Addie?” I ask after a pregnant pause.

He scoffs. “I would’ve fucked her how I like to fuck. If she ends up with a couple of bruises, so what? Bitches like that shit. They like it rough.”

Renewed anger punches me in the chest. And it takes all my self-control not to plunge this screwdriver in his eye right then and there.

Archie wouldn’t know how to have proper rough sex if he was given a fucking manual for it. He hurts women because he enjoys it. He doesn’t know how to push women to the edge of pain and pleasure, balancing between the two and making them desperate for more.

He just hurts them. By the time he’s done, the girl is thoroughly bruised and traumatized—maybe even bleeding. And he’s walking away with a satisfied smirk on his face, as if he was the first man to prove a woman orgasming isn’t actually a myth.

“You didn’t hurt Addie,” I observe, waiting for the answer I know he’ll give. He isn’t desperate enough yet—scared enough. He’s still attempting to put on a false bravado act and die with dignity. But that will change very soon.

He smirks. “You gotta relax them first. The plans I had for her…” he trails off, licking his lips vulgarly. “Her cries would’ve been such a beautiful song.”

Again, I nod my head in acceptance of the answer. I accept it because it fuels exactly what I have planned for him.

And I’m very much going to embody his method for sex. I will enjoy hurting him and making him bleed, and him? He will wish he had never met Adeline Reilly.