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Biting hard into my tongue,salty, metallic blood saturated my mouth, the pain and taste pulling me out of my hypnotic state.
I would not falter. Whatever that was, it had no place here.
PSYCHO
Shrouded in shadow, I straddled the corner bench of the mess hall, one of my many haunts. Tipping my chin high, I pushed the unappetising meal to the side, instead lighting a cigarette for sustenance. Nicotine laced my veins as I perused the cafeteria with tedious boredom. My knee bounced, decidingwhether to remain on this bench or—shocker—sit on the bench outside, torrential rain and all.
Inmates were whispering about the new psychiatrist. Crazy motherfuckers believed themselves to be clever, scaring them all away, not realising they’d never be redeemed with the constant revolving door of shrinks if they weren’t cleared of their insanity.
Who am I kidding?Not one person in this asylum would ever be discharged, least of all me.
Unlike them, my incarceration was by choice…I couldn’t decide if that was better or worse.
From my initial sentence ten months ago, everyone knew to stay the hell away from me. If they didn’t, they learnt fast (if they managed to survive the aftermath, that is).
Tilting my head back to the dreary ceiling, I exhaled a thick stream of smoke, wishing for any reprieve to break the monotony of inmate life.
The main door buzzed from the far side of the room, the perfect time for Manager Burner to lead the new psychiatrist around for a tour. The atmosphere charged as inmates attempted to stay low-key (as if being a mentally unstable person locked up in a high-security prison could ever be consideredlow-key).
I huffed at the fresh excitement. Another wannabe do-gooder using the sinners of society in an attempt to make themselves feel better. I yawned at the predictable mentality.
Burner swiped through the last remaining security door, leading the newcomer into the lion’s den. Giving me my first unobstructed view of the goddess behind him.
I choked, inhaling sharply on my cigarette, the vapour catching in my throat. I swiped my eyes—suddenly lined with water—not wanting to lose sight of my marked target.
She was fucking gorgeous. Her bronzed skin shone against her professional, figure-hugging suit, the fabric stretching fromher neck all the way down to her ankles. Black heels clicked in tune with the prominent pounding in my ears, her shining brown hair tied in a low ponytail trailing down her back, accompanied by glowing amber eyes that were now transfixed in my direction.
She couldn’t possibly see me, my solitary corner so dark and shaded, no light could ever penetrate. But there she was, on the opposite side of the room, staring across the expanse directly into my fucking soul.
I leant forward ever so slowly, elbows resting on my knees. Instinctively preparing for the hunt, muscles clenched in anticipation to pursue this newfound prey.
I wanted to taste her skin. I wanted to drink her blood. I wanted to claim and simultaneously destroy this innocuous being.
Burner must have said something, as her captivated gaze shifted from mine, her attention now waning elsewhere as she was led through the next corridor to the dorms.
My body vibrated with unrelenting pressure, ready to strike, ready for action. I clenched my fists to prevent chasing after her.
Patience. The minimum requirement for the ultimate pursuit.
Oh, how the kill will be worth it.
Chapter 2
Micah
Many were uncomfortable in the dark, even more so amongst the company of the dead. I never understood why. The dead could not speak, could not plot, manipulate or betray. Certainly more trustworthy than the living.
I wove my motorbike through towering tombstones and opulent mausoleums. Nightingale Cemetery was an entire mini metropolis, the most affluent and sought after location for the afterlife in Junction City. One would only find their end here if they had a family plot, which resulted from superior pedigree, significant wealth or notoriety of the highest order.
I screeched to a halt before the intimidating statue of Stern King, stabilising one foot over his sarcophagus at my feet.
Our forebear stood vigil at the entrance of our family crypt, the King Mausoleum looming high over his back, the streaks of approaching dawn reflecting brightly off the glowing white marble. Our sigil stabilised directly centre, the pure 24k gold crown symbolising our leadership of the longstanding crime organisation, the Sovereign.
A familiar ache tore at my conscience, an unrelenting grief ever-present and vicious in its undertaking. The reminder ofour losses was acutely overpowering when confronted with our ancestors’ eternal resting place—empty of two main occupants.
Our father, Oliver King, was a difficult death to process. He’d always seemed invincible, an untouchable entity that could never be caught off guard.
However, my three sisters and I were close, completely aligned. Breathing, moving and existing together as one cohesive unit since our births. All four of us were sixteen when the eldest, Chase—our leader, our fucking guiding light—was taken from us. The remnants of her loss still reverberated through our bond, the cavern of despair magnified by the absence of her physical remains.
