Saint snorts. “Yeah, well, until he shows his fucking face, I’m going to assume he’s fucking us all over.”
EIGHT
ANNABELLE
Iimmediately left the café after my call from the Lord. I didn’t even tell my friends that I was going. Pulling into my driveway, I see a box on my front porch. I stop my SUV, get out, and pick it up. Taking it inside, I place it on my kitchen table and open it. It has a laptop, cell phone, Apple watch, and a wallet. Going through it, I find an ID with a new name and birthday on it, but my address is the same. What the fuck is that going to do for me? I feel like I’m going into the witness protection program.
Opening the laptop, I turn it on to see they’ve given me a new email address to go with my new identity, and I have one in my inbox. In the subject line isHAIDYN JAMISON REEVES.
Clicking on it, I read over the information listed in the email.
That’s it. They didn’t give me a birthdate or age. He has to be at least twenty-two because he’s an active Lord. That means he finished all three years of initiation while attending Barrington—he wears the Lord’s brand. But that also means he could be fifty for all I know.
I don’t know much about Carnage, though. I’ve heard of it, but the Lords keep it under wraps for the most part.
What the fuck does denied mean for Lady? Does that mean that the Lords have denied him a wife, or he denied her? I’ve never heard of that before. Every Lord has to take a Lady asfar as I’m concerned. They have to reproduce. If they don’t give back, then they’re useless.
Scrolling to the bottom of the email, I click on the attachment. It’s a slideshow of pictures. The first one is of a guy on a blacked-out motorcycle. You can’t see his face because he’s wearing a helmet. But he’s got a black T-shirt on with the sleeves cut off, ripped jeans, and combat boots. He’s sitting at a stoplight, glove-covered hands resting on his thighs and both boots on the ground, waiting for the light to turn green. He looks tall even sitting on the bike. His arms are ripped as the sun beats down on them, showing off his veins.
The next is of the same man leaning up against a car. This time, there’s snow on the ground. Too much for him to even be driving the white McLaren Sabre if you ask me. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt, denim jeans, and combat boots. A black pair of Aviators cover his eyes, but you can get a better look at his face. Sharp jaw, clean-shaven, dark hair spiked on top and shaved on the sides.
The next picture is the same with him and his car, but he’s now standing with his back to the camera as he opens the passenger door for a woman. She’s dressed in a glittery silver miniskirt and six-inch heels. Her black top has a deep V cut, showing off a large, fake chest.
She’s a prostitute.It’s the only thing that makes sense due to how she’s dressed in the middle of the day with an inch of snow on the ground. He’s parked on a corner in what looks to be an abandoned area, and two other women stand farther down in the photo dressed just like her.
The next is of him and three other guys with a girl. She stands in the middle with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a cell in the other. One guy stands behind her with his hand around her neck as she looks down at the camera. Haidyn stands to her left.
I scoot forward, enlarging the picture of him. It’s the first one that has a clear shot of his face. His eyes are a pretty blue—like the ocean. It’s also the first one that he’s smiling in. Straight white teeth and a perfectly lined nose. He’s clean-shaven and has a cigarette tucked behind his right ear. He’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows and a pair of jeans. He’s the tallest one out of them all. If I passed him on the street, I’d definitely turn around to watch him walk away.
The next has me blinking. It’s him, but it has to be the most recent because he’s now covered in tats. And blood. He’s got a knife in one hand. Blood drips down it and onto his ripped jeans. His black combat boots stand in a puddle of it as well. His tatted knuckles grip the handle of the knife. Ink covers both arms and chest. He’s got a nose ring, and he’s shirtless, showcasing his defined bloody abs and deep V.
“Fuck me,” I whisper.
What the fuck do they expect me to do with him? Especially a Spade brother? From what I know, they’re the devils of hell. The rumors are that Carnage is where the Lords send those who betray their oaths.
Now, from what I grew up believing—Lords who betrayed their oath—was that they were taken to the cathedral and put through what the Lords call confessional. They’re tied down to the Lords altar and tortured until they confess what they did wrong, then they’re blessed with a bullet in their heads. But as I got older, I overheard my mom and stepdad talking about the Spade brothers. My stepdad had a friend who betrayed his oath and was sent there back when they attended Barrington. My mother assures him that his best friend must be dead by now, but my stepdad doesn’t agree. He said Lords don’t go there to die. They go to pay for what they did wrong, which means moretorture. Typical Lord. Always wanting to make you bleed for the littlest things.
Blood, blood, and more blood until you have nothing else to give them. They enjoy sucking the life out of you. That’s why I plan on giving them whatever I must. These Lords want you to go above and beyond and show them what you’re worth. The Lords don’t give you more than they want you to have. That way, they can hold it over your head or take it away when they decide you no longer need it.
Those who have power were born at the top. And the rest are left to feed off the bottom.
I go on to the next, and it’s of a luxurious black house sitting secluded back in the middle of the woods. It reminds me of a modern church. High peak rooftops that look like steeples and a lot of glass windows. Three stories tall and a wraparound porch. Even the outside furniture is black with white pillows. It’s gorgeous. The same white McLaren Sabre in the first photo with Haidyn sits in the driveway, but no one is around.
Is this his home? He’s supposed to live at Carnage. Maybe it was his childhood home. It did say his parents are dead. He could have kept the house. Or maybe it’s a weekend getaway? I guess he could be renting it, and this picture was taken while he was inside with the prostitute in the picture.
I wonder why a man like him needs to pay for sex. The women in our world fall at the Lords feet on any given day. Most want to become a Lady. The girls who attended Barrington do anyway. They want a lavish life with endless shopping sprees. Who cares if their husbands cheat on them? It just means they don’t have to put out as much. Plus, higher-ranking Lords are placed with higher-ranking Ladies, so it’s not like they’re marrying down. We are raised and groomed from an early age to accept what our future holds. It’s like anything else in this world—it’s all we know.
A new email pops up, and I exit out of the one I’m in to open it. It’s of me. A picture that was taken today while I was on myUNKNOWNcall standing outside of the restaurant. Then below is outlined like Haidyn’s was.
I read over it again, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do. Atherapist? I know nothing about that shit. AndCharlotte? I sound like an elementary school teacher. I’ve always hated the name Annabelle. I asked my mother why she named me after a doll that haunts and kills people. She told me it was after her and her best friend…but Charlotte isn’t much better if you ask me.
Closing the laptop, I sit back and slump in the chair, trying to wrap my brain around what to do now. I have three months to make a new life, find new friends, and get a boyfriend—who doesn’t want to fuck me. This is going to be harder than I thought. Can’t I just kill someone instead?
Opening it back up, I type out a response.
And press send. Chewing on my nails, I stare at the screen, waiting for a reply. Maybe it’s just a cover, and I’m not actually his therapist. That would make more sense, but still…
I have a response and open it.
