Page 1 of The Monster I Am

Chapter 1

Rhys

It had been three weeks since Rhys Thorne had last set foot in this house.

Three weeks since he’d had to don the mask of inexorable cruelty, three weeks since he’d heard the musical sounds of screams and whimpers, three weeks since his hands had been stained with the blood of an innocent.

He shouldn’t have ached for more.

The ensuing nightmares and self-destructive spirals should’ve dissuaded him from attending parties at Dominic Bancroft’s home, but when one of the single most influential witches in New Orleans extended an invitation, it was wise to accept.

Rhys didn’t feel particularly wise as he strode through the hallways. If anything, he felt a little ill, which was something he was going to have to shake off in the next twelve seconds.

The sheer effort it took to compartmentalize the witch who reveled in these gatherings from the man who hated everything they stood for was staggering. But he’d been playing this game for long enough to be able to paint on a smile as he strode toward the door to the room the gatherings were always held in.

Rhys was the only one who could do this. If he faltered, if he failed, there would be no one to replace him. No one else could replace him. Only two types of men were permitted to attend these parties: the elite… and the depraved.

It was time to let the monster that lurked beneath his skin out to play.

May the gods help him.

He sauntered through the doorway, feeling the brush of magic against his skin. He’d never been able to figure out quite what the spell at the door was meant to do — a ward, perhaps, or a test of something Rhys couldn’t fathom — and he didn’t dare stop to analyze it.

The party was already well under way, and Rhys gave his surroundings a requisite glance. As per usual, their host was holding court in the central chair of the sitting area, entertaining his guests with an indulgent smile on his lips. The fact that Dominic was speaking to someone Rhys didn’t recognize was concerning, but then, witches often rose and fell in the social strata they were a part of.

Dominic Bancroft was a handsome man, all things told, but the depths of his sadism were known by anyone who paid attention. He’d made a splash by purchasing a Rayne witch at auction mere weeks after his arrival in New Orleans, and he’d spent the past several months displaying his prize at all of his gatherings in various states.

Usually, the young man was bruised and bloody, but tonight…

Rhys’s gaze sharpened at the enslaved witch, who was cuffed to one of the four St. Andrew’s Crosses in the spacious room. There were no visible marks on him, but that meant nothing. What did mean something was that he could see no evidence of scarring, which was… baffling. They knew what was going on in this house. Their spy had told them all about the blood they’d had to clean up, and Rhys had seen the condition the younger witch had been in at these parties.

They’d yet to determine whether Dominic had some sort of healing ability or if he was dosing Onyx Rayne with vampire blood.

He rather suspected the latter. It would be his preference, too, were he to desire a pristine canvas each time he indulged in the casual cruelty befitting his role.

The casual cruelty that got him off, whether he wanted it to or not.

He scanned the rest of the room, taking in the luxurious dark leather and wooden trappings. It would’ve been his wet dream, back when he’d been in the BDSM scene before the Takeover had swept over the world.

Had it only been ten years since supernatural beings had stepped out of the shadows to ascend to power? How was it possible that such cruelty could become the norm in such a short period of time? But supes had been brutal in their plunder of the world, ensuring that humans had no chance to fight back before being subjected to the worst of what people could inflict upon them.

Before all of this, Rhys had had willing submissives to choose from, but never the sort of equipment he’d wanted. Now he had access to the finest furnishings a dungeon could ever require, but the only way he could use it was by selecting someone who didn’t want to be there.

Someone like one of the naked slaves kneeling in a line along one wall, who might not survive the night. He would have to take his pick of them before the night was out, sketching misery in blood on a human canvas of his own.

After all, that was why he’d been invited.

A scream pierced the air, but no one around him so much as glanced in the direction of its source. It likely wasn’t the first of its kind that evening, and it wouldn’t be the last. No, it would become part of an orchestra of depravity and desperation.

Rhys looked, because he couldn’t not look, and he saw a young human cuffed to one of the bondage frames. Ribbons of blood trickled down his back and dripped to the floor. He was at his limit, clearly, but that didn’t stop the witch responsible for inflicting the damage from lashing him again.

Nothing would. Nothing could.

And that made the monster inside of him smile.

Rhys had barely been in the room for a moment before a witch he recognized — Jason Clements, who was far from the worst at the party but still had a spot in hell awaiting him right alongside Rhys — approached him.

“Dominic wants to chat,” Jason informed him. Did he even care that he’d just been used as a lackey? The smile on his face indicated that he didn’t, but who knew? Witches were, after all, adept at keeping their feelings to themselves.