Bloodbath, p.1
Bloodbath, page 1
Bloodbath
Book one in the Written in Blood series
S. F. Rae
Sunset Wren Press
Copyright © 2022 by S. F. Rae
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any opinions expressed by the characters in this book are not representative of the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
TRIGGER WARNINGS
This is a slow burn, dark romance aimed at adults. It will be steamy and violent. A lot of topics are covered in this book, however I know that triggers can be very different for different people so if you do have any questions or queries about any of the triggers listed, please email me and I will try to ease any and all concerns.
SFRaeAuthor@gmail.com
Sometimes my characters can be offensive, and do not represent my personal views at all. They are just characters, and they are notorious for surprising me and not doing as they are told. Any offence caused is not intended, and if you wish to discuss content with me further feel free to get in touch.
Potential triggers:
Sexual assault (not the Main character).
Violence.
Murder. Torture.
Kidnapping.
Arson.
Child abuse (flashbacks).
Mental conditioning.
Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse.
Child abandonment
For more detailed breakdowns visit
sunsetwrenpress.com
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty One
22. Chapter Twenty Two
23. Chapter Twenty Three
24. Chapter Twenty Four
25. Chapter Twenty Five
26. Chapter Twenty Six
27. Chapter Twenty Seven
28. Chapter Twenty Eight
29. Chapter Twenty Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty One
32. Chapter Thirty Two
33. Chapter Thirty Three
34. Chapter Thirty Four
35. Chapter Thirty Five
Keep in touch.
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Laying on the cold hard ground, I groan. I was familiar with hangovers—parties with the girls at Haven could get pretty rowdy—but this pain was a whole new level for me. I feel like I’ve been dragged through a mangle after someone gave my brain an acid bath.
I am never drinking again.
I never drink to the point of losing time, however as it isn’t my familiar bed underneath me, it’s safe to say I’d definitely blacked out. I try to move, my very bones groan at the effort. Every muscle feels bruised as I try to stretch.
And this is why camping is for crazy people; no sane person would ever choose to sleep on the floor.
I give up trying to move; instead I focus on my other senses, as I lay on the floor, eyes closed, giving my body time to catch up with the rest of me. The last thing I clearly remember is coming into work . . .
Did we have an after work party?
No, Ma would never let me get black out drunk; our parties never get that out of control. Dread creeps up my spine; something’s wrong. Why can’t I remember anything? Panic starts to leach into my aching body as I fight to open my eyes. The dim light feels like bleach burning my retinas, and I rapidly close them, feeling strangely claustrophobic in my own skin. I reach up to rub them, anything to help my vision adjust more quickly. My eyebrow’s sticky, a metallic smell invades my nostrils as I scratch at it, willing whatever it is off me. I freeze, awareness flooding me. It’s the smell of violence, the coppery tang of blood. Gingerly feeling my temple I can’t hold back a wince as I discover the source.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, my voice coming out hoarse. My throat feels raw, not ‘too many shots’ raw, but the ‘time I got surprised by a raccoon in the alleyway and screamed myself silly’ kind of raw.
“You’re being dramatic,” I whisper, knowing I did have a tendency to think the worst.
A love bump on the head is nothing if you drank to the point of blacking out.
Another thing about me, I’m amazing at living in denial. But no amount of pep-talking can erase the choking fear which settles on my chest.
I hesitantly crack open one eye, and wait for the pain to flood in. When it remains a persistent, but tolerable ache, I open the other. A familiar ceiling greets me. I’m at Haven. I’d never left work. The white drapes hanging from the ceiling look like fluffy clouds to my abused head. A flicker of harsh light out the corner of my eye begs for my attention, but . . . I don’t want to look. Dread claws at my stomach, demanding I keep my eyes on the artificial peacefulness above me. Just ignore it and focus on the pretty colours, like a rainbow dancing across the sky. The spotlights twirl, throwing their colours across the drapes, red’s, blues, greens, an entire rainbow begging me to focus on them, and nothing else.
The harsher light flickers again, causing a sharp stab of pain in my head. I flinch, peacefulness forgotten.
“Fucking light,” I hiss.
I drag my eyes to the offending culprit. I struggle to sit up, my anger overriding my aches.
I can’t mope on the floor all day.
As the light flickers again, I draw in a sharp breath, choking on my scream as bile races up my throat.
No. No. I screw my eyes up tight, refusing to believe what I’d seen. No it couldn’t be. I was clearly still drunk. Maybe someone had slipped something into my drink and this was all just a really bad trip. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Yeah, that’s all this is.
I hesitantly open my eyes again, looking anywhere, everywhere else. But the more I look, the more horrific the scene becomes and the deeper it’s seared forever into my mind. No amount of denial could erase the blood, or bodies, from my vision. The scene of death, of loss, and heartbreak wraps around me, robbing my lungs of oxygen. My head swims, spots dancing across my eyes as I spiral into the dark clutches of the abyss. A final thought flickers across my mind before I’m lost to unconsciousness.
Blood . . . bath . . .
I just knew it was going to be one cluster fuck of a day. A single hour was all I had left of my shift. A single fucking hour until I would’ve been able to go back to the hovel I call a home. Just an hour and I would’ve been able to fall into bed, tucked up nice and warm, none the wiser. But no, of course not. When have I ever been that bloody lucky? Instead, here I am in this butt fuck part of town, outside a strip club with a cup of coffee that could peel paint.
Time to get this over with.
Dampening my irritation, I put on my professional face and forced myself to get out of the car. Stretching my tired muscles, I take a moment to survey the scene. There don’t seem to be many people loitering around, but that’s going to change. Better to get the canvassing done sooner rather than later, or I’ll have three times the amount of witness reports to go through. I tap one of the idling officers on the shoulder, gesturing to the crowd.
“Don’t you fucker’s actually have work to do? You can jerk each other off later,” I snarl. I swear nothing would ever get done if I didn’t say anything. I loathe the idea of more work because of some lazy ass beat cop not doing their job. There were next to no witnesses when we first got here, but Blight residents would never willingly miss out on the opportunity to watch a shit show in progress. A crowd was already slowly forming since I’d arrived. I’m surprised the reporters aren’t already here. But it’s pretty late, and even parasites need sleep every now and again.
I cross the police tape as an ambulance drives away from the scene, another cop securing the tape behind it. I’d already heard over the scanner there’s one survivor. Just one. Out of an entire club full of people. Hopefully, she’ll be able to provide some useful information. I glance at my phone anxiously.
Still no calls, not even a single message.
It’s not unusual, so I try not to worry, but part of me knows I won’t be the same person once I walk back out of the club. Steeling myself, I cross the threshold of Haven.
I’ve seen a lot of shit in my years as a detective, this is reject central, after all. Law and order is more of a suggestion here, and most streets have a weekly body count. But nothing could have prepared me for this.
God, I wish this place had a window.
An unusual thought, but this place would reek of sweat and sex on a good day. With this much death and gore thrown into the mix, the nasal assault is almost as bad as the visual.
Ugh.
One of the officers elbows past me, desperate for the fresh air, as he covers his mo uth, clearly fighting the urge to hurl. The limp-dicked fucker won’t even last a week if he doesn’t toughen up. This is Blight, after all. I suspect he’s just a pretty-boy transfer looking to get ahead, he’d seen the high turnover rate as an easy ride to a promotion he doesn’t deserve. He’s probably already on the phone trying to get transferred back to the ‘burbs, or whatever sunny, princess town he came from.
Looking around Haven, I don’t know what to focus on first. Blood is everywhere. So many body parts interlinked and twisted you can barely tell where one ends and another begins. Like some sort of morbid puzzle. Various men dot the room, all seem to fit the generic ‘look at me, I have mummy issues’ thug, large muscles from carrying around all that emotional baggage, and thick necks that used to carry undeserved egos. From underneath the heavy bodies of the steroid-riddled gorillas, ribbons of long hair in various shades, and lithe limbs twisted at odd angles peek out, like trapped angels trying to break free.
The dancers.
My professional facade cracks a little, I knew a lot of the women who worked here. A lot of them had found themselves in trouble at one time or another, but they were good girls; some had families for fuck’s sake. No one deserves to have their lives just snuffed out like this. As my anger rises, I focus on the one survivor. Repeating it as a motto, refusing to let the darkness drag me under.
A flicker of light catches my eye, the stage lights up for just a second before being snuffed out. I feel my stomach turn. I wait for the light to flicker again, but it seems like even the lights aren’t immune to the death permeating this place. Turning on my phone’s flash light, I start towards the stage. As light slowly reveals the scene, it takes all my self-control to hold back the bile as my sorry excuse for a heart shatters.
Strung up between two stripper poles is a body I’ve spent many lonely nights thinking about. A woman who’d captured my heart years ago, and had held my mind hostage. Maria Mávrou. Everyone knew her as a gentle soul, always willing to help a lost lamb find some peace in this corner of hell. But to me, she was so much more. I always knew she worked here; rumours were she was even a madam. But I didn’t care, and the amount of women she’d brought to me to file domestic violence charges alone was enough to earn her respect from most of the department. As long as the girls were happy, no one looked twice at the legality of Haven, not when it had such an angel at the helm.
Looking up at the woman I love, I can barely recognise her. She’d been stripped naked, her previously soft, pale skin was littered with red and purple bruises in various hues, the skin broken in places. It told a story of violence and trauma, unnecessary if death was the only goal. Her legs are resting at odd angles, unable to support her weight, clearly broken, probably shattered with a blunt instrument. My eyes travel up her legs, absorbing every detail, every blemish, every clue. Deep jagged cuts on her abdomen were clearly made when she was alive, fighting with a ferocity that makes me smile, despite everything. She was never a woman to just give up. Whoever had done this had wanted to send a message. What the message was would have to wait until the coroner got her hands on her.
Finally, my eyes rest on her face, and I feel a tear run down my cheek before I hastily brush it away. Her normally white-blonde hair is stained red and matted with drying blood, her mouth hangs open in a silent scream, half of her teeth are missing. But all the horror pales in comparison to the bloody tear streaks down her cheeks from the holes where her fiery, defiant eyes should be. The dark orbs that always shone with secrets—always challenging, teasing, but never allowing anyone close—are missing.
Looking at her, my heart gives one last beat. I don’t need it any more. It beat for Maria, and it died with her. Rage and anger pumps through my veins now, crying out for blood and revenge. There’s a rational part of my brain that recognises these are not the thoughts of a cop, but I’ve had a love/hate relationship with the law for a while now. There are too many grey areas in Blight for things to always be clearly good or evil, right or wrong.
Right now, though, the law be damned. I want revenge, I want blood. I want the screams of those responsible as my own, personal, fucking lullaby.
Chapter Two
Creed storms into my office as if the police are going to burst in at any moment.
Fucker didn’t even knock.
As my best friend and second, he gets away with a lot of shit a normal person wouldn’t. If it was any of my other men they wouldn’t need a second to catch their breath, because they wouldn’t need to breathe full stop. I quirk an eyebrow at him, awaiting a good explanation. He bends over, catching his breath. Clearly, he’d sprinted from wherever he’d been lurking, but my patience is quickly wearing thin.
“Boss, Haven. It’s been hit,” he pants out.
I draw in a sharp breath before I can control myself. Haven was meant to be a safe place, a neutral zone, untouchable. Everyone knows touching it means war.
“We don’t know much, cops are on the scene, but I’m guessing from their expressions, it’s not pretty. We should brace ourselves,” Creed explains.
My initial moment of panic hadn’t been missed. Poker face be damned, Creed always knows what I’m thinking. The fucker has a sixth sense for it, which is why he was my obvious choice when it came to picking a second. Father didn’t approve, he would’ve preferred one of his own babysitters. It might look like I was in charge to everyone else, but few knew the truth. My father never really relinquished control.
“Get onto our contacts right away, I pay the greedy fuckers way too much to have to hear about this through the grapevine. Fuck guesswork, squeeze the pigs. I want a full report with everything they know on my desk. You have an hour.” I demand.
“Got it boss.” He starts to head out to follow my orders, but I stop him.
“And Creed?” I purr, stopping him in his tracks, the promise of bloodshed lacing my voice. “Remind our friends that if they take my money, I have certain expectations. This . . . oversight . . . will not be tolerated again.”
Creed gives me a smirk, one that makes his eyes sparkle with malice and danger. His darkness mirrored mine.
Yeah, he’d received my message loud and clear, we might be in need of some new contacts.
The bodies mount up
Your time running out,
You think you’re untouchable,
With unlimited clout,
But one day soon, you will see,
The last one standing will be me.
I could never work out why police used flashing lights at crime scenes. It just invites nosey nobodies to swarm around, like flies to a carcass. Surely it had to be counterproductive.
Look at me, look at me.
I’m a piggy counting, one, two, three.
I chuckle to myself before I school my expression to match those around me, drawn as they were by the lights, like moths to a flame.
Nosey fucks.
Blight’s police force is a joke. I swear, these so-called professionals couldn’t find their way out of a wet paper bag. You’d think with all the crime in the area, the repetition would have amounted to something resembling competence, but alas. The only way they would find their perp is if they walked into the station and turned themselves over. Even then, they’d probably write it off as some April fool’s day prank. Still ... this was not how the plan was meant to go. I don’t like it when things don’t go my way. It makes me angry. I don’t like being angry. You know what I do like? Answers. Answers make me really happy. An officer darts out of the club like he’d sat on a cactus, cartoon style. I’m sure he’ll be able to make me really, really happy.
Such a poor baby piggy,
Not feeling well.
Don’t want to bleed?
Then you should squeal.
I slowly approach the green looking officer, making sure not to startle the poor thing. The crime scene isn’t even that bad. I mean, I’d seen worse. This is Blight, after all, the ultimate criminal playground. If there isn’t at least one maiming it’s considered a quiet week. This ... ‘upstanding’ young officer was clearly not cut out for the trenches of Blight. I’m probably doing him, and the entire force, a favour by pointing this out now. Maybe I should be knighted. Do they give out knighthoods for being upstanding citizens?
