Despicable by Rory Miles
BELLATRIX
Another two weeks pass without incident. The guys and I fall into a steady pattern. I switch beds depending on who works the night shift or who needs my attention, and they make me laugh, give me copious amounts of orgasms, and we take care of each other.
Nothing builds a stronger bond than sitting with someone and doing absolutely nothing and still finding a way to enjoy the time spent. Creed and I play games. Ronan and I talk about our lives before the island while he plays solitaire. Dax and I sit in the guard station together, watching the birds fly through the trees and making sure everyone has what they need.
I see Harlow a few times. She smiles and says hi, but for the most part she keeps to herself and maintains her distance. Aside from when the other shifters come to get their supplies, I don’t interact with them. The men, who I’ve learned are all introverted, don’t say much, but they always give my guys a respectful nod. For the most part, they avoid looking at me. I don’t know if that’s because it’s obvious that the guys have staked their claim, or because they’re messed up from their broken bonds.
Chad, on the other hand, well, Chad avoids looking at me because he’s an asshole. It seems he’s traded trying to get my attention with provoking my men. Dax ignores him for the most part, and aside from one tense interaction a few days ago, no fights have broken out. The tension is building though, and I know it’s only a matter of time before Chad does something stupid and forces my guys to take matters into their own hands.
On Saturday morning, Dax and I set out on a walk. Creed is watching over the shops and Ronan is sleeping off his night shift. We decide to avoid a chance encounter with Chad and head toward the dock, walking through the path between the trees instead of on the road.
“The morning sun looks good on you.”
Shooting Dax a funny smile, I gaze up at the sky. “Thanks.”
“Your smile is gorgeous.”
“Are you trying to get in my pants?” I ask in mock outrage.
He chuckles and looks away, biting his bottom lip. “There will be no trying, Trix.”
Gasping, I clutch my imaginary pearls and fan my face. “Men like you are the reason women swoon.”
We change direction slightly to continue toward the dock.
Bringing his gaze back to meet mine, his eyes darken, then suddenly shoot over my shoulder and widen. A growl works up his throat, and I prepare for Chad to say something stupid. Dax grabs my arm and pulls me behind him, turning me in the process. As soon as I’m facing the same direction he’s looking, I see Chad.
Only he’s not here for a fight.
A few feet over, Chad is lying face down in the dirt. Dax and I race over to him, staring at the gore. Blooms of blood spread across his back, seeping through his shirt. His arms are tied to the back of his head, and his veins are discolored, like the man who died on the dock. He was poisoned too. I register all of this before my mind acknowledges what I see next. On the ground, carelessly tossed on the grass next to his body, is his severed dick. Limp, covered in blood, and clearly cut off with a serrated knife because the skin around the base is not clean cut.
“I think I might throw up,” I say, unable to look away from the bloody appendage.
If it were any other time, I’d be thankful he isn’t my fated because of the size, but that’s not a normal thought to have right now.
So instead, I pull my gaze away and stare at Dax. He’s grown pale, probably worrying about his own manhood like men do, but he shakes off his disgust, squatting down to gently roll Chad over.
His body turns over in a rigid way that makes my stomach turn. I take a few steps away, clutching my belly. This is more violent than the other dead body I’d seen only weeks before.
Stab wounds litter his body, covering his stomach, thighs, and a big slash colors his neck scarlet. There’s a note taped to his forehead, and Dax, who is made of steel in this moment, carefully reaches up and pulls the paper loose.
He opens the letter, glancing back at me when he’s done. His forehead wrinkles and his mouth tugs down.
“If you weren’t in the house last night, I’d think this was you.” Extending his arm, he waits for me to take the note.
I reach for it, stepping forward to grab it then immediately putting distance between myself and the body. Staring at the paper, I read the words.
Good thing this dick has a tiny prick. He got what he deserved.
The writing is sprawling and loopy, most likely a woman’s. Some men write this way, but most don’t. It’s also highly unlikely a guy cut off Chad’s dick. Sure, it’s possible, but the penis is sacred to men. A woman, on the other hand, isn’t as attached to the appendage. Especially if she feels scorned.
Dax is watching me work through my thoughts with a grimace. “I don’t want to say it…”
“You don’t have to,” I say, folding the note and sticking it in my pocket.
Before I can tell him that I agree, Harlow is the most likely suspect, a whir of an engine slices through the air. Dax is up and sprinting toward the dock in a matter of seconds. I’m not far behind, anything to get away from the sight of Chad’s brutally murdered body.
I hated that man. I despised how he rejected me. Why he rejected me. I even enjoyed watching Dax kick his ass, but I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t ask the guys to do that either. To me, the best way to hurt him was to let him live and know I was happy without him.
He was the miserable fuck.
But none of that matters now because he’s dead.
And Harlow is the murderer.