From Whispered Desire

PROLOGUE

MATHIAS BEAUMONT

TWELVE YEARS OLD

“Harder!” Conrad shouts from his position on the cracked altar. Overhead, a swath of black shifts at the disturbance but otherwise remained unaffected. The bats who made their home in the dilapidated chapel eaves had long ago become accustomed to raised voices—whether it was Conrad or one of the many victims he apprehended for these exercises.

My fingers tighten around the thin wire in my hands, pain slicing at my palms, and a moment of indecision adds another layer of sweat to my temples. The unlucky man at my mercy gasps and flops around like a wriggling fish, and I’d like nothing more than to release him back to sea—the greater Boston area—but I know his fate is sealed.

As is mine.

“Are you going soft on me, Beaumont? Does Hugo need to step in and show you how to properly strangle a man?”

My eyes find Hugo in the shadows. The sun set hours ago, causing the winter chill to deepen within the chapel’s crumbling stone walls. I used to wish for it to tumble into a heap on my head—or Conrad’s; I wasn’t picky. A stony grave befitting the ill deeds committed here.

But the old structure remained standing.

To mock me.

Mock us.

The man beneath me lifts his hands to scratch at his throat where the wire digs into the skin and a red line of blood forms. It isn’t deep enough to kill him yet. That’s why Conrad is annoyed and threatening to have his own son finish the job.

But I refuse to add to Hugo’s burden. It’s bad enough that his dad is a fucking psycho whose sole purpose is to train the six bastard sons of his sworn enemies to kill. A sadistic bastard whose lesson tonight is how to strangle a man to death with a piece of wire. I don’t even get the luxury of gloves to protect myself from the weapon’s sharpness.

“Three, two—”

I tug with all my might and almost collapse in relief when the wire slices through tendons and arteries, shutting off the man’s desperate cries, and allowing my labored breathing to rattle through the chapel as Conrad and six other boys stare at the carnage.

“Petrovs. You’re up.” Conrad claps his hands together and gestures to the chainsaw at his feet. “Chop him up for proper disposal.”

Dmitri and Aleksei pass my bloodied figure as I join the line on the east side of the chapel. Rafael, Hugo, and Jonah stand quietly, sparing brief glances of understanding before focusing on the dismemberment of the man I just killed.

He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.

But I look forward to the day when the decision of whom to kill is mine, not Conrad’s, because there are several names on my list.

At the very top?

The reason I’m stuck at Blackchapel Manor participating in fucked-up lessons.

Louis Petit, my bastard father.

• Suicidal Ideation
• Anxiety/Depression
• Toxic Family & Friendships (not between main characters)
• Violence
• Explicit Sex
• Cursing/Offensive Language
• Dubious Consent
• Stalking

This is a fictional story. Love is a powerful healer but is not a cure-all or substitute for medical professionals.

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