His Favorite Color is Blood - Coffin Nails MC (gay biker dark romance) (Sex & Mayhem Book 8)
Authors: K.A. Merikan
His Favorite Color is Blood
Sex & Mayhem #8
K.A. Merikan
Acerbi &
Villani ltd
His Favorite Color is Blood
K.A. Merikan
--- When life
gives you blood, make mayhem. ---
Grim.
Assassin. Leather-clad sex god.
Has the most unusual taste in men.
Misha.
Mutilated. Afraid. Will never
trust again.
Grim is a bloodthirsty killer, and he owns it.
Gay in a world of outlaw bikers, he firmly stands his ground if anyone dares to
cross him. He takes pleasure in showing homophobes their place and fucking his
way through a life of carnage.
But there is a part of him always aching for
something he cannot get. When by chance he saves the most perfect guy he’s ever
met, he is not about to let him go. Even if it means he needs to smother his
broken bird.
When a masked, bloodstained man rescues Misha
from captivity, he doesn’t know if he should thank the menacing stranger or
stab him and run. Grim is not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, and
Misha might now be in more danger than when he was trapped as a sex slave.
Misha cannot deny though that Grim is as
alluring as he is frightening, and once Misha realizes what power his body
holds over Grim, he understands that taming the beast of a man could be within
his reach.
But any possibility of a future together is
like a house of cards when Zero, the sadistic crime lord who destroyed Misha’s
life, sets out to get him back.
Will the ruthless biker assassin at Misha’s
side be enough to conquer the monsters from his past?
POSSIBLE
SPOILERS:
Themes:
Outlaw motorcycle club, organized crime, assassin,
chase, disability (amputee), devotee, revenge, redemption, kidnapping, road
trip, fear, hurt/comfort, references to past abuse
Genre:
M/M dark erotic romance, thriller
Length:
~110,000 words (standalone novel)
WARNING:
This book contains adult content that might be
considered taboo. Strong language, violence and torture. Reader discretion
advised.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of
characters to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events, places or names
is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or
transferred in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the
publisher. Uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any
other means without a permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by
law.
Text copyright © 2016 K.A. Merikan
All Rights Reserved
Editing by Kelly Hartigan (Xterra Web)
Cover design by
Natasha Snow
Table of contents
Sparks danced through the air
like shooting stars until their light died down. The flames screamed through
the open windows, tearing through the mesh screens. They were so bright on the
background of the dark sky that it almost seemed as if the walls were holding
back a nuclear explosion from bursting all over the woods around the house. In
the background, the sound of a siren was slowly approaching, but the
firefighters wouldn’t be able to do much at this point. The whole interior had been
consumed, and Logan turned away from the adults, who pushed him to the back as
if they didn’t want him to watch his whole life being scorched.
He pressed his lips shut,
swallowing tears he didn’t want anyone to see, as he watched the bright, warm
light pulse over the bark of the trees. The usually damp air was now nothing
but sickening heat, and he clutched at his throat, unable to breathe through
his silent sobs.
A bright yellow dot caught his
attention, and he stepped forward, brushing away the tears from his eyes. His
heart drummed as the little canary opened its beak, and it must have released
its song, but Logan couldn’t hear it through the insistent sound of the
approaching siren. All the adults dispersed to make room for the truck, but
Logan stepped closer to the tree, and then the little bird spread its wings and
gracefully flew down. Its tiny feet squeezed around Logan’s index finger. It
buried its beak below the wing, as it cleaned its feathers, uncaring about the
chaos that was unleashed around it.
Logan squeezed his jaw so hard it
felt as if his teeth were close to cracking, and he grabbed the little body in
his fist. He couldn’t breathe as anger closed down his windpipe. Without
thinking, he grabbed the tiny head with his other hand and turned it, as if it
were the screw top of a soda bottle. The sharp crunch that followed resonated
throughout Logan’s system, but as the bird went limp, he pulled, twisting and
turning, until the body fell to the ground, leaving just the head in his
bloodied palms.
Tension dispersed from Logan’s
muscles.
The firefighters arrived.
When the first explosion shook
the ground, Misha was so confused he stilled by his desk. Trapped in a room
that locked from outside and had no windows, there was no way for him to know
what was happening. He took a deep breath and pushed on the desk to roll his
office chair to the door. A part of him was afraid he’d wake up Gary and make
him furious, but when another explosion made the walls around him tremble, he
hit the door with his fist. If that hadn’t woken Gary up, nothing could.
“Gary? Is this an earthquake? Can
I stay with you in the living room?” he yelled, but there was no answer.
Misha’s heartbeat sped up when he
heard what sounded like firecrackers exploding far away. Whatever the commotion
was, maybe it would mean he’d get to leave Gary’s apartment. But how could he
make a run for it if he didn’t even know what lay past the electronically locked
door to Gary’s apartment? Misha was adept at using the wheelchair. He was fit
and good at moving around despite his legs ending in stumps just below the
knees. The lack of windows in the whole apartment suggested that it was located
underground. He could easily use an elevator, and technically was capable of
climbing the stairs, but if he wanted to move farther than that, he’d have to
pull the wheelchair behind him every step of the way upstairs.
As his brain thought of ways to escape,
conjuring visions of a new, better life that was actually worth living, the
sound of firecrackers, which now seemed all too similar to gunshots, erupted
again. He slid off the chair and pulled a blanket off his bed, which proved
harder than he thought with his fingers stiff and trembling. Moving like an
automaton, he rushed under the desk, pushing at the wood, as if it could
somehow absorb him if he wanted it badly enough. It didn’t matter that he was twenty-two.
In that moment, he was a little boy again, and nothing could possibly save him
from the liquor-infused monsters falling over in the corridor.
Misha covered himself with the
blanket and tried not to breathe, allowing as little air as possible into his
lungs. He wanted to be invisible, melt into the furniture, and disappear out of
the monster’s reach. He’d rather have Gary come in, laugh at him, and tell him
he was silly for getting scared of some fireworks than risk a possibility that
he was up against real danger.
His body trembled at the sound of
a loud thud, followed by clatter, and yes, this time it was definitely
gunshots. Misha cowered, curling up to seem as small as possible while the
pulsing in his neck counted split seconds. There was a round of rapid fire,
which suddenly came to a halt, leaving behind an eerie silence.
Misha listened, and while there
were still sounds of explosives and gunfire somewhere in the background, he was
certain he heard movement behind the door of the tiny space that had become his
whole world. Each hair on his body stood up in anticipation of noise.
He squeezed his fingers into
fists, unable to think of what he could use as a weapon. His room was the image
of what most people believed teenager caves looked like. It contained posters
of Russian bands, plastic trophies for swimming—which was especially pathetic
since Misha didn’t even know how to swim—a desk, a computer without Internet
access, and several books, but not a sharp object in sight or even a broom he
could break and use for stabbing. What if Gary got shot and couldn’t protect
him anymore? What if someone else took him? What if that person wanted to …
hurt him again? Gary was far from a perfect man, but with him, Misha at least
knew where he stood.
His heart stopped when the door
handle moved. Someone was coming for him. Someone broke in here and would soon
find Misha defenseless. If only he had a glass that wasn’t plastic, he’d cut
his wrists before the monster could get to him, but in this situation, the best
he could do was to repeatedly smash his head against the floor and dread the
worst. The clang of the lock was like a punch in the gut, and Misha stared
through the tiny gap in the blanket, breathless as the door slowly opened. The
first thing he saw was heavy combat boots, which thudded against the floor as a
man dressed in black walked in with a gun in his hand.
Seconds stretched into an
eternity as the man took step after step inside the small room, but then he
abruptly stopped and inhaled a big gulp of air.
“I smell fear,” he whispered,
sounding happy about his discovery.
The man was tense, focused, but
his face was a monstrosity that made Misha think it was Death himself coming
for him. Only after a few moments did he realize the man was wearing a mask, which
made his head look like a bare skull, with a pair of thin, well-cut lips
visible through an opening that also revealed the man’s smooth chin.
The large, hollow eyes of the
skull seemed to absorb light, and the inability to predict what the man was
looking at was making Misha want to crawl inside his own body. But the man’s
powerful muscles went lax, and he lowered his gun.
Misha’s lips trembled, and he had
to bite them to stop his teeth from clattering. Despite all the horrors that he’d
been subjected to, he didn’t want to die. Maybe one day he would become useful
enough to Gary, and Misha’s world could expand beyond this room. If only he
could stop breathing, the blanket would hide his presence. The room was dark
without the extra lamp Gary brought in for shoots, so there was a chance the
assailant would leave without noticing him.
But just as he thought that,
those big black holes of eyes turned toward him, and the man slowly sank to his
knee. Every hair on Misha’s body bristled. After an agonizing silence, the man
finally spoke.
“Hey there, little bird,” he
said, and his voice sounded like the richest, smoothest chocolate, not what
Misha expected to come from someone who hid his face behind a mask.
There was nowhere to run, but Misha
still pulled the blanket tighter around him and pushed against the corner under
the desk as if it could somehow turn into a portal to another dimension and
swallow him whole. He didn’t like strangers. They only ever brought pain and
misery with them, and this unannounced guest, who came here with a firearm,
seemed like the embodiment of Misha’s nightmares. “Please don’t take me,” Misha
whispered, unable to blink. “I’m fine here, just ask Gary.”
The man crooked his head, and his
shapely lips moved, pale against the matte black of his outfit. “Who’s Gary?”
“My b-b-b-boyfriend.” And there
it was. Misha’s teeth clattered. He pushed against the wooden desk when the man
shifted closer, and now, in the light coming from the desktop lamp, Misha could
see that black mesh covered the eyeholes of the mask.
“Was he the one to lock you up
from outside?”
Misha bit his lips again until he
drew blood. Only now, it occurred to him. What if this was a test of loyalty?
What if Gary considered giving him more freedom but needed to make sure Misha
wouldn’t betray him once his leash was loosened?
“I …” Misha licked his lips. His
breathing became erratic, and he started wheezing in panic.
The man put the gun into a
holster underneath his arm and reached out a hand in a leather glove. “Come
out. I won’t hurt you.”
Misha didn’t grab the hand, but
he slowly pulled the blanket off his head, knowing he wouldn’t have a choice in
the matter anyway. “Does Gary know you’re here?” he whimpered, his mind
spiraling into a million directions. In Misha’s experience, a mask meant the
man was here to do horrible things in front of Gary’s camera without being
recognized. Misha wouldn’t even know his name. “Please just tell him I don’t
want to go.” This shitty, somewhat damp room was a long way from heaven, but
who knew what hell would await Misha outside? He’d rather stay than risk any
more pain.
The man shifted closer, and his
chest fell with a loud exhale. “Andrey? Is that really you?”
This was bad. The man knew
Misha’s porn name. He was close enough for the upper half of his body to duck
under the desk, and Misha could smell his sweat, entangled with a rich cologne
that was already twisting around Misha’s throat, about to choke him. “Yes. Who
are you? Did Gary send you here? Did you pay him?”
The masked man growled, and for a
brief moment, his accent slipped into deeper, somewhat twangy tones. “I know no
Gary.” He took a deep breath, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I
knew
I
recognized this room from somewhere, but weren’t you supposed to be in Russia?
What is this?”
Misha watched the man’s every
move. His life or death could depend on assessing this situation correctly.
“It’s made up. To avoid stalkers … Who are you?” Now that he thought about it,
Misha realized he hadn’t met any new people within the last two years. It was
always only him and Gary, and sometimes some of Gary’s friends or the on-call
beautician who took care of Misha’s body hair and nails. And without anyone to
introduce this man, Misha had no idea how to act.
The masked man reached out all
the way to Misha’s face. His leather-encased fingers smelled of gunpowder,
which only made Misha more rigid as the soft, smooth glove touched his skin.
“You’re so pretty in real life.”
“Are you here to kill me?” Misha
blurted out, unable to keep that question inside him anymore. The man had burst
in with a gun and looked like a modern version of the Grim Reaper, so it would
only make sense. He could be making sure he had the right person before he put
a deadly piece of lead inside Misha’s skull.
“No. I’d never do that. Promise,”
said the masked man and held up his hand with his pinky extended.
Misha knew not to trust promises,
but it was always worth acknowledging one. In a surreal moment, he hooked his
pinky with the man in a skull mask. “Thank you.”
“Will you come out now?” asked
the man, gently pulling on Misha’s hand.
“Okay, but we have to find Gary …
I can’t go anywhere without his consent.” Misha looked away from the man’s face
and crawled out from underneath the blanket. He wore his ridiculously long hair
down, because Gary liked it that way, but in these circumstances, he pulled a
hair band out of the pocket of his shorts and gathered the long strands back
into a loose bun. He couldn’t help but think that if this man knew his porn
name, he’d seen him in circumstances much worse than this. He needed to calm
down and retain some dignity.
He raised his head, but the
question he intended to ask died on his lips when he noticed the stranger
staring straight at the ugly stumps once they emerged from underneath the
blanket. In a horrifying moment, the man’s leather-encased hand moved to cup
one of them. Misha clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, and he went still.
He only moved his eyes and let them glance at the stranger’s crotch and the
large bulge in his pants. Of course, the man would be an amputation fetishist
if he knew Misha’s porn persona. They called themselves “devotees,” but in
Misha’s experience, the only thing they were devoted to were the stumps, not
the amputee himself. Misha didn’t feel comfortable around those men, and each
unwelcome touch sent him deeper into his own mind.
The large hand massaged the
stump, squeezing it gently, as if it were a pert buttock. This was wrong, and
four years of taking it with a fake smile couldn’t teach Misha otherwise.
“You will be safe with me,” said
the man, pulling Misha toward him with surprising strength.
Misha’s eyes went wide when he
was forced up close to the skull printed on the mask the stranger wore over his
face, but it was getting a faint glimpse of the man’s eyes behind the mesh that
freaked him out. He wouldn’t be safe anywhere, just like he hadn’t been safe
here. Just because the man’s body was sturdy, as if made out of brick, didn’t
make him less flesh and bone, less vulnerable to a bullet or a chainsaw.
“What’s your name?” Misha gasped
and grabbed on to the man’s neck when he was picked up as if he weighed
nothing.
There was a deep growl somewhere
in the depths of the man’s throat, but he finally looked straight at Misha and
squeezed his hand on the flesh of his thigh. “I’m Grim. And I’m a fan,” he
said, carrying Misha out of the room where he had spent the greater part of the
last two years.
Even though Grim’s touch was
gentle, the lust hiding behind it made Misha nauseated.
A fan
? Was Grim
a crazy stalker abducting him just so he could have Misha to himself? Where
would he take him? What would he do to him?
Misha slid his hand down to
Grim’s chest, and the man’s heart was thudding just as hard as Misha’s. “You …
watch a lot of my vids?” he uttered, desperate for any scrap of information.
The masked man nodded, completely
ignoring the sounds of gunfire somewhere in the background as he entered Gary’s
living room. “I watch them all the time. I was the one to send you the new Xbox
to the PO Box. Did you get it?” he asked quickly, rocking Misha in his arms.
Misha’s lips parted, and he
couldn’t believe his ears. Not to mention they felt hot as hellfire. He’d never
actually met any of his subscribers. “I … I did actually. And the games. Thank
you,” he added quickly, afraid to offend the man. “Did you … break in here?”
Misha looked around the living room when they walked out into the bright light
of white lamps. The TV was knocked over and lay facedown on the floor, and a
broken glass vase was scattered over the rug like sesame seeds on bread.
