Vicious

Vicious PLEASURE & PREY AJ MERLIN Vicious Copyright © 2023 AJ Merlin All Rights Reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover Design by Books & Moods Ebook isbn: 978-1-955540-27-8 This book is a dark romance, and there are some aspects that may not be for all readers. Vicious contains scenes of dubious consent, kidnap, mention of assault and abuse (though nothing on page) and questionable kinks such as somnophilia, kidnap, CNC, and more. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Delicious About AJ Merlin Chapter One Of course I’ll help you. The memory of his hands cupping my cheeks, of the look in his warm brown eyes, isn’t enough to tear my attention from the diner. It isn’t enough to make any of this go away. My hands shake as I let the door close behind me, eyes fixed on the blood that’s sprayed up the wall behind the bar of the fifties-themed diner. Music still plays through the jukebox, and when I turn to look at the lit up display of its old-timey front, I see that it’s one of the few things in the building not marred by blood. You can trust me. Whistling, constantly whistling. Dr. Gabriel Brooks is always whistling whenever I walk into his office until he turns and sees me. Then he smiles and remarks about me being a breath of fresh air compared to the other patients he’d taken over from Springwood Medical. I just like to whistle, he’d told me, mouth curved into the sweetest smile as the smile-lines around his eyes had deepened. Is it weird? I’d just assumed my new therapist was bullshitting me about being his favorite patient. Until this morning. Until now. My hands shake as I round the counter, eyes pinned to the shape on the floor. Marcie Owens, her blonde hair tangled and matted with blood, had owned the diner with her husband, Frank. Neither of them were particularly great people, and they’d raised a son with just as much entitlement as arrogance as them. They’d always been out of place in Springwood. What’s wrong? He’d caught me when I came into his office, sobbing, with blood on my hands and feeling light-headed. Just tell me what’s wrong, Quinn. You can tell me. I had. I’d told him everything. Like a good therapist, he’d gotten the story from me without me even realizing he was asking for more details than I’d wanted to give. I’d been so afraid, so terrified after what had happened. It wasn’t my fault, but no one else would see it that way. My fault or not, I’d be kicked out of my scholarship program because of it. I’d end up on the street, instead of on my way to college. Being eighteen meant that foster care didn’t give a damn anymore. I’d be alone, even if it wasn’t my fault. He’d told me that he’d take care of it, and I’d thought my therapist would just appeal to someone. I’d thought he’d bring in Billy Owens’ parents and talk things out with them. I’d thought that everything would be okay. I kneel beside Marcie, my shaking hand reaching out before coming to a stop just over her face. With her eyes open wide with fear, I find it hard to tear my gaze away from her. Nausea rolls in my stomach, and finally I get to my feet, unable to stay down here with her body in its dried pool of blood any longer. Marcie Owens is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it. My steps take me further into the diner, even though I have a good feeling about what I’ll find. If Marcie is dead and the place is silent, then there has to be only one answer. When I find the body, though, I wish I hadn’t. I step back, shoes slipping on the wet floor as a wretched gasp claws up my throat and escapes my lips. If Marcie was bad, then Frank is so much worse. My eyes take in the scene in pieces. His head pressed against the fryer, face burned and blackened; melted where it’s touching the burners. The sight makes my stomach churn, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stop from throwing up all over the crime scene. He’s still holding a knife in his hand, like he was trying to avenge his wife or, more likely, save himself. In death it’s clutched in his bony, too-long fingers that rest by the sink. Slashes mark his arm, the same kind that had cut through Marcie’s body in so many places. I’m sure they aren’t from a knife, but I’m not in a position to do some kind of analysis on the weapon used to kill the Owens couple. But it isn’t just his face that makes me want to shrivel up on the diner kitchen floor. It’s the rest of him. The arm wrenched out of its socket; the skin flayed open so I can see muscle underneath. He died more violently than his wife, and a small voice in the back of my head says that he deserved to. He was just as bad as Billy Owens, after all. I edge past him and try to look everywhere but at his seared off face. It’s the worst part of the whole picture, though the muscles I can see in his arm and shoulder make my stomach churn as well. I could leave, I reason, as I stare