Her Crimson Reign Read online

  Her Crimson Reign

  Copyright © 2020 by Tristina Brockway

  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 Sarah Kil, Creative Studio

  Editing by Amy Briggs, Briggs Consulting

  Contents

  Playlist

  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

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For the women in my family who aren't afraid to hide their crazy. We may be a little psycho at times, but we love fiercely, and that makes it okay.

  Playlist

  River - Bishop Briggs

  Horns - Bryce Fox

  Raise Hell - Dorothy

  Freak Like Me - Brooke Candy

  You Should See Me In A Crown - Billie Eilish

  Psycho - AVIVA

  Bury Me Face Down - grandson

  Kill Of The Night - Gin Wigmore

  Twisted - MISSIO

  Bury A Friend - Billie Eilish

  Hush - Aviva

  You Don’t Own Me - SAYGRACE & G-Easy

  Hit And Run - LOLO

  Psycho Killer - RAINNE

  Castle - Halsey

  6 Inch - Beyonce (feat. The Weekend)

  Mad Hatter - Melanie Martinez

  Chapter 1

  Six

  I can smell it in the air. Death. The taste is bittersweet on my tongue. The warm metallic liquid covering my lips like crimson red paint, slowly trickling into my mouth. I reach up to touch my face and as I pull my hand away, my gloves are coated red as proof that my face is covered in the blood of the fifty-year-old CEO.

  But this kill was not about money. Not even close. It’s about something much worse. He was a rapist. Age was not a factor he cared much about. His victims were young, old, and way too young. But he tended not to discriminate as long as they satisfied him.

  Spinning around, taking in the view of the room, I can see it now. A beautiful work of art with blood splattering not only the walls, but every surface in the room as if it’s my personal canvas, and this is my creation. I get a little carried away and lost in the passion. The ardor for vengeance for each of his victims.

  Thirty-three. That is the number of victims that this man had claimed with his predatory ways. At least that is how many I could find. I did my research. I always do. I like to be thorough in my quest to uncover other people’s demons. There are horrors much worse than mine. His, for example. I thought it was only fitting I stabbed him thirty-three times. They aren’t able to get their vengeance. So I’ll gladly get it for them.

  The body that lay before me is drenched in blood as it pools at my feet. Bending down, I can see the light reflecting off of the red puddle giving it a bit of a shine. But it’s not enough. It never truly is.

  Removing my gloves, I reach into my jacket and pull out the last piece needed to make my work complete. I bend down next to the asshole whose life I just cut short and roll the edges at the tip of the rose in the blood. A black rose dipped with red tips and a few drops dripping down the side resembles a bloody crown. I’ve clipped the end of the flower so that the stem is only a few inches long. Opening his mouth, I place the stem inside, leaving the bud blooming out of his mouth.

  Perfect.

  As I walk out of the house, my phone vibrates with a text message.

  “Is it taken care of?”

  “Affirmative. Just how you wanted it. Messy. My specialty.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Completely.”

  I really don’t understand people sometimes. I’m an assassin. A killer. A murderer. Basically, a serial killer. I truly am fucking crazy. Bat shit to be exact, and I have no problem admitting it.

  Killing is an art few people can stomach, let alone master. I’m the best by embracing the demons inside me. It’s as if they speak to my soul and touch the darkness within. I turn it into something beautiful. A work of art. I always leave a black rose that I dip in the victims’ blood, usually resting in their open mouth. It represents rebirth, something vile turned to something captivating.

  How did I end up in the death business? It’s simple, really. I killed someone. But I learned at an early age that people are not always what they seem My brother wasn’t what he appeared either. I was only six years old when I put him in the ground. He was sixteen.

  Anyone would wonder how a six-year-old can murder someone ten years older than her. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing. Adrian, my brother, began coming into my room at night when our parents were fast asleep.

  At first, I thought he was just being a nice, caring brother and checking in on me because he knew I was afraid of the dark. I quickly came to learn there were far worse monsters lurking in the shadows than the ones I was afraid of.

  What started as him coming to check in on me, quickly became him starting to touch me. At six years old I wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to do so I would lay there pretending to be asleep, afraid to move. But when he began covering my mouth so I couldn’t scream and began touching places I knew no one should ever touch, I knew he wasn’t being a good brother. Not at all.

  Adrian had his own demons. Now that I’m older, I often wonder if he came up with this all on his own or if someone did something to him at a young age that sent him down this path. I accept this is something I’ll never know.

  The last night that he drew breath on this earth, I was ready for him. I didn’t really understand at the time what I was about to do would end his life permanently. But as he came into my room and did what only the worst kinds of monsters do, I grabbed the knife I had swiped from the dinner table and hid away under my pillow for this exact reason, and stabbed it into the side of his neck.

  Blood was everywhere, I was drenched in it. My brother’s blood had covered my hair, face, neck, and upper body. Adrian had been climbing on top of me at the time and I was sure this was the night that he would force himself onto me completely, taking away my last shred of innocence. But it turns out I did not have to be violated at six years old to have my innocence taken. I had to murder my brother.

  I was in shock. I laid there in my bed covered in blood with his body on top of mine for hours not knowing what to do. I wasn’t able to think. But after a few hours, I realized how much trouble I was going to be in. The consequences I would face for defending myself.

  His body had turned cold, and as the sun rose, I accepted my fate, that my mother and father were going to hate me. They would despise me for taking away her firstborn and for taking away her precious baby boy. But most of all, she was going to hate me because my heart was still beating, while his heart no longer did.

  When my mother came in to wake me up for school, she stood there in shock. My father came in shortly after and took in the scene before him. He called an ambulance, even though I was certain he knew it was too late.

  I ha
d to tell the police what happened and my mother didn’t believe me. Her precious son would never do such a thing. My father wasn’t as delusional as her, so I like to think he knew I wouldn’t lie about something so disturbing.

  From that day forward, my relationship with both of my parents changed. They kept their distance at first, with my mother not acknowledging my existence at all, and my father trying to keep the peace between my mother and me.

  I spent years in therapy at my father’s request. But there was no saving me. I didn’t want to be saved. Because even though some might say it was horrible that I took someone’s life at the tender age of six, I felt sound in my actions. For as much as it was a survival instinct, it was just as much a conscious decision I had made and planned.

  Therapy did not teach me I was going to be okay. Therapy taught me I was, in fact, at peace with my decision to kill my brother from the beginning, and I would do the same thing again if I could.

  Sociopathic and Psychopathic tendencies may be the term they used to describe my mental state. Also known as antisocial personality disorder or ASPD, but my memory from those visits to the doctor could be a little off. It’s been a while.

  So, am I crazy? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I care? Not even a little.

  Chapter 2

  Six

  As I pull into the gated driveway, I can see the lights to my house are on. I love my home. I’m not one for humble gestures, so I opted for a living space that was much larger than what I needed. Go big or go home, as the saying goes.

  In my case, I flaunt my wealth with the best of them. Contract killing is a business, and I get paid damn good for what I do. I won’t be ashamed of that. I slay the monsters so their victims don’t have to.

  I had my home custom built. From the front it appears to be one level, made of grey stone with dark wood framing the front door with a beautiful arched doorway and an attached garage. Around the back of the house, it's two levels that rise above a golf course. It includes a master suite with a retreat and spa-inspired master bathroom, six luxury guest suites, nine baths, a resort-style pool and spa, and other additional rooms. But my favorites are the weapons room, panic room, and what I like to call my playroom.

  It’s not the playroom some people would be thinking of. I have whips, chains, and handcuffs, yes, but they are not for pleasure and the person on the receiving end is definitely not enjoying the pain. In fact, they rarely leave breathing at all.

  Some might think it’s a poor joke, an assassin living in a subdivision on a golf course. I thought it was entertaining at first because no one really expects a serial killer to live next door to them, let alone in a respectable subdivision, but the view is incredible. The course is built through the mountains and rolling hills.

  The houses are spread far and wide so there’s plenty of privacy, which I enjoy. It makes bringing home an unwilling participant a little less conspicuous. Though I only bring my victims home on rare occasions when there is no other alternative.

  I’m not one for delivering baked goods to welcome new neighbors. People are not my thing. I hate people. Totally not a people person. Now dead people? Dead people don’t talk. At least not with words, anyway.

  Blood. Blood is my thing. Now that I can get behind. I’ll take a good murder over a neighborhood barbeque any day of the week.

  Walking into the house from the garage, I can hear the house speakers blasting music and I see that she’s made tacos. “Honey, I'm home”, I sing-song from the kitchen.

  Where the hell is she? I step around the corner into the living room and am knocked to the floor by the bitch that got a running head start and slide across the floor, like a goddamn bowling ball, and I’m the only pin in sight.

  I roll over and look at Kat with a pointed glare. “You’re a fucking cunt. You know that right?” Kat stands up and I kick my feet into the air while pushing my hands to the floor behind my head, jumping into a standing position.

  “I do!” She looks at me with amusement dancing in her emerald green eyes.

  Kat is my best friend. Well, one of my only friends that I fully trust. She’s more like a sister. We met when we were eighteen. Ironically, our birthdays are even in the same month. She’s the only person who knows my life story and what I do for a living, besides my security team, my father, and Pops.

  She also knows I enjoy it way more than any sane person would. The blood lust, as Kat and I call it, is addicting and I honestly can’t even believe she stuck around for the shit show that is my life.

  Five Years Ago

  I was walking down the sidewalk in the city and had just taken a man’s life in a penthouse a few streets over when I heard screaming coming from above. I told myself to mind my business and just keep walking, but I heard a man's voice yell back and then what sounded like glass shattering.

  I stopped dead in my tracks as glass rained down from above. Whoever this idiot was, he just made his business my own.

  Heading up the stairs of the apartment building I followed the sounds of yelling and loud desperate sobs of a young woman pleading for her life. That was all it took.

  I ran until I found the right apartment, kicked the door in, scared the shit out of the man who was holding a gun to the girl’s head, then tossed one of my throwing stars at the man’s hand, knocking the gun from his grip.

  The girl lay on the floor with what looked like both old bruises and new ones forming. She appeared severely beaten, looked malnourished, and was bleeding profusely from her head.

  From the glass in her long reddish hair, it was clear her head had hit the window causing the glass to rain down to the street below.

  I took one look at the guy and decided his fate.

  Present

  That night, Kat witnessed me murder what I assumed at the time was her boyfriend and did not even blink twice. I took her home with me, tended to her wounds, and we’ve yet to speak of that night since. It’s one of those things that needs no more words.

  “You get a little carried away tonight?” she asks with one eyebrow raised. I’m being interrogated by a nagging mother hen.

  I smirk as if I’ve done nothing wrong. “I only did what my client asked.” But we both know it is far from the truth. I just don’t care and luckily for me she’s okay with that.

  “I’m going to head up and take a shower.” I yawn and turn towards the stairs. “Good. You need it.”

  I walk up the black staircase, down the hall and into my room. After I shed my bloody clothes, I turn on the shower, and as I’m about to step in, I get a phone call on my work phone.

  “It’s four in the fucking morning. This better be good.”

  “Is this the Crimson Queen?”

  “Talk.”

  “I have a job for you. This is—”

  I cut him off. “No names. Send me your location and we’ll meet tomorrow when I have time.”

  “What do you mean when you have time?”

  I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. I may be a cold blooded killer, but does anyone have fucking manners anymore? Who the hell calls someone at four in the morning? Especially someone that could drop your ass for breathing the wrong way.

  A little fucking respect goes a long way. But no. This guy has gone and pissed me off already. Whatever he has to say tomorrow better be worth it. Or he’s next on my list.

  Chapter 3

  Six

  Ironically, the address the potential client sent me is the strip club I own, called Reign. It’s the same one Kat works at. I’ve tried to tell her a million times she does not have to work, but she’s a pain in my ass and insists on it. Especially because she loves dancing. We both do. I’ve never stripped at the club, but that’s not saying I won’t. We even have a pole in the entertainment room at home we both use for pole dancing workouts and to come up with choreography for her performances.

  I need to tell her to keep her head on a swivel tonight, and not just while she’s working the pole. I don’t know this guy, and I’m n
ot taking any chances. I’ve called and upped security at Reign just to make sure.

  I dress for the night in my signature look, all black. A backless black shimmer dress that dips low in the front and the back. I’ve curled my white hair giving it a natural wavy appearance and I slip on my six inch black heels. Finishing my look with dark purple, almost black lipstick, I grab my black crown that I wear when I’m at the club and place it crookedly on my head. I prefer the disarray.

  I swear I am not a complete narcissist. My assassin name, The Crimson Queen, came from the fact that I dip black roses in the blood of my victims, making it appear like a crown on top of the rose. Also, I drench myself in the crimson red blood of the person whose life I’m ending because I often get carried away with the kill. So, I named my club Reign. It’s a theme, really. A joke between Kat and myself, which is why I wear the crown around the club.

  I head downstairs and check in with Kat, filling her in on how tonight will go down with the man I'm meeting and then we make our way to the club in my baby, a black Conquest Knight XV.

  It’s a purpose-built armored vehicle that could withstand a rocket-propelled grenade attack all while riding in style with black leather interior and all the modern conveniences of a small apartment. Overkill? Maybe. But in my line of work, you can never be too careful.

  I drop Kat off around the back of the club so she can go get ready and I pull to the front. I get out and toss my keys to the valet. “Take care of my baby.” He smiles and nods while I head inside.