Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy)

  Roman: Book 2

  By

  Kimber S. Dawn

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  E-Book Edition

  © Kimber S. Dawn 2015

  Dedication

  For my sweet Lauryn

  Prologue

  I died the day Heather did.

  The downward spiral of my life has consisted of nothing but chaos and carnage. The copious amounts of alcohol I consume on a daily basis is much a catalyst to the desecrating havoc I leave in my wake as it is a cure. A balm to ease the ache I refuse to acknowledge exists within me.

  I will admit I never truly meant to let you down, but what do you expect from a man who has always been Hell bound?

  None of that matters anymore though. Not with my Heather now gone. The thought alone spins me into a pitch black hole so dark it suffocates, a place much darker than I’ve ever been before.

  I’ve become careless and reckless in my self-deprecating destruction, I’m at the point where I want them to apprehend me. Andrew has stopped me from leaving the house, soaked to the skin and covered from head to toe in my latest victims’ blood on countless occasions.

  I want the world to see me for what I truly am.

  Sadist.

  Motherfucker.

  Murderer.

  Monster.

  Lucifer’s Belial himself, relishing in his self made Hell on Earth.

  When will you realize some men cannot be reached?

  You think you hated the man I was before?

  I am bête noire, the Black Beast.

  I do not pray to any God, I pray to myself… for myself.

  I want to cauterize every memory of her from my mind. I want her gone from the gray matter of my brain, I want her staunchly removed from any part of my heart she ever invaded.

  I only know of one way to accomplish this: unleash the sadist and let him have free rein.

  I once told you, “Every sin I commit, each life I end, every soul I purchased to watch in gratifying amusement as it fades out…I have done with whole and complete intentions of watching my sins and transgressions affect and alter the life of others.”

  My intentions were my own, and I owned every single one.

  I am afraid that statement no longer holds even a thread of truth. The man you met then is now nothing more than a ghost and the blood staining my hands is no longer a consequence of my amusement. No, the blood you see is the result of my visceral need to hinder the torment and desolation left in my wife’s wake.

  When my hand gripping the fire poker swung, I intended for the strike to hit the chair she was sitting in. I’m uncertain how it moved up eight inches before it struck, making contact with the base of Heather’s skull.

  It sent her flying through the air and crashing into the limestone wall next to the fireplace before her dead weight collapsed in a motionless heap on the floor.

  I screamed at her. Taunted her with words so heinous and insidious even now I wince. I poked at her over and over demanding she wake, roaring at her to stand. When she remained unmoved, I began whaling the soot-covered iron rod clutched in my fist against her lifeless form.

  When it dawned on me I hadn’t once heard her grunt in pain or a strangled breath emit from her, instantly the fire poker clattered to the cobblestone floor. I scooped up Heather’s limp body and cradled her to my chest and moved to sit on the overstuffed dark brown leather couch. I whispered to her, begging her to wake up. But I couldn’t see her, I couldn’t make out her face from my blurred vision and for the life of me I couldn’t understand why.

  While gently brushing her beautiful blond hair away from her face I kept blinking, trying to see her better. When my blurry vision cleared I saw teardrops raining down on her face…tears, my tears.

  I slid my hand under her head and brought it to rest on my shoulder where I hid my face in the crook of her neck as the sobs, long suppressed, soul wrenching sobs, escaped the recesses of my tortured black heart.

  I knew then.

  I fucking knew it then.

  My mouse, I’d killed my precious little mouse.

  She was gone. Truly and irrevocably gone. And I was powerless to bring her back. Ivy would be forced to grow up without her mother…because of the actions of her wretched, vile, monstrous father.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on ends as I felt his presence and glare boring into my back.

  “You’ve finally done it.” Sebastian’s words were clipped and patronizing.

  Instantly I stood, clutching Heather’s body to me like a broken doll. When I felt the warm wetness sliding through my fingers and running down my forearm I clenched my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the austere reality of what I’d done.

  It was too much for me to handle.

  After I laid her back down on the sofa, I linked her hands together and placed them on her abdomen. Then I kissed every accessible inch of her cooling skin as my heart, or whatever was left of it, cracked and shattered within my rib cage. “I love you, mouse. It has always been you.” My broken sobs were indiscernible as I whispered to my mouse, my latest revelation. “From the moment I saw you swinging high enough to take flight with your blond hair blowing in the wind, it’s been only you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why didn’t you just stay away, mouse, why?”

  My eyes scanned her beautiful battered face as I silently prayed for the woman I love, the woman I killed, to open her dark brown eyes. But they never opened.

  “I can call the cops. I will call the cops if you don’t get the fuck away from her and leave immediately.”

  Before I realize I’ve moved I’m in Sebastian’s face with my hands wrapped around his neck. “You little motherfucker. Do you honestly believe I don’t know it’s been you lurking in the shadows all these years? I don’t know why, I don’t know what it is that has held you captivated by my malevolent transgressions, nor do I fucking care. Now, know this. I am coming for you. It won’t happen today and it won’t happen next month, but it will happen. And I revel at the thought of adding a man to my numbers. Unfortunately, I have no intention of my cock coming anywhere near you, but I’m sure I have plenty of apparatuses to ram up your tight, puckered asshole until I perforate your large intestines. Do not fear, you will get your chance to experience the wrath of Roman Payne.” I snickered in a hollow tone as my grasp released him, dropping him to the floor before turning and stalking from the house.

  The cold splatter spraying across my face brings me back to the present. The carcass of the Heather lying prone on the plastic covered floor is currently being quartered and stripped. They are all Heather to me.

  Every number, twenty-one to thirty seven, have all been named Heather. In the beginning they were blond with brown eyes and my mouse’s lithe build. I quickly became less picky as my addiction grew too strong, two to th
ree women a night was barely enough to sustain my need. At some point, pickiness flew out of the window and all I required was the next number to be blond and answer to Heather.

  After chopping this evening’s Heather down to the correct size, I separate each body part into its own section of plastic before taking the box cutter and slicing the plastic to fit. I then wrap each body part in plastic before stacking piece by piece in a two by two foot cardboard box. After I’ve doused the box with gasoline I wrap it in cellophane. I do not change my clothes, I do not wash away the crimson blood soaking me to the skin through my clothes. I walk away from wherever my playing grounds were for tonight, drop the box in the trunk of my Audi R8 and slide into the driver seat before tearing through the night headed for the gates of Payne Estates.

  I heed no attention to speed limits, traffic lights, or signs. From the moment I realized I murdered the only woman I have ever, will ever love, I welcomed the authorities to apprehend me. Long ago. I welcomed the death promised for resisting them with as much hostility as I can muster.

  It has yet to happen. And after every Heather I allow my carelessness and recklessness to become sloppier and even more erratic.

  Andrew, my most trusted confidant and his high fucking morals recently spurred him to inform me he would be unable to continue the collection and clean up. Sebastian had no problem executing when he was my number one right hand man.

  I don’t register how long it takes to arrive at the Estates. All I know is that I park my car, then I mechanically carry the cardboard box from the garage to the basement and light the trash incinerators. I stand watching them glow for a moment. As I shove the boxed remains of this evening’s Heather into the incinerator chute, my anger at Andrew and his newly found conscience swells and grows, blanketing even my own self-hatred.

  Chapter 1

  I can’t explain what happened between my fading bravado and screamed lies at Roman before my world went black. I’m just thankful I was delivered from the hell of my husband’s presence.

  I wish I was able to sound rational when I explain how Roman affects me, how he’s always affected me, but I can’t. Do you know how hard it is to look at yourself in the mirror when you absolutely detest the person staring back at you?

  I hate myself. I’ve hated myself since the incident in France when Roman beat me to the brink of death and I have no idea how to accept this reality and live contently with it. How can you when you’re the bane of your own existence? I can’t even hate Roman for his involvement, the only person I blame is myself.

  After the fire poker clipped my shoulder before making contact with the base of my skull causing my world to go black, I was still able to hear every word said. I felt Roman’s body trembling as his tears fell to my face. I also felt his body go rigid moments before Seb spoke.

  But the thing that rocked me to the core was Roman’s whispered confession, “I love you, mouse. It has always been you. From the moment I saw you swinging high enough to take flight with your blond hair blowing in the wind, it’s been only you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why didn’t you just stay away, mouse, why?”

  Those words are ones no one in their right mind ever expects to hear come from a man as evil as Rome. So when they’re said, it leaves you in complete and utter shock, grappling to make sense of the collage of emotions wreaking havoc through your mind and already shattered heart.

  It was him.

  All those years ago, it was him.

  I haven’t even thought of my sweet young knight in shining armor. My little protector. My…Romie.

  Son of a bitch. That was his name. By the time I was fifteen I’d completely forgotten that one pertinent memory. All I had remembered was the dark haired boy with eyes the color of a spring day moving to stand between me and the gang of bullies. Followed by the sight of him on the ground, surrounded by boys kicking him over and over again.

  I’m so immersed in the memory playing behind my closed eyelids I don’t hear the rest of the conversation between the two men, nor am I mentally present when Roman leaves.

  “Mac, darlin’, can you hear me?” I register Seb’s words, but when my body doesn’t obey my brains’ commands to open my eyes or speak, anxiety spikes and courses through my veins as panic sets in. “Shit, this isn’t gonna work.” His hands cup my face before rolling it back and forth then settling my face looking to the right. I feel his fingers brush over the tender spot bleeding at the nape of my neck. “It isn’t as bad as it sounded. Dammit, darlin’ I’m so sorry. You have to know there wasn’t any other way to make sure he left you alone for good. If you can hear me, please understand I truly did do this for you and Ivy. Please.”

  Wait. What? What is he saying?

  I feel my mind disengage from reality and my last conscious thought before floating away is a single word echoing, ‘Why?’.

  I don’t know how many days have passed. My muscles are strung tight with tension from the small movements I’ve made and ache from lack of use. After a few minutes of slowly moving each of my stiff joints, I lift the palms of my hands from the mattress I’m lying on. I continue my small routine by pointing my toes, then pulling them up as far as I can to flex my weak calves. The pain of those miniscule movements rips a groan from the base of my throat splintering even more agony through my vocal cords.

  “Shh… Hush now. You’re fine, probably just a little sore. I need you to take a few deep breaths. You’ve mostly been oxygenating your sleeping body with shallow, infrequent breaths.” The woman’s voice is so soft it’s difficult to hear, but I am able to make out her words.

  The only sound over what feels like an eternity is the ticking of a clock in the distance somewhere in the room. I allow the repetitive sound to lure me into a false sense of security and I immediately begin to pull my defenses up around me. I can hear cackling laughter that sends shivers up my spine and feel fear, lucidly. Because I know. I’m slipping. Once I feel myself splitting away, and the emergence of the same wicked entity who surfaced in France, I immediately retreat into the dark recesses in an effort to hide in the dark, unseen corners of my mind.

  “Hello, dear. Tell me, do you remember me?”

  I rapidly blink at the woman standing in front of my mind’s eye. She has tattoos running from her wrists to her shoulders and from my spot hunkered in the corner of my mind, it looks as if they round over the top of her shoulders and continue down her back and sides. Her hair is the same pale blond shade as mine. If not for the streaks of hot pink and pale lavender, as well as the extrinsic black, white, and vibrant colored tattoos adorning eighty percent of her visible flesh, she is easily my identical twin.

  After taking her in from head to Alexander McQueen peep toed pumps, I avert my gaze downward and attempt to make myself smaller, inching further back into the dark corners I frequent in my mind.

  “It’s okay, you know that right? I’m not here to hurt you, Mac. I’m here to protect you. I’m here to clean up your fucking mess. Didn’t your momma ever teach not to fucking trust so easily? Fucking bloody hell. You’re a bit dim when it comes to common sense and self preservation, aren’t you?”

  The soft female voice repeats, “Shh… hush now. I done told ya, you’re fine.” When I peek through my eyelashes I see a familiar woman. Familiar, yet still a stranger. Her dark hazel eyes seemingly contemplate if there is anyone home or if all marbles are accounted for before smiling as she brushes her hands across her lap and stands to leave.

  The wicked woman from my mind steps in front, blocking the soft-spoken, red haired woman who was just physically standing in front from me. The sound of a door clicking shut behind her causes me to clench my eyes and shake my head back and forth.

  I use my metaphorical heels digging into the floor to push my back further against the wall but this…this woman. This twin of mine keeps advancing into my personal space. When I’m on the brink of screaming bloody murder for her to fucking stop, I throw my hands up and she immediately freezes in place. “I-I-
I don’t, my mother, she died giving birth to me. So no, she didn’t teach me any lessons. And I’m not dim, I’m fucking tired. But, if you think you can do any better, by all fucking means, the floor is yours. Just go away, please. Leave me alone.”

  Her damn sinister laugh mimics black crows cawing, her brown eyes flash with light and turn dark navy before they narrow on my own. “Hmmm… Well, Mac, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my name is Mace. I’m pretty much the personification of every thing your father, teachers, and fairy tale stories warned you of. YOU, however, are who created me. To show my appreciation, I’m just going to…” WHAM! From nowhere a gate materializes right before slamming shut an inch away from my face. Mace’s face is nose to nose with mine through the bars and she smirks, “Take it from here. I’m sure you understand.” Her lips brush mine before I’m able to jerk my face away, clenching my eyes closed.

  The only sounds I hear are the clicking of her Alexander McQueen heels as she walks away from the shelter of my dark recesses, echoed by her chuckle reverberating through my once sound mind.

  Chapter 2

  Yes. I drugged her.

  No. It wasn’t difficult.

  When you follow someone and he’s a man of…medicine, you pick up a thing or two about drugs. One thing picked up was the discovery of a certain drug frequently used in anesthesia. Was I surprised Roman was fooled? I was. It was a first. But definitely not the last. The elaborate plans I have had in store for Roman William Payne since all those years ago on my prom night, are finally coming full circle.

  There was no other way to ensure Roman’s permanent absence in Mac’s life, and I have always known how imperative it was to remove his presence if I ever truly wanted Mac to accept me in his place.

  I hate that I was forced to partake in actions as risky and uncertain as the ones I did, especially without a definite knowledge base of the medication I chose, it’s doses, and long-term effects, but I had no choice. If Roman would’ve heeded my advice when Ivy was born, none of this would’ve had to happen. It’s his fault I was shackled with the burden of guessing the appropriate dose based on the information I was able to obtain on WedMD. With it being an anesthetic drug, resources and information were extremely limited, so yes, the dose I gave Mac was a guesstimate, but it’s pretty fucking obvious, Roman made sure my hands were tied.