Page 26 of Undisputed Chaos
My phone pinged, the group chat:
Jax
Psycho. You’re late.
You coming or have you found a victim?
Adrian
Both. I found her, Jax. THE one.
Jax
??? What makes you think that?
Connor
?
I stared at Isla's profile picture, at the soft curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the way her lips parted just enough to be inviting without being obvious.
What made her different? Everything.
Adrian
She ran.
They’d understand. The three of us were predators at heart, no matter how many designer suits or crop tops we hid behind.
Sierra and Estelle knew that, too. And look how it turned out—the girls tucked safely between Connor and Jax, protected and possessed in equal measure.
I pulled up more information on my second monitor. Isla's credit card statements, rideshare history, social media analytics.
Her patterns were easy to track: Coffee runs, art supplies ordered monthly, occasional brunches with the same two friends who'd dragged her away last night. A comfortable life, carefully maintained.
But there were anomalies. The private Instagram account that followed tattoo artists and men with muscles and danger in their eyes.Late-night searches for things her daytime persona would blush at. Small rebellions hidden behind the pastel façade.
I liked the contrast between her public face and private desires. It reminded me of my own cultivated personas: the boxing world's messy puppy versus the man who took pleasure in skinning people alive.
"I’m going to take such good care of you," I whispered to her profile picture, possession uncurling in my chest.
The sentence felt right on my tongue. The submission in her eyes, the way she'd melted when I'd gripped her hair, told me she'd respond to it too.
I needed to burn off this energy, this hunger that had settled deep in my bones since Isla's lips had touched mine.
I needed to feel the satisfying impact of flesh against flesh to remind myself I was still in control of this hunt.
Because that's what this was, a hunt, the hunt of my life. And Isla ‘Belleflower’ Hills, with her perfect world and secret desires, was my prey.
I cast one last look at her Instagram before standing, stretching until my spine popped.
I wondered what she'd think if she could see me now, shirtless in my home, tattoos mapping stories of violence across my skin, algorithms tracking her every digital move displayed across my monitors.
Would she run again? Or would she recognize the truth I'd seen in her eyes last night, that she was tired of running, hiding, of being the good girl everyone expected her to be?
Only one way to find out.
I closed her profiles, saving every single tab. I'd look at them later, study every detail, jack off to her six times, learn the map of her face until I could draw it from memory, then jack off again.
