Breaking My Cold-Hearted Psychotic Ex Boss

SHANE

Tears streamed from his eyes, dripping onto my face as he kissed me. My lips trembled against his, too weak and too tired to feel anything.

He pulled back just enough to stare down at me.

“Good night, Shane.” His voice quavered, tears pouring even faster. “I really, really, really, really, really loved you. Why couldn't you love me back? Why? Why? Why was it so hard for you? You're the worst.”

Then he wiped his tears with the back of his hand before pressing the sharp blade of the knife against my throat.

I have never felt so utterly useless, powerless and afraid of anything in my entire life. It was so pathetic and humiliating.

But at this moment… as much as it pains me to admit... I was… genuinely scared of my life.

He was going to kill me.

This little bitch was going to kill me.

I can't die just yet.

Not now.

He hesitated for a split second, his breath coming out ragged.

“I’ll miss you.”

I tried to say something, but the poison from the blade had already weakened every limb and muscle in my body.

Tears could only roll down my cheeks.

I can't remember the last time I cried.

Pathetic.

Then he dragged the blade along my throat in one swift motion. Blood poured everywhere like a waterfall.

My eyes flung open, both hands desperately flying to my throat as I sat upright and heavily gasped for air, making pathetic sounds. I glanced down at my hands, expecting to find them soaked with blood.

Only to find them dry.

I pressed my eyes shut, realizing that it was just another stupid nightmare. My hands gently dropped to my sides as I stared into the dark room, chest rising and falling deeply.

All the terror I was just feeling flipped like a switch, altering into unfathomable burning fury, jaw clenching hard, fingers curling into fists.

Fucking hell.

It's been ten months. Ten fucking months since that little cunt, Jones, grew some balls and nearly took my life.

I mean, he succeeded.

It's a fucking miracle I'm even alive.

When I finally regained consciousness, it took me less than a month to get over the shock and reality that I had tasted real death a bit.

But somehow I keep having these fucking nightmares since then, hence I have forgotten what it feels like to have a peaceful sleep.

With no other alternative, I resorted to sleeping pills, and they helped. But they lasted only for a few months before their effect became redundant.

And I started having these recurring nightmares of me getting killed over and over again. By him. I have been unable to sleep. Hell, I despise how miserable and pathetic I sound right now.

It wasn't as if this was the first time someone had tried to kill me. Both my parents have tried to kill me in my childhood days, you already know that.

Jacob also tried to kill me. That useless doctor from the psych ward attempted, too. Numerous other people of insignificance. Even Jones himself has tried to kill me before, back then in his apartment.

I had no nightmares.

I had no sleepless nights.

I was just fucking fine!

Then why? Why? Why? Why the bloody hell do I still have nightmares about this particular one?

Fucking why?!

I want to sleep.

I want to have some fucking sleep!

But to achieve that, I need Jones' blood. I need to cut that little bitch into pieces and watch him bleed out in excruciating pain. I need to hear him make that whimpering, gurgling sound as he begs me to end him indefinitely.

I need to watch him die right before my very eyes. Oh, and I'll make his suffering so agonizing that he'll wish he were dead.

But to do that, I need to find Henry Jones first. That little bitch is nowhere to be found. My men have searched everywhere for months… airports, train stations, seaports, bus terminals, border crossings, even the backwater docks and private airstrips… fucking nothing!

He’s gone without a trace!

Almost like he never even existed. They analyzed every CCTV camera situated around Pinnacle that could catch him leaving the building that day, but got nothing.

Not a single camera caught him leaving, making my men believe that he was hiding somewhere in the building and never even left.

But the alerts I found on my phone from him withdrawing a whopping amount of cash with the black card I gave him at various ATMs just a few minutes after he slit my throat, said otherwise.

His bank statement also reported that all his accounts were emptied just the day before that gruesome, pathetic day. Which made me wonder how long he had been meticulously planning my murder before that day.

I was well aware that his family disowned him and that they weren't on speaking terms. Nonetheless, I still had my men check. He wasn't there. And they haven't heard from him. Neither have his foster parents, Maggie Dawson and her wife, nor his ex-best friend, Flora Benson.

I have never had any difficulty finding someone before. As long as they walked this earth, I always found them.

But Henry Jones’ case has been different so far.

Oh, and he'd better not be dead somewhere. Even if he turns out to be dead, I will resurrect him and kill him myself.

Knowing that I wouldn't fall asleep tonight again if I tried, I decided to go outside for some cigarettes. Then I'll float in the pool. Sometimes, it helps.

A low guttural groan tore from my chest. Cursing softly at Jones under my breath, I swung my legs off the bed and stood up.

Then I took a step forward.

Big fucking mistake.

The moment I put weight on my left leg, it buckled, dead and pathetically useless. I hit the floor with a hard thud, the sound echoing through the room.

Pain shot right through me. I grabbed my thigh and gently hoisted it off the floor, sucking in a deep breath. A deep groan rumbled from my chest, face twisted in anguish.

That's right, my left leg has been fucked up since that day. All parts of my body have healed completely from the stabbings… some left scars, some didn't… except for my thigh.

He stabbed me a total of twelve times on the same thigh, causing brutal damage. Thus, I now have to walk a certain way or limp sometimes.

I sound so fucking pathetic.

And I feel so.

Which is exactly why I need to find Henry Jones.

I'll find him if that's the last thing I'll do.

And when I do find him…

Need I say what I'm gonna do to him?

I don't.

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[Hey, cutie. Your dearest author, Evermore here. Thanks for reading. Just wanted to let you know that this is a dark erotica MM romance and it's a direct sequel of Owned By My Cold-Hearted Psychotic Straight Boss. So, if you're a new reader, you should read it first before reading this one. And if you're an old one, ride on. Thanks for your time.]