Lucian’s Reign: A Billionaire Romance

“Life should always be about pleasure.

Otherwise, what’s the point of living if we do not enjoy it?”

Lucian

Two weeks earlier

Chicago, Illinois

Lucian

Classical music echoing off the rusty walls greets me as I step inside my dungeon, slightly shaking the bottle of whiskey I have in my grip.

Throwing my head back, I open my arms wide and welcome the energy of doom and desperation sinking into me and awakening every hunting instinct inside me. The familiar scent of fear pollutes the air, coating it in something forbidden and sinister, because inside this place, nothing human remains, and as a result, hope and life do not exist here.

After all, a monster’s hunting grounds are sacred, smeared in blood, and built on the bones of those who were unlucky enough to get trapped in a hell of their own creation.

The devil always collects his dues.

“Who’s here?” a raspy voice coated in fear asks, slightly disoriented, and my gaze shifts to the right.

I walk down the stairs, my leather shoes thumping on the concrete, making the man nailed to the wall tremble harder—to the point of his teeth chattering against each other.

He’s standing naked, his hands splayed wide above his head with huge nails pierced through his palms. Blood drips on the floor as his bare feet rub against each other, leaving red smears on the concrete due to the sharp metal cuffs wrapped around his ankles.

Ah, truly the sight would have been magnificent if only he had more wounds steadily dripping blood and slowly sucking the life out of him.

Until then, he’s like an unfinished painting on a perfectly prepared canvas, promising greatness if only the artist finishes his sketch and transforms it into a masterpiece.

“El diablo.”

His brows furrow at my reply; he blinks a few times, probably trying to adjust his vision to the blinding bright bulb above him, which adds to the gory atmosphere enhanced by water dripping into a sink several feet away. “The devil? What do you mean? Who are you?” He licks his dry lips before shaking his head and continuing to yap. “Whatever you want, I will give you. I have money, power, everything. Just let me go.”

My grip on the bottle tightens, the glass cracking a little as fury shakes my entire body, demanding vengeance for the bragging he just uttered.

Everything inside me screams to grab the nearby gun and shoot him in the head, ending the useless life that shouldn’t have breathed this long anyway, but I restrain myself at the last moment.

Certain people do not deserve a quick, fast death, especially not my victims.

“Francis.” I address the man by his name, or rather a name he was called once upon a time, and he freezes, his heavy breathing suddenly becoming barely audible in the room. “Simpere fuiste un cobarde.”

A man who is born a coward dies a coward too, so his behavior doesn’t really surprise me.

Sweeping my gaze over the rectangular dungeon, I once again admire my little hell, studying the space I personally designed since no one has access to this place but me, despite it being hidden in one of my warehouses.

Various tables holding different torture devices, from my collection of blades to the most expensive poisons found only on the black markets, are spread out.

The true beauty of torture lies in the skill the executioner possesses, transforming a mere killing into an art form for which not everyone has the talent or patience.

Metal chains with collars attached dangle from the ceiling, allowing me to hang the victims if the mood strikes and watch them struggle for breath as the air slowly leaves their rotten bodies and their faces become red and blue.

On the far left is an electric chair. Several feet away, an operating table stands, allowing me to display a twisted kind of torture by slicing the person while he’s awake.

Although, this brand of cruelty goes to only those who most deserve it.

My every depraved desire to inflict the most pain comes to fruition in here. By abusing their flesh so much, death seems like heaven as mortal life entails only agony.

After all, my rules are very simple.

You get what you earned by your actions, and do not cry for mercy when you displayed none through your life.

I reach one of the tables as I open the bottle and pour the alcohol into a nearby glass, a smile shaping my lips when the ice cubes clack against each other, alerting the man behind me to my close proximity, since most of the light blocks my body from his view.

Through the reflection in the glassed wall in front of me, I see him blink several times, lifting his head.

He twists from side to side, then groans when the action doesn’t provide him the needed results. Instead, it most likely intensifies the pain. “Lucian?” he asks, breathing heavily, probably thinking salvation has arrived. “Oh God, it is you.” He licks his trembling lips, sagging in relief and whispering, “Please, Lucian.”

Please, Lucian.

Two words that bore me to death, because they are always followed by some kind of begging or hope that alludes to the supposed remorse they feel.

When in fact it’s nothing but a coward’s way to escape the monster’s clutches, thinking I’ll believe their deceitful lies.

Although, even truthful remorse won’t change my mind, as the people captured behind the walls of my dungeon do not deserve to live.

I swirl the glass in my hand, enjoying the sound it makes and wondering about the power of water.

It can adapt to any life circumstance, no matter what nature throws at it.

If it meets cold, it becomes ice; if it meets heat, it becomes water; if someone uses fire on it… it floats in the air as steam, never letting anyone destroy it.

There is a lot to learn from water and Mother Nature; unfortunately, humans are too stupid to take lessons from them.

Instead, they destroy nature bit by bit, thinking it will never retaliate against them.

But you can poke someone or something for only so long before the injured party decides to end the threat once and for all.

A very harsh lesson life taught me a long time ago.

Repeat after me, boy. I’m nothing but a dog on a leash. Trash no one gives a shit about. A child who never should have been born.

Sipping my whiskey, I welcome the heat spreading through my system and temporarily block away the harsh voice from the past that permanently resides in my brain, bringing images I wish to forget.

Although the irony of it all isn’t lost on me.

When a person captures a wild animal, they should be careful before putting certain labels on them.

The dog they thought they had might end up being a wolf who, in the future, will sink his claws into them, tearing them apart, piece by piece.

Instant gratification though has more allure for the masses rather than strategic planning.

Francis coughs, snapping me out of the memories, and I spin around to face him, leaning on the weapons table while watching him spit some blood.

Ah, yes.

I broke a few of his teeth for fun while capturing him the other night. The asshole screamed for so long, tempting me to slice his throat right there.

So, punching him in the face before wrapping his head in a plastic bag seemed like the next best thing.

“What are you waiting for?” he croaks through his dry throat, and I see tears forming in his eyes. “Save me. Or he might come back.”

“He?” I finish my glass in one gulp, dropping it on the floor, where it shatters and sends the glass flying in different directions, some even sliding under his bare feet.

He winces, trying to kick them away, but since he has no room to wiggle, he steps on them instead, crying out. “What are you waiting for?” he asks again. “Please save me, because this man is a monster. He kidnapped me. He wants to kill me. He must be the serial killer they talk about in the news.”

Ah, Francis is more stupid than I gave him credit for.

My sinister laughter echoes in the room, mixing with the music and creating a doom-like atmosphere around the man nailed to the wall. The nails are rusty and big, previously dipped in a specific poison, with the purpose of bringing the most damage and spreading infection throughout his body, so that his death will be long and painful.

How else would he serve his purpose?

Besides, where is the fun in torture without the agony of the victim?

Sweat slides down his skin while his chest rises and falls, awaiting some kind of reaction from me, but I give him none, just cock my head to the side and wink.

The wooden clock I have in the right corner ticks loudly. Each tick-tock creates a gloomier and gloomier picture while I wonder how long it’ll take for the idiot to catch on to things.

Disappointment and boredom became synonyms to the word victim in my vocabulary, as none of them are bright enough to spark an interest in the monster ruling my soul.

And what bores me shall always be destroyed.

Finally, realization crosses his face; his eyes widen and he shakes his head, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He coughs again, tears sliding down his cheeks. “It’s you.”

Clapping my hands in front of me, I nod and announce proudly, “The one who kidnapped you, yes.” I rub my chin with the back of my hand. “Not the serial killer on the news though.” I wait a bit before saying, “But he is my friend, so if you want, I can have him come here, and he’ll finish this for me.”

He whimpers, scrunching his eyes and mumbling something, maybe a prayer.

What a useless effort.

Faith, destiny, divine intervention.

All the things people speak so highly of failed to help me when I needed it most; so, for me to spend any time on it is a wasteful effort.

God won’t help him, but maybe he can ask for atonement before his death?

But then, does atonement exist for sinners, or is it a myth created by religious fanatics promising salvation for everyone as long as they turn to faith and follow it blindly?

Power is always about control, because what can be controlled never steps out of the boundaries the powerful party draws around them.

And in such, it imprisons them in the illusion of their creation.

Learn to obey, boy. Learn, or the consequences will be deadly.

“Lucian, please.” Francis speaks up again, shifting his feet a little, leaving smeared imprints on the previously stained concrete. “Why are you doing this?”

Sliding my fingers over the knives on my right, I settle on a silver blade and pick it up, enjoying how the light plays over it, showcasing my reflection before casting a shadow on the floor. “Once upon a time, they called me by a different name,” I say, instead of answering his question as I saunter toward him. He blinks several times at me, trying to make sense of my words it seems. “Javier.” The name tastes almost foreign on my tongue, because the boy it used to belong to no longer exists.

After all, a phoenix transforms and arises from ashes, reborn.

He stills, his mouth hanging open. Fear crosses his face, and devastation fills his gaze. “No,” he whispers, forcing his back tighter against the wall as if he can somehow merge into it and disappear from here. “No.”

Reaching him in three short strides, I lift the blade to his face, dipping the tip to his cheek until a bead of blood rises. He groans in pain, moving his head to the side, which only adds to his misery, because the blade slides deeper into the skin. “Don’t whine like a little bitch, Francis.” I lean closer as his breathing speeds up, and the blood slides to his chin as I twist the blade to his loud whimper. “Or haven’t you learned what it means to be a man?”

“Please,” he begs, swallowing hard, which results in the blade sliding again while our gazes clash. Pleading glows within his, and indifference shines back from mine. “I had no choice. He made me!”

Cowards and the justifications for their actions.

They live their lives in such a way they never take responsibility for anything and blame a higher party for any injuries they might have dished out in the past. “Did he?”

Francis nods, hissing when I take the blade away, and hope laces his words while he explains hurriedly as if I might change my mind and have mercy on the fucker.

Laughable really, since mercy is not a word that exists in my vocabulary.

Why even take a weapon in your hand if you cannot execute the punishment?

The heart in my chest has one purpose and one purpose only, to pump the blood in my veins. Otherwise, nothing but coldness resides in it, and nothing has the power to soften it.

Because goodness cannot exist in darkness, and everyone looking for it there are fools ready to die.

“It’s his fault. Not mine. He blackmailed me!” He coughs, spitting more blood. “He told me he would kill my family if I didn’t train you properly.”

Loud screams ring in my ears, the familiar scent of blood penetrating my nostrils while various images pop in my head swallowed by pain and sadistic laughter.

“What an interesting tale.” That’s all the warning he gets before I pull my arm back and pierce his gut with the blade, his shout reverberating off the walls and his body jerking forward. “Wanna hear a secret, Francis?” I ask, twisting the blade from side to side and enjoying how it dips deeper and his mouth fills with blood, then spills over his chin. “I don’t give a fuck about your excuses.” Pulling back the blade, I let the red liquid seep from his wound as he cries out, biting on his lip and thrashing his head.

Going back to the weapons table, I order without turning, “Step on the glass.” The pain from the wounds hurt like hell; I made sure of that, but I never touched any of the important arteries.

Torture is all about patience.

“Lucian, please,” he rasps, but I hear light taps on the floor accompanied by whimpers, so the glass must have connected with his feet.

“You will die tonight, Francis, either way.” Throwing the blade in the nearby sink, I grab the cigarettes from the table and light one up, taking a greedy pull and groaning when the nicotine hits my tongue. “However, how quickly you die entirely depends on you.” This statement is more of a stretch to give him useless hope of an imaginary better time, when in fact death by my hand always entails agony.

Generosity also isn’t on the list of my good qualities, not when it comes to fuckers like Francis.

“Forgive me, Lucian,” he begs as I pick up the electric drill. Pressing the button, the trrrrr sound fills the space, snapping him into action as he screams louder. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to.”

Forgive him?

How funny.

I don’t forgive.

I don’t forget.

I don’t give second chances.

Evil sneaks up on a person unexpectedly, wrapping its clutches so tight around them it squeezes the goodness out until nothing but a despicable human remains. Driven by greed and hatred, sadistic desires root in their good-for-nothing soul, which has been sold to the devil.

Anyone trusting such monsters would have no one but themselves to blame once they showed their true colors.

Where no sense of honor exists… you are destined for doom.

Turning on my heel, I face him again as his eyes widen and glue on the electric drill. “Who is the copycat, Francis?”

He pales a little, his toes curling into the floor as he avoids my gaze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh. Let’s refresh your memory then.” I stroll toward him, exhaling smoke around us that makes him cough. I laugh when his agonized screams fill the room, the intensity probably being able to shatter glass as I insert the drill’s tip in his dick and press the button, then enjoy the sound of the flesh being shredded.

It flies in different direction as more blood pours from him, and his screams turn into whimpers while sweat coats his skin.

When his dick is no longer recognizable as one, I remove the drill and ask again, “Who is the copycat?”

“I-I…,” he whispers, breathing heavily, and his knees give out, the nails the only thing keeping him standing. If he continues to do so, he might rip his hands apart.

What a beautiful sight that would make.

I step on his foot, which cracks under my assault, but he barely even twitches. Most likely, his body is running on a high level of adrenaline in order to protect itself from the onslaught of pain that has the power to kill him. I prompt. “You what?”

“I left that life years ago. I swear, Lucian.” He blinks several times as if searching for words. “He had my wife and children with him. I had no choice.”

We are back at the excuses again.

God, boredom truly is one of the biggest tortures this world has to offer.

Patience is a virtue, but how to fucking have it when fools surround you?

Once upon a time, Francis worked happily and willingly, despite his claims, for a horrendous devil called James who deemed himself ironically the Zeus of this world.

He built an empire on the bones of the innocent souls he trapped in his Olympus, and his true nature only came out to play behind the walls of his hell.

The mask he wore so proudly to the world represented the perfect citizen.

That’s the tricky thing about evil.

It knows how to hide well behind the perfect façade.

James is no longer alive though, and his empire crumbled before he took his last breath, right in front of his eyes.

I made sure of that.

However, in recent years, someone else has used his methods to rebuild what James once lost, gathering innocent children into it and resuming deadly activities that should never take place.

Everything this man does copies James’s actions, right down to working with the same people.

And since Francis was almost a righthand to James, he jumped on that wagon fast. Probably the money paid well too, since he came out of hiding. The fucker changed his face so I couldn’t locate him with everyone else, but then his greed for money became his downfall.

“Quien es el imitador? I won’t repeat the question again.” Snapping my fingers, I direct his attention to the electric chair. “Unless you prefer to sit there. I’ll enjoying watching you burn alive from the onslaught of electricity.” My voice drops to a whisper that serves as an invisible whip. “Death is the inevitable outcome of all this anyway.”

At this threat, information floods from him. “I don’t know who he is. He always wears a mask.” He gulps for breath. “He found me a year ago, wanting to create an even bigger empire than the one James had. He offered a lot of money in exchange for my help and acquiring the right people for the job.” His mouth trembles as he rests his head on his bicep, whimpering when he pulls at it a little, which results in his hand stretching over the nail. “He craves to have the same power. His eyes… his eyes flash in excitement whenever he speaks of James.”

The blocks align in my head, studying all the pieces carefully, trying to create a clear picture and a hint of who it might be. The idea that someone wants to continue James’s legacy sends fury rushing through my blood and fills me with the desire for vengeance. I want this person to experience horror and torture at my hand.

Whoever this man is, he signed himself a death warrant the minute he stepped onto this path, because he will not live long enough for his plan to flourish.

“Please let me go,” Francis says, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “I won’t contact him again. I will move away. I have two daughters, please.”

“If a monster cares only about the children he sired, does it mean his sins should be excused?” Tears form in his eyes at my words, and I press the tip of the drill to his neck, sliding it up and down over his pulse that beats wildly. He stills, too afraid to even move, holding onto the hope something might save him. “I’ll keep the end of the bargain though,” I say, stepping back, and he gasps in shock, clearly not expecting my retreat. “You spoke, and you shall have a slightly easier death.” Placing the drill back on the table, I snag the gasoline container and walk back to him.

He stands up straight, his face grimacing and dread lacing his tone as his voice quivers when he asks, “What are you doing?” Flicking the can open, I trap my cigarette between my fingers with one hand while the other splashes the gas all over his body and then all around him before throwing the container away once it’s empty.

“Adios, Francis. Descansa en el infierno.” Compared to most of my victims, he understands Spanish and my wish for him to rest in hell.

Taking a drag off my cigarette one last time, I exhale the smoke and extend my hand, ready to drop it on the floor along with a match to watch him burn when his annoying voice speaks again.

These fuckers clearly never learned the word dignity, although cowards always behave like cowards.

Even when they are about to die.

“No, no, Lucian.” His feet slap in the wet pool as he shifts from side to side, aiming to find a gasoline-free spot but failing to do so. “There is a woman.”

My brows rise at that, finding the fact that the man has time for a woman quite hilarious, considering he plans to build an empire and go against me. He should be more concerned with what I’ll do to him like I did to every single fucker before him.

Besides, any woman willingly staying with him is of no interest to me, as she is a fucking fool.

A man who loses his head enough to worship James and his deeds, even craving to be just like him, cannot hide his desires for long, which means she must know about him.

And in my case, this makes her almost guilty in my eyes, although I’d never touch her.

I have morals and a code I never go against.

“This information hardly interests me.”

Francis continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “She’s a twenty-year-old artist. He says she is destined to be his gift for the suffering he has endured.” Fucking what? “He intends to catch her once she turns twenty-one. According to him, then it will be right.” This makes me pause, studying this new development with more care.

A monster who is obsessed with a woman is no longer a hunter.

Because his main priority becomes the obsession and not the prey.

If a monster plans to claim her at a certain age and perfect time, describing it by the word “right” then the woman he truly wants is forever lost to him.

And he merges her image with the one who reminds him of her.

Or she witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to and represents danger to the empire he plans to build.

Whoever this man is, he has lost his head, and it has become his undoing.

“Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh. That’s her name. He asked one of the men to spy on her.” Francis’s lids drop before he focuses his stare on me again. “Please let me go.”

Instead of answering him, I send the cigarette and match flying in his direction, and his screams full of pain and fear echo through the space as orange and blue flames flicker beside him, traveling up his body, destroying everything in their path while Francis continues to shout things I don’t give a shit about.

Pleasure fills me to the brink as I watch him writhe in agony while his body slowly becomes still, leaving a charred corpse behind as a souvenir.

However, the woman my victim spoke of enters my mind, not letting it rest or enjoy my nirvana for long.

Rebecca Esmeralda Hugh.

A woman whose life must be cursed.

For now she’s become bait in one monster’s game in order to lure away another, standing between two dooms that would hurt her regardless and bring chaos and gore to her life.

This cruel world has different types of monsters whose qualities, morals, and actions are shaped by the experiences they endured in the past.

Some monsters are cowards, striking in the dark at the weaker ones and never truly showing their face, engaging in their despicable activities somewhere far away and guarding their dark desires as their most precious possessions.

Some monsters thrive among the people, wearing a mask of deceit for everyone to see, while picking up innocent creatures and shattering their soul, because their suffering sustains the dark demons within them.

However, a third kind of monster exists, more complicated in their nature, for they welcome and thrive in the darkness slipping into the broken cracks of their soul, but they never let it rule them, holding tight reins on their actions and punishing those who most deserve it.

No matter which monster the bait encounters though, it won’t help it stay unscathed.

Because when monsters engage in a fight, the bait always ends up being collateral damage since its purpose consists of only one thing.

Destroying the opponent.