Unholy Desires

The wail of sirens echoes in my ears as I stand frozen beneath the relentless rain. Each passing second, the downpour grows colder, sharper, as if the night itself is determined to carve its grief into my skin. Yet I feel nothing.

All I can do is watch.

Police officers move in and out of my house, carrying bodies on stretchers. Dark crimson blood slips from beneath the white sheets, falling onto the soaked pavement in slow, rhythmic drops. The rainwater gathers it greedily, turning the road into winding streams of scarlet.

I’d never imagined blood could look beautiful.

Not beautiful in the way sunsets or blooming flowers are beautiful—but in the cruel, mesmerizing way a dying ember glows before it surrenders to darkness. Each crimson ripple dances with the rain as though the sky itself is mourning, washing away lives that should never have ended. The storm carries their blood through the streets, yet no amount of rain can cleanse the horror of what happened here.

The paramedics slide the stretchers into waiting ambulances, and the doors slam shut with a finality that steals the breath from my lungs.

What is happening?

I lower my gaze to my trembling hands.

They’re covered in blood.

Fresh. Sticky. Real.

A wave of nausea crashes over me.

Officers surround me, their voices overlapping as they fire question after question.

“Miss, can you tell us what happened?”

“Did you see the attacker?”

“Were you here when it happened?”

Their words blur together until they become nothing more than meaningless noise. I stare at them blankly.

I don’t remember.

I don’t know anything about tonight.

A firm hand settles on my shoulder.

I flinch.

“She isn’t in any condition to answer your questions. “The calm, authoritative voice cuts through the chaos. “My lawyers will handle everything.”

I turn slowly.

I’ve seen him before.

He’s one of my father’s closest friends—a man whose presence always commanded respect without demanding it.

His expression is unreadable as he places a reassuring hand on my back and gently steers me away from the flashing lights.

Parked a short distance away is a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom, its polished exterior reflecting the red and blue glow of the police sirens. Several suited men stand beside it, silently waiting for his command.

He opens the rear door and looks at me.

“Get in,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

I climb into the car without a word.

The door shuts behind me with a dull thud, sealing me inside a suffocating silence. The city lights blur past the tinted windows, but I don’t see them. My eyes remain fixed on my bloodstained hands resting in my lap.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally find my voice.

“Whose bodies were they taking out of my house?”

My words barely rise above a whisper. I knew the answer but_

“Your parents.” He doesn’t hesitate.

The answer lands like a bullet to my chest.

A sharp breath catches in my throat as tears spill onto my trembling hands, one after another, mixing with the dried blood covering my skin.

“What happened?” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Who did this?”

“We’ll find out,” he replies quietly, his gaze never leaving the road.

Nothing more.

No comfort.

No promises.

Just those three words.

The rest of the journey passes in complete silence.

Eventually, the car slows before a sprawling mansion hidden behind towering iron gates. Gravel crunches beneath the tires as the vehicle comes to a stop.

One of the men steps forward and opens my door.

I place my feet on the ground, but the moment I try to stand, my knees buckle beneath me.

I hit the marble driveway with a muted thud.

I force myself up, refusing to break again.

One step.

Then another.

My legs give out a second time.

The weight of the night, the grief, the horror—it all crashes down on me at once.

He walks around the car and stops beside me.

Without a word, he extends his hand.

I stare at it for a moment before slipping my trembling fingers into his.

He pulls me to my feet.

For a heartbeat, I think I can walk.

I can’t.

Before I have the chance to fall again, one arm slides beneath my knees while the other wraps securely around my back.

In one effortless motion, he lifts me into his arms.

I don’t protest.

I don’t speak.

I don’t even look at him.

I’m too exhausted to care.

So I let him carry me through the towering doors of the mansion, leaving the blood, the sirens, and the life I once knew behind.

He carries me through endless hallways before stopping outside a small room tucked away in a quiet corner of the mansion.

It isn’t extravagant like the rest of the house. It’s simple.

Soft cream walls. A neatly made bed. A wooden bookshelf standing in the corner. A large window overlooking the gardens.

For some reason, it feels... as though it had been waiting for me.

He sets me down on the edge of the bed with unexpected gentleness.

“Rest,” he says.

Just one word.

Then he turns and walks away, closing the door softly behind him.

Leaving me alone with my grief.

The silence is unbearable.

I don’t lie down.

Instead, I drift toward the window and sink onto the edge of the bed, my gaze fixed on the endless stretch of darkness beyond the glass.

The stars stare back at me with cruel indifference.

Somewhere in the distance, the wind whispers through the trees.

I wonder if my parents are truly gone.

If this is real.

If I’ll wake up and find tonight was nothing more than a nightmare.

But the dried blood on my hands tells me otherwise.

Hours slip by unnoticed.

The moon slowly retreats, surrendering the sky to the first pale light of dawn.

Then the sun rises.

Golden rays spill across the room, warm and bright.

They feel like a mockery.

The world is waking up as though nothing has changed.

As though two lives hadn’t been stolen.

As though mine hadn’t ended with theirs.

I remain exactly where I am, staring through the window, waiting for the impossible—for someone to tell me this isn’t real.

A soft knock breaks the silence.

I don’t answer.

A moment later, the door opens anyway.

A woman in a simple maid’s uniform steps inside, her movements careful, as though afraid the slightest sound might shatter me.

“Miss,” she says gently, “I’m here to help you change. Would you like me to help you with a shower?”

I don’t respond.

My eyes remain fixed on the morning sun climbing higher into the sky.

She doesn’t ask again.

Instead, she quietly disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later, I hear the sound of water rushing into the bathtub.

When she returns, she kneels beside me.

“Come with me.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper.

I let her guide me to the bathroom.

The steam curls through the air, warming the room, but I feel none of it.

She helps me out of my bloodstained clothes and into the shower.

Warm water cascades over my skin, turning pink as it carries away the dried blood.

My eyes remain on my hands.

She gently washes them, rubbing away every crimson stain.

I want to pull away.

That blood...

It might be the last part of my parents that was still with me.

The final proof that they had been real.

Now it disappears down the drain, vanishing forever.

A sob lodges itself in my throat, but no sound escapes.

When she’s finished, she wraps a soft towel around my shoulders and helps me into a fresh set of clothes.

She dries my hair with slow, gentle movements before carefully combing through the tangled strands.

When she’s done, she places the brush on the dressing table.

“Everything will be okay,” she says softly. “It won’t hurt this much forever.”

I don’t answer.

I can’t.

Before leaving, the maid gently brushes a few loose strands of hair away from my face, her hand lingering for a brief moment on my head.

“Sir is waiting for you for breakfast,” she says softly.

I don’t respond.

She doesn’t expect me to.

Instead, she quietly guides me through the mansion’s long corridors until we reach the dining hall.

The room is grand, with a polished mahogany table stretching through its center beneath an enormous crystal chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with morning light, making everything appear warm despite the coldness settling inside me.

He is already there.

Seated at the head of the table, dressed in a crisp black suit, his attention remains fixed on the phone in his hand.

Only when I step inside does he look up.

His sharp gaze meets mine for a fleeting second before he slips the phone into his pocket.

Without a word, I take the seat directly opposite him.

The servants move with practiced precision, placing breakfast across the table.

A basket of warm butter croissants and freshly baked sourdough bread.

Fluffy scrambled eggs sprinkled with fresh chives and cracked black pepper.

Golden pancakes stacked neatly, drizzled with maple syrup and topped with strawberries, blueberries, and a dusting of powdered sugar.

A platter of grilled chicken sausages beside roasted cherry tomatoes and sautéed mushrooms.

Freshly sliced mangoes, kiwis, and watermelon arranged around a bowl of thick Greek yogurt finished with honey, crushed pistachios, and pomegranate seeds.

Two cups of freshly brewed coffee send thin ribbons of steam into the air.

One of the servants serves a modest portion onto each of our plates before silently stepping back.

He begins eating with calm, measured movements.

I simply stare at the food.

Its aroma fills the room, but my stomach twists at the thought of swallowing even a single bite.

The silence stretches between us.

By the time he finishes, my plate remains untouched.

He folds his napkin, wipes the corner of his mouth, and finally lifts his eyes to me.

Not once does he comment on the untouched food.

Instead, he gets straight to the point.

“Do you know who I am?”

I give a small nod.

His expression hardens.

“Answer with words, Jennifer Mellows.”

The command in his voice leaves no room for defiance.

I finally meet his eyes, a frown forming despite everything weighing on my chest.

Why is he being so cold?

“You...” I murmur, my voice barely steady. “You’re my dad’s friend.”

“Indeed.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving mine.

“My name is Alexander Blackwood.” The room falls silent once more. “I wasn’t merely your father’s friend,” he continues. “We were brothers, we did businesses together. We trusted each other with our lives.”

His fingers tap once against the polished tabletop.

“And now...” His voice turns colder. “Your father is dead.”

He pauses, watching every flicker of emotion cross my face.

“He knew this day might come.”

My heart skips a beat.

“That’s why, while he was still alive, he entrusted you to me. If anything ever happened to him...” His voice remains steady, almost detached. “I was to take you in and protect you.”

The words strike me harder than before.

Because this time, there are no sirens.

No flashing lights.

No blood.

Just the undeniable truth.

My father had expected to die.

And he had planned for it.

Alexander folds his hands on the table, his expression unreadable.

“From this moment forward, Jennifer Mellows, your life has changed.”

He lets the silence linger between us before speaking again.

“And whether you like it or not...”

His gray eyes lock onto mine with unwavering certainty.

“You’re under my protection.”

The words don’t sound like a promise.

They sound like a verdict.

A future decided without my consent.

A life that no longer belongs to me.