9 (Editing)

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Nine is a number that consistently re-appears, but what does it mean? Rebecca and Trish disappeared nine days apart. Kenzo now has to race against the clock to find them. Let's hope he can follow the clues in this book of NINE.

Erotica / Thriller
4.7 23 reviews
Age Rating:

Chapter 1-Plan

© CathiieL MISSCL 2020


A small trailer for this book can be found here.


I advise for you to watch and listen to the videos that I have included in this book. It will help you to understand it more, especially this first one sitting above.
This book has sexual scenes, violence, swearing and situations that may effect some of you. WARNING!!! MAY OFFEND...PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION. 18+ CONTENT.

Here's the music for this book.



Book order is as follows:
Conflicting minds
Dantes Possession
Societa Oscura
Bright screws
Pre Robernero discomfort
Two worlds
Senza Cuore
Kenzo-Teenage years
Harley Robernero
The Robernero Brothers
Ryder-seperate series


The roads are busy with cars, people are walking across the pavement in quick strides and car horns are beeping as the rush hour traffic comes to a raging halt. People struggle to get to their place of work on time. However, the sun is blazing while spring runs it course creating beautiful flowers, trees sprout new leaves and grass turns green. New leaves are replacing the old, cool air and wet weather drive people to wear waterproof, warm coats, and birds cheep in the trees gathering sticks and fur from brushed dogs coats to create nests for their families. I take note as I check my watch, as I did yesterday. Nine o'clock, to be exact. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial the number 19. This is the nineteenth update for this job, occurring at the same time as it has each day. Looking at the bus number, I type it into my phone's notes section and add the schedule for all the buses with their numbers next to them.



Straight brown hair falls down in waves, and brown eyes look around, gathering information. That intrigues me. As the wind whips against her, her pouty pink lips part and her cheeks turn rosy, making her skin appear colder. A red coat flutters in the breeze as black dolly shoes crunch and flatten the leaves beneath them. She is unaware of her situation or the fact that I am the dark lurking in the distance blending into her surroundings that she is taking in. My green eyes gaze with admiration, and my fingertips resist the urge to touch her tender pale skin. She steps on the bus slouching, throwing her bag over her small petite frame. The struggle as she fights with the flimsy, thin material throwing it over her shoulder makes me smile. That is the last time that she will do that since she will be sitting down. Taking a seat halfway up the bus, she holds a book in her right hand, and turns to face the window. She isn’t looking at me directly but she is looking in the direction where I hide.

The darkness hides deep in the shadows. As you know, that is me. I am what I call the dark depths of depression and ill health. I am the shadows that she cannot see and if she was to look close enough, then she would have a moment of realisation. Her eyes would look deeply into mine but she cannot sense my presence. She can see what is directly in front of her, watching as the traffic beeps and moves one inch forwards, yet the darkness is watching her every move. The way that she slides her hands down her red university dress is pleasing. Her dress stops at her knees. Pushing strands of hair out of her face, she bites her top lip when she is nervous. Predictable. Her eyelids flicker as they open and close which clear her tear ducts of any dust that has landed on her eyeballs. My eyes water when I think about it.

When she makes her way home, I follow her, I keep my eyes on her and when she falls asleep, I think about when the best time to take her is. How her father picks her up and drops her off at home leaving her home alone for exactly four hours a day when he attends work, I could never understand. Me being the darkness knows her routine, what she eats and drinks, how lonely she is and I know her more than she knows herself. I sure as hell do.
The next day at the exact same time, I stand and watch her ever move. I look at the unaltered schedule and nine o’clock arrives. Her footsteps bang down against the pavement slabs. Time slows as my eyes glide along the pale milky skin of her legs. A new bruise has formed on her knee caps where she fell down on the floor outside her home last night. I heard the crunch. Her bones smashed against that gravel floor hard. I’m surprised the impact didn’t shatter them. A crunch could be heard from the bush a couple of feet away and satisfaction was at a primal point when tears were shed. The pain presented on her face was extraordinary, a smirk creeped up on my face at the obvious fact that it was enjoyable to watch. She still doesn’t know.

After all of this time, you would expect her to know that there is a predator lurking around, still, she is oblivious. So childlike, her innocence pure, a bubbly personality radiating with so much promise for her future and she is young. Naive doesn’t even cover it. She worries about university and how to pass her next assignment while she walks on a world full of secrets. A huge world where problems arise and still they are never eliminated. You would expect the police to be on their toes, eyes wide open with extensive knowledgeable, but they still cannot remove those from the dark web. Those in the group of Elite call them useless. This girl focuses on where she lives and what’s in front of her. What she does fail to see is the danger that is presented to her.

Once again she climbs on board the same bus, sits in the same seat mid way up the narrow walkway, and reads the same book. A book she has read multiple times to where she could memorize it word for word. A girl of her age should know that it’s wise to change their routine. Climb on the train, take a cab or stay off for one day. It’s obvious that she’s not the same as other girls her age, sticking to what she knows. She yawns after a sleepless night and her not so perfect teeth show slightly. Eyebrows have been plucked leaving a red mark underneath them because she got excited and decided to keep plucking the hairs.

She will be alone tonight with her mother not being around anymore and she will fall asleep at nine o’clock ready for university tomorrow morning. I will be watching and taking notes. She will be carefree with the owl that sits on a branch outside her house. The owl will loudly hoot happily as the breeze drags the tree branches from left to right.

Her red coat trails behind her short five foot four frame and her coffee is boiling hot inside the cup from the coffee shop. She holds her phone in her right-hand scrolling through social media pages that she updates with breath-taking new pictures daily. Texting her friend, she places it down on the seat and reads her book. She is still oblivious to her surroundings and a very good old friend of mine exchanges a look to say that at nine o’clock tomorrow morning it will be the last time that I hide. The last time that I watch her and the final time she will step foot off that bus outside the university. It will be our time to strike.

The time when everything will be unravelled and the target will be collected ready to initiate the plan. Our plan of revenge.

The unknown

9 o’clock

What could that mean?

Time will only tell...

Welcome to 9.

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