Serial Killer Daddy: Villain Daddies, #9

By Celia Crown

Anson tries his best.

 

It's difficult to blend in and have a normal life. He never thought that domesticity would be a future possible for him, but then he fell in love with Alice.

 

A man like him, a psychopath incapable of remorse with lasting violent tendencies and a manipulator standing below the line of immorality.

 

He stopped being the man he once was for her, and he has not regretted it for one moment, but life has a twisted sense of humor.

 

Karma comes as a form of punishment for him.

 

Anson, however, is not a man that will pathetically stand to the side when his beloved Alice is targeted.

 

She is his Alice, and he's willing to become the Mad Hatter once more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celia Crown
• Release date: Apr 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215482629

Book preview

SERIAL KILLER DADDY

VILLAIN DADDIES SERIES - BOOK 9

____________________

CELIA CROWN

Copyright © 2020 by Celia Crown.

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.

The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, locations, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

Contents

Serial Killer Daddy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Afterword

More Books

Serial Killer Daddy

By Celia Crown

Anson tries his best.

It’s difficult to blend in and have a normal life. He never thought that domesticity would be a future possible for him, but then he fell in love with Alice.

A man like him, a psychopath incapable of remorse with lasting violent tendencies and a manipulator standing below the line of immorality.

He stopped being the man he once was for her, and he has not regretted it for one moment, but life has a twisted sense of humor.

Karma comes as a form of punishment for him.

Anson, however, is not a man that will pathetically stand to the side when his beloved Alice is targeted.

She is his Alice, and he’s willing to become the Mad Hatter once more.

Chapter One

___________

Alice

Baby, why aren’t you ready?

The marble floor would have welcomed my face with a forceful kiss if I didn’t hold the wall. Our dining area is made of bright materials, but the gloomy sky does no justice to the beauty of it when it’s in the brilliant sunlight.

It’s about to rain… I mumble with my fingers dragging down the smooth wall.

I would have cringed if it was the texture of a chalkboard. It’s one of those noises that I cannot stand because I went to an all-girl private school that had more nuns than actual teachers. They would smack my hands with a ruler when I did something not up to their standards, or they would not care that the chalkboard made awful noises to spite the troublesome students.

I guess my well-off parents thought the schools in their living area weren’t as good as a boarding school run by politics and very religious nuns, although most of the students were not religious.

You are avoiding my question. Daddy crooks his eyebrow, gauging my unease about our new routine.

I shouldn’t have been so taken with Daddy last night, or I would never have gone along with what he had suggested. He knew that I could never say no to him when he was even remotely angry.

The nuns have instilled in me, even deeply ingrained, that I need to be a good girl—obey, be submissive, and never argue with authorities.

I can’t tell if it’s Daddy himself or the conditioned learning from the nuns for me to never deny the authority. I wonder if I had never been to boarding school, would I still listen to Daddy without a shadow of a doubt?

I hazard a guess and come up with the answer. It’s yes because Anson Markham is a force to be reckoned with.

Why do we have to go running at six in the morning? I grumble with a pout as I fidget against the wall.

I can’t find an imperfection on the surface to distract me from the disapproving gaze that has been set on me through his glacial gray eyes. They glimmer threateningly in the fluorescently yellow light from the lightbulbs above us.

Why run at all? I haven’t run since the last mile test in high school. I drop my hand from the wall and bravely meet the man who can bring fear to the surface of my skin, yet never break through the barrier of his protectiveness that he emits to me.

Well, if you count that as running. We could walk, unfortunately, and really quickly. My body yields to the desire of being close to him, and my legs take me to him.

I stare down at his shoes, up to his strong legs that have fitted running pants, and then the tight shirt that shapes his grooved and muscled torso. His arms have distinctive tattoos that bring the wall art hanging in the house to shame.

Daddy does have a speck of color on his ink; it’s fitted with neutral colors that singes a different type of fear in me that cries out for protection, from him and away from him; it’s a complicated form of intimidation that wreaked havoc in me when I first met him.

I shudder when a big and calloused hand cups my cheek, his thumb trailing across my skin lightly as his gray eyes pierce into mine.

I asked you a question, baby, and I expect it to be answered.

My shoulders drop with deflated defeat. I don’t want to go running.

You promised me, he reminds.

It’s a mistake on my part to agree with something that I would never have agreed to under stern gray eyes and poisonous meaning in honied words. Daddy got me to agree with him for morning runs yesterday, and I don’t even remember half of the conversation or when I had actually agreed.

Did I agree, though?

I probably did since I already have on my gym clothes that I had brought just because they looked comfortable to be worn at home, under my blankets, and snacking away the pantry. They are supposed to be workout clothes, but it works better on a lazy day.

I merely need to put my feet into the pair of shoes by the door, and I would be all set to put my lungs at risk for a better healthy lifestyle.

The more I think about it, the more it’s not a good trade to have burning lungs.

Daddy—

He brings his hand down to my neck. The rough graze on my skin seizes my heart in a frantic throb, an involuntary reaction, from the control he demands under his hands. Daddy counts the thumps of my pulse through the stilled silence as morning climbs up the horizon line, a slow and beautiful crawl that plasters warmth on the cold walls.

Do you not want to spend time with me? he asks, softly and sadly through his timber voice.

My lashes flutter rapidly with my breath refusing to catch up to the tempo as I squeak out pitifully—I already lost the battle before it even started.

No, I want to, I mumbled weakly. Can I get my shoes, Daddy?

His lips tug with a smile. Good girl.

It’s not bad. Spending time with him and having our bonding time start earlier in the morning wouldn’t be world-ending terrible even though I could already foresee the regret a mile away.

His hand drops from my neck, but not before he tips my chin forward for a kiss. There is nothing behind the meaning of the kiss; it’s a simple and chaste one that lingers for a moment longer than usual.

I pull back with a shy smile as my eyes fall down to the thick column of his neck, a tattoo peeking through the tight collar of his shirt while it teases me to know that I am aware of the full extent of the ink on his body while not being able to see it.

I’m going to get my shoes, I blurt out awkwardly when his eyes dig into mine.

I never know how to react to him when he stares so intensely at me. Self-consciousness doesn’t help much since I grew up without much encouragement from anyone about my appearance, and to this day, I have no idea where I stand.

Daddy is biased. He compliments me, and they sound too genuine to be a tactic to make me feel better about myself.

That is fine. Daddy loves me as I am now.

I’m ready, I announce softly as I tap the tip of my shoes on the ground.

Daddy steps closer to me and opens the door by reaching over me. His scent whiffs into my nose, and I might have lingered longer than necessary to breathe it in. If he noticed, he didn’t mention my weird behavior.

The morning fog has settled down around the houses, but it’s still a lot of effort to see past a couple of feet.

We recently moved into the suburbs with a gated community and very active neighbors. Daddy refuses to allow anyone into our home under the pretense of it being under renovation. Our home doesn’t have any construction going on, but there were a lot of neighbors trying to bring food over as a welcoming gift, and it seemed that they expected to be welcomed in.

Daddy loves his privacy, and he absolutely hates it when anyone tries their luck on him. He’s not a violent man, but those who meet him would think twice about trying to change his mind about anything.

I have been with him for a long time, and I still don’t have the courage to talk to him when he’s not in the right mood. Daddy can be rather frightening, the type of dread that comes from silent rage in his gray eyes and impeccable blank expression.

The pleasure of watching every single neighbor put their eyes on Daddy and turn in distress brings me pride. It’s a twisted form of accomplishment that I am different from them. I have Daddy to myself, and no one is bold enough to even think about putting their hands on him.

I have had some mothers come up to our door with baked goods or a platter of homemade dinner at eight in the evening to give to him because they think I cannot cook.

I may be