Slaughterhouse Games Novels & Stories

Kiara said and I had to fight back every instinct which told me to get out of this room, find that woman, and shoot both her and the excuse she called a lover. “Kiara, the woman is insane, do you realize that you entering the games could kill you?” I asked my wife. I remembered Caruso, one of my men who had lost his life on MY hand because of the games, having lost his sense of self-control, the games, or should I say, the Bloodlust project, took a different path a few years after the games. They were kidnapping people, trained assassins or mafia men, and were ripping them off their humanity if triggered. Caruso unfortunately was one of them, having tried to keep him sane for four years. The

He won’t give them the chance to open their filthy mouth. He is their slaughterhouse, their killing floor, their morgue—and final resting. His fangs bared and claws fully unsheathed, he lunged without hesitation and growled, embodying the crazy dog moniker. The Princess screamed when a dismembered head winds up by her feet. She falls to the ground and clasps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with terror as she stared at her loyal knight’s lifeless face.

These were what flashed in his head like he was being programmed and without a second thought, he grabbed a flower vase and smashed it on her head. “Arrgh!” Alessia screamed in pain as the base destroyed completely, its flowers falling down in bits. Immediately, the doorbell rang and he spared her a last glance, watching her groan in pain before leaving the room. It was like he was being brainwashed because desperation pushed out some actions he couldn't control. He descended the stairs with long strides and getting to the main door in the sitting room, he opened the door to see a delivery girl. Earlier, he had ordered food for both him and his fiancée.

He whispers, his words shutting down my brain cells. I raise my glass of wine to my lips and take a sip as I look anywhere else but him. Thankfully, Dominique doesn’t say anything else. We continue to eat and as usual, Dominique continues to stare at me. We finish eating and the waiter comes back to clear the table. With nothing but a bottle of wine and our two glasses left on the table, I exhale. “Okay, I have got a game for us.” Dominique smiles. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

Situations like this weren't unfamiliar to me, yet that didn't make them any easier to endure. The gunshots eventually cease, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. I hold my breath, every nerve ending, screaming as I wait for Stefano to reappear. But he doesn't. Disobeying his order, I slowly rise up on my elbows to survey the destruction. The once charming 24-hour diner is now an apocalyptic nightmare - the air choked with plumes of drywall dust, every surface coated in a blanket of glittering glass shards. Crimson streaks and pools of blood paint a grotesque abstract across the checkered floor tiles.

I raise my brows, humoring her, my lips twisting under my bandanna. She steps closer. The dagger doesn’t waver. “We play a game, Asher. If I win, you let my family go.” I let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. Before I can finish, she closes the gap so quick it steals my breath. The blade bites into my throat. “If I win,” she says again, deceptively calm, “you let them go.” I stare down at her, shadow swallowing most of her face. “And if you win.” she swallows hard, grip shifting on the dagger that’s already drawn a bead of blood—“I’ll… I’ll go quietly back with you.”

It was brutal. Fists flew. Elbows cracked against jaws. Men slammed into the canvas floor of the makeshift ring. Blood splattered. Grunts and shouts filled the warehouse. The first group’s winner was a big guy named Marco, he knocked out the last opponent with a vicious uppercut that left the man unconscious for nearly a minute. Group after group stepped up. Some fights lasted longer than others. Bones cracked. Noses broke. One man had his shoulder dislocated and still tried to keep fighting until Bernard pulled him out.

Jennifer only wanted to date Steve to make Paul jealous. It was the coldest day of Winter and time for Lillie to slaughter her pigs on slaughter hill for the freezer. She would process the pigs into meats to be eaten during the year. The buttocks were salted to produce ham. She would eat the ham for breakfast and on special occasions. The ribcage was salted, smoked, and produced bacon. The bulk of the meat was cut and ground to produce sausages. Some of the skin and fat were fried to produce cracklings and lard. She would use the head of the pig to make souse. The pig was used to eat. She saved the pig blood to use in spells. She would put it in the freezer and use it as she needed.

When I glanced his way, he was looking at our hands, jaw tight, expression gone more shadowed than usual. I pulled my hand back a beat faster than I might have otherwise, suddenly aware of how it must look—me laughing with the new arrival like this was a normal bus, not purgatory with better production values. “So,” Jax said, stretching his legs out a little farther, unconcerned. “Anyone want to tell me why I woke up on a discount death tour?” “The Survival Game,” Grant grunted without turning. “You’re on it.” Jax’s brows climbed. “Survival Game,” he repeated. “Catchy. Branding checks out.”

“But you stay focused. No heroics. Lila is priority. Then Caleb.” The ride out was fast. Silent. No jokes. No banter. Just the cold, brutal focus of men going to war. The rumble of their bikes filled the pre-dawn air. Each growl a promise of vengeance. The slaughterhouse loomed ahead. Black against the fading night. Windows shattered, like vacant eyes. Rust streaked the walls like dried blood. It reeked of decay, a perfect lair for a monster. Jax dismounted, gun in hand. His gaze swept the grim structure.