Slaughterhouse Games Novels & Stories

It’s real. Slowly, Dominique Gray turns his head toward my direction, like he can sense my presence already with the way I kept glaring at him from where I’m standing, and for a long second, our eyes lock, both of us staring at each other. And for the first time, since I knew this man existed, I could simply read the look on his face and the fiery look in his eyes. He’s started a game, a very dangerous game, and he has no intention of losing.

What remained was something colder. Sharper. Dangerous. Voices echoed through the estate below. Shouting. Engines. Gun safety clicks. Luciano moved toward the balcony immediately, eyes narrowing toward the front gates below. Then— he swore quietly in Italian. Amara’s pulse spiked. “What happened?” Luciano turned toward her slowly. And for the first time since meeting him— he looked genuinely serious. “We have company.” A loud explosion suddenly echoed through the estate grounds below. Then came gunfire. And somewhere in the chaos beneath the mansion—

Eyes partly closed as I bolt to the bathroom. I shut the door and slide down the wall. I want to slap myself right now. The sheer panic made me a walking disaster. I had built this entire strategic, calculated pressure cooker of a game, only to sabotage it with the most pathetic, humiliating excuse in human history. That was so uncool. So unsexy and stupid. What was that?! The knock on the door snaps me right into reality. “Peyton, I know you're trying to escape this. So get out there right now.”

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.

he asked. "Yes." "And the video?" "Yes." "You didn't respond." "I didn't know what to say." He stepped closer. "The truth would be a good start." "The truth about what?" "About why you're doing this. About what you want." "I don't—" "Don't lie to me, Diego. Not here. Not now." "This whole thing is a game to you. That's all I am." "Is that what you think?" He was in my space now backing me against the wall. "Then let's play."