Page 37 of Black Sheep

I don’t know why I believe her, but I do. After all, wasn’t it the way he treated my mother too? A body in his bed and a pair of hands to deliver his food? That was when he wasn’t knocking her around.

That last memory isn’t one I like recalling. Because no matter how I slice it, I know I should’ve done more to protect my mother instead of running away to the pool house at the first opportunity.

The reason why I did that is staring right at me, her face a flawless vision I can’t seem to look away from. I suck in a steadying breath before my fraying control detonates. “I don’t give a flying fuck about what Finnan is great at. Why does he want to talk about Afghanistan?”

“I don’t know.”

Finding out my father was responsible for the Taranahar massacre escalated the darkness in my soul to a whole new level. For the better part of a year after it happened, I was dragged before endless committees and probed as to whether I had connections to my father’s military contracts. Clandestine hearings—thanks to Colonel Clarkson pulling every available string he could find in order to protect my identity should I be found innocent—where almost every single skeleton in my closet was dragged into the daylight. But I didn’t mind them because I wanted my father to be brought to justice.

The foundation of my hatred for Finnan was sealed when I discovered the reason he sent me to West Point. I was merely another sacrifice in his grand plan. My father had looked into my eyes and, recognizing what I was capable of, set me on path toward war profiteering for his own gluttonous gain.

Armed with the memory of General Courtland’s visit to Connecticut all those years before, it took less than a week of trail-chasing to discover the truth. MMFR International had, in some way or another, benefited from every single one of my successful missions by providing additional support with arms or with personnel while charging the Pentagon millions of dollars for it. It also hadn’t taken a genius to work out that General Courtland was the one sanctioning all those missions. Further investigation revealed just why the general was firmly in my father’s back pocket. The good general supplied bad cocaine to an underaged prostitute in Michael McCarthy’s stable while he’d been fucking her, and the girl overdosed. Michael McCarthy, seeing the opportunity to blackmail the general, brought the deal to my father, and between them they hatched the plan to make millions from the girl’s death.

The Taranahar incident and resulting public outcry put an end to what could’ve been an endless revenue stream. I hoped they would lock Finnan up in the deepest, darkest hole and throw away the key. But the investigation had fallen apart, and years later, he still breathed free air. So I decided to seek justice my way, the way I’ve done since I learned what a truly despicable man it was who sired me.

There was a time I believed he deserved a quick, merciless end. But slowly dismantling his kingdom and watching everything he’s worked for crumble around him has been even more satisfying.

And now he wants to talk about the single most atrocious act he’s committed to date. And he’s using her.

I refocus on her face. “Did you know?” I ask.

“Know what?”

I drop my hand and shove it into my pocket. Touching her while the beast rides me this hard is no longer a good idea. Hell, was it ever?

“Why he sent me to West Point?” The question I never got the chance to ask because I was too busy saving myself from the thousand cuts of betrayal. I wonder why I ask it now, why I believe it’s a subject worth pursuing.

I open my mouth to tell her not to bother answering but her features undergo a startling transformation. Her face goes slack, and the light goes out of her eyes. It’s like I’m staring at a marble statue. A stunning, utterly enthralling statue.

“Yes. I knew. He and my father were blackmailing General Courtland into giving them military contracts. But he was also grooming you to become his perfect little soldier.” Her lips barely move with the words.

Then why didn’t you warn me? The question blazes on my tongue, burns into my flesh.

“And you were okay with that, of course.” I recall the video recording my brutal beating and the tender loving care from her that followed, where I swore that I wasn’t leaving her to join the army. Where she listened, nodded, then fucked my brains out, after which she talked me into spending four years away from her arms. From her bed.

So she could take up residence in my father’s.

“Of course,” she concurs with a lifeless murmur.

A despicably pathetic part of me wants to understand the unfathomable. “Why?”

“He had something I wanted.”

“You wanted to be a gangster’s doll? What about it turned you on? The money? The power? Status? Rough sex?”

Her throat moves in a slow, smooth swallow. “All of it.”

My vision fades out for a moment. I claw back every single ounce of control I can muster just so I don’t do something stupid and infinitely satisfying. Like strangle her. “Fucking Christ, Cleo. Did I ever even know you?”

Something moves behind her eyes. Whatever it is that sparks to life inside her flushes her face with color, and when she speaks, her voice is thick, crackling with seething emotion. “You knew me as much as I knew you, Axel.”

The thought never fully forms. It isn’t analyzed and accepted. Between one heartbeat and the next, I act.

She doesn’t make a noise, not a single sound as I propel her downward and backward with a less-than-gentle push. Her legs splay out from beneath her. Her back lands on the floor with a loud thud.

She catches herself before her head connects with the hardwood floor. That little act of self-preservation snaps something free inside of me. As if the confirmation that she can take care of herself makes any of this lunacy okay. As if seeing that is the ultimate permission I need to unleash the terrible beast prowling through my bloodstream.

Nothing about this motherfucked situation is okay.

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