Page 43 of Black Sheep

“I’m asking you! Fucking answer me.”

Another drug-induced chortle. “Why? Why should I give you shit when you made it plain you’ve cut us all out of your life?”

“I don’t want you caught up—”

“Boo-the-fuck-hoo. You think you’re the only one who bleeds when he’s cut? The rest of us bleed too. At least you got out. Be thankful for that. Some of us didn’t get the chance. Did you ever stop to think about that?” He sniffs again.

He’s high as a fucking kite and soaring higher by the second. But I recall that Bolton was most veracious when he’s high. Unfortunately for him, his outpouring is possibly the worst-timed confession in history. Because I need answers about the woman on her knees in the bedroom behind me more than I want to hear my brother’s complaints.

“Answer me, Bolton. How does he make her?”

“How you do think? He keeps her in line the same way he used to keep Ma in line. Only difference is, Ma had a ring on her finger and the fear of a Catholic God’s retribution in her heart. Your little…piece”—he chuckles—“well, there’s no way to put this delicately, she stays for the shits and giggles.”

I stare at my hand on the wall. The shaking hand—

I snatch it down and ball it tight. “Let me get this straight. He treats her the way he treated Ma, and she stays of her own free will? Are you sure?”

“Hmm…wait…hang on.” I hear a clunk then a long, telling sniff. A handful of seconds later, he’s back. “Yeah…where were we? Right, of course I’m not sure. When have any of us been sure about what goes on in Pa’s head? You want to be absolutely sure, I guess you need to ask her,” he slurs.

I have no room for the heavy emotion attempting to drag me down. “You need to stop snorting that shit, Bolton.”

He goes silent for a minute. “If you care that much, brother, then step the fuck up.”

The phone goes dead. I shove it back into my pocket and charge back into the room. She’s exactly where I left her.

“Get up.”

She staggers to her feet, a glimmer of pain flashing in her eyes before she masks it. The hardwood floor couldn’t have been comfortable for her knees. To her credit, she doesn’t rub her skin or flex her limbs.

She takes it. As if she’s used to it.

Motherfucker.

My gaze probes her from head to toe. Every visible inch is creamy perfection. Unmarred.

“Turn around.”

Her eyes widen. “Axel—”

“Now, Cleo.”

Slowly, she obeys. Despite the volatile emotions roiling inside me, I’m paralyzed by the sight of her. From tumbling hair to tiny waist to heart-shaped ass lovingly cupped by silk and lace, every inch of her is mouthwateringly decadent. A feast for any red-blooded male.

A feast for my father.

Wrenched off lust’s edge and back to my task, I scrutinize her body with scalpel-sharp precision. Nothing.

Was Bolton lying? No. Granted, the baying of demons is deafening at the best of times, but I didn’t get it wrong. Something is going on with her.

I shake my head, frowning. “Your hair. Sweep it out of the way. I want to see all of you.”

Her fingers twitch. A minuscule action. Her right arm lifts and curls behind her head. Her fingers brush her left jaw before they hook the thick swathe of hair and brush the mass to one side. A further expanse of silky, unblemished skin is exposed.

She starts to lower her arm. That’s when I notice that she’s favoring her left side, that arm a little less flexible than her right.

“Turn around, Cleo.”

She turns immediately, relief on her face. “Are you done?”

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