Page 32 of The Kingpin's Omega Lover
“But why?” Malori asked. This was miles beyond his wheelhouse, and he needed it explained like he was a six-year-old.
“It’s a macho man thing,” Kensley piped up. He’d been listening with a pensive expression, and now he simply looked irritated. “Or cat and mouse, if you rather. Whipping out the measuring stick. I saw it all the time as a priest, especially when it was my turn to hear confession. Men doing whatever it takes to prove to other men that they’re the smartest, most powerful, most dominant.” He grunted and rubbed his belly. “In my experience, those men are either pathetic losers, or they’re absolute psychopaths who will stop at nothing.”
“Astute observations, brother,” King said. “What do your instincts tell you about Yovenko?”
“Psychopath. The way he lied to Malori and the way he’s taunting us now? He’s dangerous, because it’s all a game. People are pawns, not human beings.” He frowned at Malori. “I’m so sorry.”
Malori swallowed several times, his mouth dry, as truths he’d tried to ignore slammed into the present, angry and harsh and undeniable. “You’re right. I was a pawn, a plaything. My son was just collateral damage.” Agony knifed him in the chest. “What if my baby was a pawn, too? What if Aleks…left him somewhere? What if he died alone and screaming in terror, because his daddy abandoned him? Fuck, what if both of my children are dead?”
Instead of grief, a new, white-hot fury blinded Malori, and he released a noise of sheer hatred. Not a scream, not a wail, but pure negative emotion. For his kids, for himself, for everyone who’d been taken, used, and disposed of by the Farm, and by other men and women like Aleks Yovenko. People who took without asking, discarded without caring.
People with no soul who thrived on evil intentions.
“I’ve got you, angel.” King’s voice was all around him, his body a firm constant as Malori tried to regain control. To come out of his furious fog and angry ranting. He was kneeling on the floor, King wrapped around him from behind, Kensley hugging him from the front. His throat hurt from screaming, and he kind of wanted to vomit.
But as he controlled his breathing, his mind felt clearer. His soul a fraction lighter for having released this burden. For truly acknowledging the worst possible outcome, and for reshaping that fear into something else: purpose.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth thy Lord.
Mine.
“I’m okay,” Malori rasped. “I’m okay, I promise.”
“That was scary, friend,” Kensley said as he pulled back, his cheeks streaked with tears.
“I’m sorry, everything hit me at once. I couldn’t turn it off.”
“Letting the bad stuff out is healthy. Ask me how I know?” Kensley winked then wiped his cheeks. “Please, believe yourchildren are alive and waiting for you. Please, don’t give up that hope?”
Malori wasn’t sure how to believe for himself, but he could try for his friend’s sake. His friend, who was due to give birth in two more months, and who needed those reassurances. “I promise I’ll try.”
“Good enough.”
Once everyone was off the floor and standing in a protective huddle—a family of four, soon to be five—Malori turned to King. “What’s next?”
“Keep your finger on the trigger guard until you’re preparing to shoot,” King said. “If it’s on the outside, you can’t accidentally squeeze off a shot.”
“Makes sense.”
Malori hadn’t expected his “What’s next?” question to be answered with gun safety and shooting lessons, but he was enjoying the experience. King had acquired use of a private range for two hours, supervised by an instructor King trusted, so Malori could ask questions and gain some personal defense training.
He’d been surprised by how heavy a real pistol was, even a small one, and the rubber practice gun wasn’t much lighter. They’d gone through the proper stances, how to hold the weapon with both hands, and figuring out that Malori was right-eye dominant when it came to aiming. To squeeze the trigger instead of pulling, so you didn’t pull your aim off target. So many details Malori had never considered but that made perfect sense.
King swapped out the simple rubber gun with a laser-pointer version. On the instructor’s direction, Malori showed him eachrequested firing stance, shifting his weight, his footing, and the aim of his gun.
“Pretend fire,” the instructor said.
He focused on the wall target and squeezed the trigger. The red light appeared a few millimeters to the left of dead center.
“Good,” the instructor said. “You are doing well for a first-timer, Mr. Cann.”
Malori blushed, unused to praise or being referred to by his last name. The respect from a perfect stranger was…odd. “Thank you.”
They went through the motions several more times, but no matter how Malori adjusted, he could never quite make the laser light hit the target dead-center. It didn’t matter, because they were led into the firing range. Long rows of stalls equipped with heavy, protective headgear, like what he’d seen on TV and in movies—except they were alone and it was eerily quiet.
Malori didn’t like the way the headphones squeezed his skull, or muffled his hearing, but they were necessary. Gunshots were loud. He remembered that vividly from the day of his rescue. His ears had rang for ages after.
His first six shots at the paper target landed outside the bullseye. Malori huffed, irritated at himself for no good reason. This was his first time, and it was stupid to expect so much of himself.
