Page 3 of Broken Discipline
“You’re Finn Carter,” the gray-haired husband said. “With Carter Care, right? I caught a glimpse of your sacrifice. Excellent work on the wheel.”
The white-haired man stuck out his hand. “Well done. We’re pleased to have you in the Syndicate.”
I shook his hand, then blinked at the husband. “How much do you want for her?” I asked, nodding toward the bound wife. “I want an hour.”
“I’ll let you two handle this,” the white-haired man said to the husband. He marched away, leaving the two of us alone.
“Oh,” the husband said. “She is charming, isn’t she? The first one I’ve had in a while that I actually enjoy.” He sighed deeply. “But I’m afraid she’s had all she can for one night. My cousin—” he glanced at the white-haired man walking away, “—as you can see, has already used her up for the night. I’m not sure how muchmoreher body can take. I don’t want her to die justyet,you know.”
Those words curled inside of me like claws tearing at the flesh of my organs. He was already a member; he didn’t need to sacrifice his wife for membership, and yet he pretended to be protective of her.
“Carter Care’s services for one year,” I said. “Unlimited contracts. Clean up and customization too.”
The husband fell silent. The wife wavered to the side, swaying like she was dizzy. Restraints and weapons were displayed on a long metal table to the side of her, but the only item that stood out was the wooden club, lying across the surface at an angle. The white-haired cousin must have used it on her. She may have been suffering from a concussion.
I recognized the cousin; he was a board member, making him extremely high up in the Marked Blooms Syndicate. It wasn’t impossible to kill a man like that. But it was risky.
“I’ll go easy on her,” I said.
The husband tilted his head. “One year?” he asked.
“One year.”
He held out his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, Carter. She’s yours.”
I shook his hand, then stepped past him. My boots were silent on the cement as I entered the room. The wife kept her eyes on the ground. Dress shoes clicked against the pavement, following me inside.
“Alone,” I said to the husband.
He opened his mouth to argue, but when he saw my stern jaw, he nodded quickly.
“I enjoy the show, you know, but that’s my mistake. You’re right. Your privacy is important.”
He stepped out, and I closed the door, clicking it into place. The wife’s eyes peeked up, glued to my white steel-toed boots. Her gaze inched up my white pants, to the tattoo on my hairy chest. A bruise marked her cheek, like the bud of a flower swelling into bloom. Her puffy lips were caked with blood. Our eyes met, and a flash of recognition crossed her face.
“Your eyes,” she said. “They’re so gray.”
I clenched my jaw. I needed colored contacts to distract others from that part of me. My job relied on me blending in, and obviously, even in a concussed state, the woman still latched onto my eyes. She leaned to the side, her eyes falling to the tattoo on my chest.
“Is that a griffin?” she asked.
CHAPTER 2
Ramona
The harsh black lines stretched over the man’s chest, vibrant color filling in the tattooed creature: half bird, half lion. The wings spread across his hard pectorals, those veiny, clawed feet sharp and antagonizing. But the longer I stared at it, the stranger it became. It wasn’t the traditional eagle like you’d expect with a griffin. It had a sharp beak, venomous and deadly in its own right, but softer too. Like a lark. The man shifted his weight, his shadow hovering like a giant umbrella shielding me from the purple light.
“Is it a griffin?” I asked again. “You know. That mythical creature. Half bird. Half lion. It symbolizes strength and leadership.”
I was rambling, but my head throbbed, and the more I focused on him, the less it hurt. One night of pain meant that my kids were provided for, and it seemed like such a small price for what my husband could give them. So I fixated on the man’s thick beard. His stern jaw. Our eyes met, and his gray eyes seared like he could destroy everything in his path, including me.
I lowered my eyes. Red dots splattered the edges of his white boots, and the coppery scent of blood and masculine sweat filtered through the air, mixed with a hint of earth. Like seeds roasting in an oven. Like dirt freshly shoveled over a grave.
His hand, muscular and strong, ran over the handle of the wooden club like he was going to pick it up and use it like a baseball bat, just like my husband’s cousin had.
“He already did that,” I quickly shouted. “You should choose something else. If you want a big reaction. Something new.”
Please don’t use it,I pleaded internally. I couldn’t take another hit of that thing.
