Blood Sky (Broken Mercenaries Book 1)

by S. Massery

  “You could’ve asked me for help,” Mason says in a low voice. “Spike and I—”

  “No,” I say. “I liked my job. It was clean, I was doing good work, saving people—”

  “And, what, she’s turned you back into the monster?” Dalton scoffs. “Come on, man. You’re as clean as the rest of us.”

  That’s what I fear.

  Zach shakes his head. “He’s disgusted—look at him.”

  “I’m not,” I argue. “I just—” I growl, at a loss for words. I look at Griffin, because I know he’ll understand what I’m about to say. “Our dad was abusive. He never hit us, but he manipulated everything to be my mom’s fault. He drank too much. Passed out. Disappeared for days.” A faint smile crosses my face. “Not in that order, of course. Mom blamed the military. It about broke her heart when I joined.”

  Griffin nods along to my words. His story is a worse version of mine.

  “When I got out, she cried. She literally picked me up from base and cried on my shoulder.” That shattered something inside of me. She’d been so strong while I was deployed, fighting bad guys, I’d tell her, but in reality, she was terrified that the military was turning me into my father. Shaping me into something strong and dangerous and out of control. How could I blame her for that fear?

  “Scorpion offered me a job after six months of unemployment. I was living with my mom, running her errands, walking her dog, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. They told me I wouldn’t go overseas. I wouldn’t do anything dangerous.” I shake my head. Damn it, I’d never admitted this out loud before.

  “And then you signed the contract,” Mason says. The contract that said they owned me for three years, and could send me anywhere to fulfill the obligations designated by the company.

  “Yes,” I say. “My mom thought I was doing okay. She thought I was getting better, living my life—and then I got sent away, and that time, I couldn’t even tell her where I was going.” Everything was top secret. Everything had layers of classified information. Remnants of what we saw over there—things we can’t discuss, people we were never supposed to meet—haunt me. “I thought that her crying on my arrival home was the worst thing I’d ever heard. It was nothing compared to the sobs that still bounce around my fucking head at night.”

  I turn sharply and punch the air. It does nothing to satisfy my urge for blood.

  “Skye,” Zach says in a low voice. “You need to hit something? You hit me.”

  I don’t really think about it. I get one good swing in, my knuckles skipping across his cheekbone, his lips, before Griffin and Dalton grab me. They haul me backwards, putting me against the wall.

  “Fuck,” Mason spits. “You can’t just tell him that, Zach, he’s gonna fucking do it.”

  Zach just chuckles. “I leaned with it,” he says. “Skye’s still a predictable shit.”

  I strain against my friends. “One more hit, Laurent,” I promise.

  He barks a laugh. “You know your best shot at me is fifty-fifty.”

  “More like sixty-forty in your favor,” Dalton mutters to Zach. He winks at me. “You’re good, Jackson, but Zach beat you a few too many times for you to claim uncontested victory.”

  I shrug the guys off of me and shake my head. A smile slips out. Hell if they don’t know how to wipe away the red haze. “Well, shit,” I mutter.

  Zach grins. “You know I own a gym, jackass.”

  I blink at him. “What?”

  “Oh, shit,” he mutters. “You didn’t tell him, Mace?”

  Mason just shrugs. “I got busy.”

  “Too busy to tell one of my best friends that I finally bought a gym?”

  It was one of the only things Zach had talked about while we were overseas. In countless situations, we’d be on the verge of sleep—under the stars, camped in a damp cave, sitting around a crackling fire with beers in our hands—and Zach would say, You know the only thing that would make this moment more perfect? If I owned a boxing gym.

  “One of your best fucking friends?” Mason snaps. “You didn’t call him when you bought it. No. You told me to be the messenger boy. He was only a phone call away.”

  Zach rolls his eyes. “Jackson wanted space. I was respecting that.”

  “It isn’t our fault you still had ties—dating his brother? He would’ve snipped the threads tying you to his life, too,” Dalton says, yawning. He wanders to the fridge and grabs a beer while I stare at him.

  “You think so?” I ask Dalton.

  Mason avoids my eyes.

  “Jesus, let’s just air all of this shit out,” I say. “You’re so fucking nonchalant about it now, Star?”

  “Don’t fucking call me that.”

  Dalton was called The Morning Star because people equated him with the devil. It was a pretty name for a handsome man all wrapped up in death.

  I shake my head. Three years cemented us together, and two years of neglect—

  “Well, fuck,” I mutter. Dalton cocks his head. “I’ve literally become my father. Fuck.” I turn and slam my hand into the wall next to the door. It buckles, my fist passing through the plaster. I yank it out and punch it again, fury spreading through me faster than I can contain. Hours in the gym—for what? To come to the realization that for most of my childhood my dad neglected me, and I just did the same thing to my friends for two years.

  I can’t stop swearing. I turn my aim to the door frame—it holds up better—and I can’t will myself to stop until a hand touches my shoulder.

  Without thinking, I let my elbow fly backwards. I expect to hit a face—break Zach’s nose or at least split Dalton’s lip—but it passes through the air. My momentum spins me around, the fight still wild in me, but everything locks up when my eyes register Delia in front of me.

  “Leave,” she orders, but she’s talking to everyone except for me.

  They listen.

  Their doors close one at a time, until it’s just us and the sounds of our breathing in the room. My heart pounds in my ears.

  “You have anger issues?” she asks.

  I shrug and examine my knuckles.

  Her laugh startles me. “We’ve reversed roles,” she informs me. “I’ll answer my own question. You have anger issues.”

  A corner of my lip tilts up. “Yeah, maybe.”

  She steps closer to me and takes my hand, examining the broken skin. The knuckles are raw. Tomorrow night will be fresh hell—but I’ll deserve it. I deserve all the penance in the world.

  “You were yelling,” she whispers. “And you were so mad—”

  “I get mad,” I admit.

  “Me, too,” she says.

  I look down at her.

  “Kiss me,” she says.

  I can do better than that.

  15

  DELIA

  Zach and Mason arrived while I was treating myself to a mini spa day. I could only guess who was who by the bulkiness of one and the earring in the other’s ear. Maybe that’s stereotyping, but I had nothing else to go on. Jackson told me almost nothing about them.

  I crept into the room and stood in the shadows while Jackson swung at Zach. The mood deteriorated from there, but I stayed out of it. I’m smart enough to know when I think my presence would be a hindrance, and these men had issues to work through.

  When Jackson said he’d been acting like his dad, my lungs constricted. I wanted to run in and shout, No, no, you’re not. I stood frozen—we all did—as he broke apart in front of us.

  It was then that I moved. The four others parted for me like I was a ghost—or a goddamn princess. Their stares rolled off of me. I’ve been around enough angry men to know that if you touch them, they’ll swing.

  Trepidation swept through me as I put my hand on his shoulder and leaned back, letting his elbow pass at forehead level, inches in front of my skin. If he had made contact with my temple, I would’ve been out like a light.

  I ordered the men to leave us. I demanded that Jackson kiss me, to show me his anger. He fucked me r
ight there next to the fist-shaped hole. After he came, his eyes locked on mine, he carried me into the bedroom. Stripped me down. Kissed every inch of me. Devoured me whole.

  Now, I’m half on top of him, doodling meaningless patterns on his arm. His eyes are shut, his heartbeat is steady. Our legs are tangled.

  I think he’s asleep until he lifts a few strands of my hair. “I like the new look,” he murmurs. I raise my head off of his chest and see that he’s smiling at me. My hair is dark brown, almost chestnut-colored, and I managed to give myself straight-across bangs and an angled bob. It’s a step up from a hack job, but it’s nice of him to say he likes it.

  “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  He exhales. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  I lean up and kiss his jaw. “I’m not.”

  “I forgot,” he replies. “I forgot that you’ve seen evil men do evil things.”

  “I’ve seen normal men do evil things,” I correct. “They don’t start off evil. That’s almost scarier.” I put my head back down on his chest. “If you know a man is bad, you expect him to make the evil choice. If you think a man is good…”

  James Elvira flashes in my mind. Elton. Jorge Castillo.

  “What am I?” he asks.

  I sit up again. “What am I?” I reply. “What are any of us?”

  “I don’t know,” he whispers.

  “Your dad was sick,” I say. “And that caused him to do wicked things. You’re not sick. You’re not wicked. You just are, the same as everyone else in this building.”

  “We just are,” he repeats. His lips press against the top of my head and his hand slides up my spine. “Thank you,” he whispers, rolling me onto my back.

  My knees bend, my legs coming up next to his hips. We both groan as he slides into me. He moves slowly, letting me feel all of him. My body trembles with each thrust. Our lips touch, but we’re not kissing. We breathe the same air.

  It’s an odd experience, different than any other we’ve shared. Different than any other sex I’ve had. I know, down to my bones, that this is shaping our emotions toward each other. Our edges soften, mold together. Before, I craved touch. Now I find myself only craving his touch. Like he alone can save me.

  The orgasm builds in me slowly, piece by piece. He kisses me when it bursts through me, radiating across my whole body. My nails scratch his back and he thrusts harder, quicker, pounding into me until he comes.

  Shattered.

  We’ve shattered each other.

  He falls asleep with his face in my neck. I take a second to relish the moment before I slide away from him. I go to the bathroom, brushing out my new hair and taming the bangs. My hair has always been naturally wavy and thick, and this haircut demands attention. The dark color makes my skin look pale. My brown eyes stand out from my skin.

  I like the clothes he bought: soft cotton shirts and dark jeans. Socks. There are even boots in the bag in my size, which makes me think he snooped when I wasn’t looking.

  Before, that thought would’ve terrified me. My secrets are mine alone—and yes, there are still secrets that I hide from him—but some of them have been overturned by Jackson, and I don’t mind it.

  I tread quietly down the hallway, listening for voices.

  One mostly unfamiliar voice—Zach, perhaps—says, “I’m getting out.”

  I think it’s Dalton who answers, “You think it’ll be easy?”

  “They’re not going to have a choice. I’ll hook them up with someone else.”

  “When have they ever taken no for an answer?”

  I peek into the room. The largest man’s back is to me at the table. He shrugs. “Who’s ever said no to them?”

  Dalton slaps his palm on the table. “Exactly. You’re asking to get yourself shot.” His eyes go to mine. “Hello there,” he says.

  The other man whirls around, looking me up and down.

  Dalton watches his friend. “Zach, this is the girl who has Jackson’s panties in a twist. Delia, this is Zach Laurent.”

  Zach stands up. He’s impossibly tall, but I try not to let the fear poke through. He sticks out his hand. When I put mine into his, instead of shaking it, he raises it to his lips and kisses my knuckles.

  I blush and take a quick step backwards—right into someone’s back.

  “Not cool,” Jackson says, his hands coming up to my shoulders. He rubs down my arms and then steps around me. “Your lips shouldn’t be anywhere near her.”

  Zach laughs. “The blush was worth it,” he says.

  Jackson rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me hit you again.”

  “You should have Griff wrap your knuckles,” he answers. “We’re having team dinner. Then a movie. Maybe some popcorn. And then, answers.”

  It was sounding good up until that last part. I swallow and try to look inconspicuous.

  It doesn’t work, because Dalton bursts out laughing. “Yeah, he’s talking about you, sweetheart.”

  I frown. “This has been talked about to death,” I mutter. “All we do is talk. Who even are you?”

  Zach saunters closer. “They call me Sucker Punch,” he says, “because my enemies never see me coming.”

  I roll my eyes. “How the hell do they miss you?”

  “Explosives,” Dalton says drily. “That, and he would never shut up about his gym.”

  Zach’s eyes light up, and it’s a bit terrifying. “Boom,” he murmurs, miming an explosion with his hands.

  Jackson reappears and steers me around Zach. “He’s a bit abrasive,” he says. “And…”

  I look up at Jackson.

  “He’s worried,” Jackson admits.

  “I don’t want to put you in danger,” I say. “Honestly—”

  He presses his finger against my lips. “I did it to myself, and I don’t regret it. You were right. I could’ve dropped you off at that motel and been on my way. I could’ve left you in Rock Springs. But I didn’t, because—” His lips press together.

  I lean into him, wishing he’d say whatever he was thinking.

  Someone clears their throat behind us.

  I turn around and look at Mason. At least, logically, I’m assuming that’s Mason. He’s leaner than the rest of them—except maybe Jackson. He smiles at me in a way that is supposed to be comforting. “Nice to meet you officially, Delia,” he says. His smile slips. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

  I nod as understanding hits me. “You’re the tech one,” I say. “The one Jackson kept stepping out to take phone calls with?”

  He shrugs. “Guilty.”

  “What did you find on James?” I ask.

  “Later,” Zach snaps. “Mason is our best cook, and right now, you’re standing between us and food.”

  “I can help,” I offer.

  Mason smiles. “I’d love that. Zach’s just grumpy because he missed his second lunch.”

  Jackson leaves me with Mason. After Mason has loaded my arms with food from the fridge and set me up at a cutting board, he says, “Elvira was actually the first person I looked into for Jackson.”

  I cock my head to the side. “How’s that?”

  “The business card in your wallet.”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder. “Sneaky.”

  “Well, you weren’t being very forthcoming—one would argue you still aren’t.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your whole family’s throats were slit except your mother—”

  “Stepmother,” I correct softly.

  His smile is faint. “Apologies. She was shot in the stomach. That’s quite a way to go.”

  “I know.” I remember Elton’s wound.

  “Maybe you were hoping for some divine intervention?”

  Mason’s focused on the chicken in front of him, so he doesn’t notice my questioning glance. And then it hits me: Griffin. “Are there any secrets between you five?” I ask.

  He raises one shoulder. “I can’t speak for the others, but me? No. They’re my brothers. I trust them w
ith my life.”

  “I trust Jackson with my life,” I say.

  “Well, he’s held it in his hands before,” Mason says. “Hard not to trust a guy who comes through for you like that. But tell me, Delia, what have you done to prove yourself?”

  I blink down at the onions, pushing the knife through its layers. What have I done to prove myself? I’ve gone so far for my family. They’ve taken my blood, my sweat, my tears. I’ve nearly killed myself following in my father’s footsteps. He taught me how to manipulate people, to bend them to his will. For years, I went with him everywhere, staying out of sight, learning.

  I proved myself to my family again and again, throwing myself on the rocks for them. When it counted, I ran away. I ran for my life. Guilt surfaces, twisting my stomach.

  “You’re right,” I say, setting down the knife. “You’re the cook, and I’m just standing between Zach and his food.” I back away from Mason and beeline for the door. Zach, Dalton, and Jackson don’t notice me slip out, down the stairs, and into the darkened warehouse. It’s creepier without the lights on. I wander into the center of the freshly painted circle and look up at the high ceiling, imagining Jackson and his friends moving around above me.

  This place reminds me of one we visited when I was on the cusp of twenty-four, still eager to show Father that I was worthy.

  I followed Nicolai Moretti through an outside door, into a small office, and didn’t look back as one of my cousins closed and locked it behind us. My dress swished around my calves, the dark blue peacoat stopping a few inches short. My eyes caught on crates stacked in the corner of the room. Some of them were cracked open, but I couldn’t see anything except straw.

  “Delia,” Father called.

  “Coming,” I murmured. My voice travelled easily in the small space.

  We walked out into the warehouse. There were aisles of products—pails and boxes that were masked by shadows—and beyond that, machinery. But in the immediate center, positioned on a chair under a flickering light, was my ex-boyfriend.

  “Delia?” he echoed.