Black Sheep

by Zara Cox

  As predicted, Colonel Clarkson rips me several new ones for going off script, but it’s tinged with the solemnity of a comrade lost. I stand at attention in his office and take my dressing down through the low roar that has taken up residence between my ears.

  He talks about me laying low for the next few missions. Then he talks about a possible medal of honor, my second in three years. I want to argue against the first and refuse the second. But I don’t speak for fear the roar will disappear, letting even more harrowing images flood back in.

  “Did you hear what I just said?” The question is fired at me from my left.

  I turn my head to where Clarkson has paused in his pissed-off pacing. “I’m sorry, sir, no.”

  He sighs and rubs a hand over his three-day old stubble. “I said, we got to the bottom of what happened to fuck up the operation.”

  I nod and wait for him to continue. He stares back at me, his gaze holding more than just questions. “Is there something you want to tell me, son?”

  Tension of a whole different kind seizes my nape. The camera didn’t record Fahim’s last moments so the Colonel can’t know how much I enjoyed killing him. “No, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Clarkson retraces his steps, his face pensive. “The explosion that alerted the compound to your presence came from that private army I told you about. As expected, they half-assed their operation, or maybe they were fed false intel. Who the fuck knows?” He shakes his head, his expression tightening with fury and a hint of pain for a second before his professionalism slides back into place. “They bombed Taranahar village thinking it was the compound where Fahim and his brothers were hiding out.”

  Jesus. “Casualty count?” I rasp.

  “So far…eighty-seven, half of those women and children. They’re still counting body parts. We may never know how many died.”

  My breath shudders out. A peculiar discomfort lances my chest. I’m not sure whether to be glad I have a little humanity left or mourn its presence.

  My CO turns and strolls back to his desk. He picks up his tablet and activates the screen. “As you can expect, this is causing all sorts of bonfires back in Washington. A shitload of keyboard bashers have thrown a lot of man hours into tracking down just who the hell is behind this particular private military contract. A few names popped up. One in particular grabbed my attention.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “MMFR International.”

  The brutal rush of blood threatens to drown the roar in my head. The initials make sense.

  MM. Michael McCarthy.

  FR. Finnan Rutherford.

  So does, finally, the long-forgotten meeting that took place in our house in Connecticut with the army general. It’s too much of a coincidence to sidestep.

  I recall Ronan’s barely suppressed excitement when he told us that General Courtland would be visiting Finnan from Washington. That the Rutherfords were about to strike the deal of a lifetime, which would make us richer than our wildest dreams.

  The voice booms into my head as if the old General is standing next to me. Rutherford, as a father of sons myself, I commend you for a venerable crop of boys. I have three sons in the army.

  In response, Finnan preened as he shook his hand, naked greed shining in his eyes. Thank you, sir.

  Courtland nodded. No, thank you! Let’s get down to business. Then you can tell me which of your sons will be the first to honor our great country.

  Finnan nods at Ronan to shut the door.

  As he moved to do so, his gaze flicks to Toby, Bolton, and me, standing to attention just as he ordered. He looks at my brothers, sees the fear and respect he’s instilled in them from birth displayed in their gray eyes.

  Then he looks at me.

  I know my defiance is displayed clearly. So is my contempt. My shame.

  I also see the exact moment Finnan decides that I will be the one. It was like witnessing a bolt of lightning scorch the earth. For weeks I tried to dispel the fear that look struck in me to no avail.

  Perhaps a part of me suspected all along that something like this would happen—me standing in front of my CO, a man of honor, with my family name soiling my skin. Or worse.

  My gaze meets Colonel Clarkson’s as he confirms my fears. I wouldn’t stake my life on it, but I swear I see sympathy in his eyes. “I have to ask if the Finnan Rutherford listed in the file is a relation of yours.”

  Denial hovers on my tongue. I swallow it. “Yes. He’s my…father.”

  Clarkson swears long and hard. “There’s no way to sugar coat it. There’s a shit storm headed your way, son. There are many things capable of being swept under rugs from here to Ulan Bator. But I get the feeling this isn’t going to be one of them.” He stares grimly at me before he nods. “Dismissed.”

  The roaring stops by the time I make it to my bunk. Still fully dressed, I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I’m back in my pit of hell. Only this time, it’s deeper. Darker. Stained with Crunch’s death. Yet another life cut far too short. Along with countless others whose faces will join in the perpetual haunting I now know I’ll never be free of. But now I know who’s responsible.

  My father.

  So I close my eyes. And I plot.

  Chapter Nine

  COUNTER PUNCH

  What the fuck did you just say?” My voice bleeds pure ice.

  The single pop that went off in my head a second ago may have been my imagination. Or it could have been my last connection with something human and salvageable tearing itself free.

  Or, most likely, it could be that I’ve put my hand on her. I’m touching Cleo for the first time in eight years. I know in that moment that I’ve sealed my fate. Hell, who the fuck am I kidding? My fate was sealed a long time ago, my path set in concrete the moment her blue eyes sank into me that very first time.

  All the same, my palm against her bare arm is incendiary. The punch to my gut is immediate. As is her audible gasp. A groan dares to rattle up from the depths of my being. I smother it and propel her to face me.

  To her credit, she doesn’t flinch or attempt to pull away from my punishing hold. “He wants to talk about Taranahar,” she repeats. “That’s in Afghanistan, right? Is that where you—?”

  With my thumb, I silence her, refusing to allow the smoothness of her velvet-soft lips to distract me. I bend low until her face is a dozen inches from mine. “I’m the only one asking the questions, sweetheart. What do you know about Taranahar?”

  Her nostrils quiver with the breath she takes. “I…nothing. Finnan isn’t exactly great at sharing,” she says in a low, steady voice.

  No, he’s good at taking. The deadliest of parasites, he doesn’t stop taking until there is nothing left.

  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 bec
ause 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.

  And yet, barely a second after laying her flat, I’m crawling over her. Planting my hands on either side of her head. Pinning her down with my body. Long, shapely legs bracket mine. The soft, deep cradle of her thighs welcomes me to her false home. The flush of her skin. Wide, blue eyes no longer flat and dead. Each catalogue of her intoxicating attributes registers like a sniper’s shot to the head, and my cock hardens to stone even as my brain loses all function.

  The rush of blood to my cock almost makes me groan. I swallow the sound because the time when I groaned for this woman is long gone.

  Her breathing escalates, and she begins to wriggle beneath me. “Axel…”

  I allow myself a smile. “I believe I can tell the difference now between you and the girl I thought I once knew. This…this is who you really are, isn’t it, Cleo? The devil’s whore pretending to be an angel?”

  She stares at me, her perfect face framed by the rich, glossy mane spilling across my floor. “I was never an angel. How could I be after you—What…what are you doing?” she asks with a distinct screech, her hands attempting to push me away as I grip her hips and press into her.

  The heat from her hands fires me up even higher.

  Harder. I roll my hips until my cock is fully settled into the V of her thighs. Her eyes darken into a deep, bottomless blue.

  “Rough sex,” I speculate. “Fuck, baby, if that was what you wanted, all you had to do was say. Do you know how difficult it was for me to hold back when I fucked you? How tough it was for me to stop from pounding that tight cunt every time you spread your thighs for me? You know how many dark fantasies I had about taking you so hard you would be sore for fucking days?”

  She stills completely, the only movement her shallow breathing. “You didn’t…you weren’t…”

  “Capable of it?” I laugh. “Are you one hundred percent sure about that? Think back. That night in the gazebo, after we were caught in the rain?”

  Her breath hitches all over again. “Troy’s beach party. You…you were drunk. That was why we ended up there instead of your room…”

  “I wasn’t drunk. I had one drink.” I lower my head until her delectable mouth is one inch from mine. “One single beer while you wriggled that sweet little ass in my lap for three hours straight. I couldn’t make it back to the pool house because my fucking balls were ready to explode. I wanted to teach you a lesson even though you had perfected the art of pretending to be so fucking fragile. And yet, tying your hands with your bra and securing your ankles to that post with my belt was so fucking easy, wasn’t it? You were extra wet that night, weren’t you? Whimpering while you pushed out that pretty little tush for me to ride, begging me to fuck you? How many times did you come that night?”

  “I don’t remember,” she replies, her nostrils fluttering with agitation despite her cold voice. “Get off me.” She attempts to push me off again, but I’m nowhere near done. I lower myself onto my elbows. Our stomachs touch. Her breath shudders out.

  “I do. Many, many times. So many you had cum dripping down your legs.”

  Color surges into her cheeks. “If you say so.”

  “It’s okay if you don’t remember, sweetheart. You passed out after that last time, after screaming your lungs out. I carried you back to my be
d in the rain. You were out for hours. Then you woke up and pretended it hadn’t happened.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t as memorable as you thought,” she snipes.

  If I wasn’t skating on the edge of madness, I would be amused. “It’s all in my head? That’s the defense you’re going with?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  I shift my stance to her left, lower my head, and take another heady dose of her scent. The animal prowling in me roars its approval then pummels me with its need to ravage. “What about a few days ago? You only needed a little push to get yourself off, didn’t you? What about right now? Are you going to deny you’re as wet as I know you are or is that all in my head too?”

  Her gaze sweeps down and away, and her lips firm into a thin, mutinous line.

  “Not gonna answer? I’ll find out for myself, shall I?”

  Her rough gasp feathers my jaw as I capture both her hands and secure them above her head. I dislodge myself from between her thighs, ignoring my cock’s demented snarling at being denied, and stare down at her.

  She attempts to move away. I clamp my hand to her hip.

  The bottom half of her lingerie set is already riding her hip. A firm tug is all it takes for more of her lower half to be fully revealed.

  Her curvy hips and smooth, toned legs fire up a savage hunger in my already boiling blood stream. Keeping my gaze on her face, I let my knuckles drift down the side of one thigh. A delicate shiver moves through her.

  “Look at me, Cleo.”

  She ignores me. I caress back up again. Her mouth slackens a touch, her breath expelling in the softest gush.

  “Look. At. Me.”

  Her gaze meets mine. Heated. Defiant.

  “Are you wet?”

  Her chin rises in mutiny.

  I push her panties lower. My fingers slide over her stomach, my nails grazing over her smooth skin. The muscles quiver delicately beneath my touch.

  I finally look down.

  Fuck. The material clings to her taut skin, moves with her breathing and the restless movement of her hips.