Chapter Two
God damn, man.
I mean, seriously… What the fuck?
As if this entire thing couldn’t get more complicated… Here’s a new piece to the puzzle. A piece I think we’d been missing.
Though, it’s not quite the shape I’d been expecting.
We’re all crowded around in the old armory; this cold, damp crumbling structure, still pretty damn different from the other cold damp crumbling structure we’ve been scampering around in for the last way too many years.
Dirty. Tired. Frayed and shot to hell, emotionally and physically. And yet, it is most certainly not the time to lie down, whine about wet socks, sore muscles, a grumbling stomach or a killer fucking migraine.
It’s time to dig our heels in, lift our goddamn swords. And fight.
We’ve been preparing for this moment for months. The fall of Alabaster Penitentiary tossed us into the deep end of this war before we were technically ready. But when are you ever truly ready to go to battle?
The most you can do is steel your nerves, set aside all emotion. Anything you might be feeling takes an immediate backseat to logic. Switch it all off, and focus on just one thing, above all else…
Winning.
Ending this, once and for all.
We have a major advantage here, in that survival instinct is something we’ve all been honing for a long time. We haven’t been ripped from an existence that’s cozy and warm, and safe. We weren’t summoned to leave the arms of our families to go off and fight.
We were already in survival mode. And my family is fighting right alongside me.
Still, I’m not so arrogant as to think this advantage is specific to us. Our enemy is every bit as bloodthirsty as we are.
The troops are on the march, on both sides. It’s all hands on deck right now, and so yes, I’m counting on my survival, but not for myself. For them. I will stay alive to protect my people.
But if I die making sure he can never wield control over a single one of them again, so be it.
The thought has me gripping the brass knuckles around my fingers tighter from within my pocket.
Sucking in a long breath, my eyes flit to Fenwick, who appears equal parts pleased with himself and oddly protective of the kid.
I’m not privy to the nature of their relationship, being that I’ve been locked in a damn broom closet reading maps by candlelight for weeks, but it seems like Trevel has some sort of kinship with this mysterious person.
But that can’t be…
Trevel barely knows anyone, other than 62, of course.
So how in the holy hell did this come about?
Who is Angel Alvarez? Where did he come from?
And why does he look so damn familiar?
Right off the bat, from the name, I’m going to go ahead and assume this is the twin brother of Avianna Alvarez… The girl we thought was being held in the prison by The Ivory, but who, it turns out, died in Vegas a few years ago. Which would mean that this person and Manuel Blanco go way back…
But that doesn’t explain why he’s here now.
Stepping up to him slowly, my eyes trail his features top to bottom, studious gaze narrowed in suspicion. He backs up like an instinct—it’s okay, I like it—cheeks flushing a deeper pink than they have been since the moment he set foot inside this concrete box with us.
It’s only been like a minute, but the quiet feels as though it’s been dragging out tension for hours since he spoke his name.
Angel Alvarez swallows visibly, his eyes darting to Trevel briefly, before making a quick pass around the circle of my men, and Joy—my family.
All standing by, stiff and unmoving, like they’re hanging on by a thread.
When he lands on Dash, I can’t help noticing that the blush in his cheeks darkens and he looks away fast. I don’t see any visible recognition on 101’s face, but he is kind of squinting at the kid like he’s trying to place him.
And now Angel is going to great lengths to avoid eye contact with Reznikov. In service of that, he peeks at Darcey. Lips quirking shyly, he offers The Carver a timid wave, which Darcey returns.
Okay, what is going on right now??
Grabbing the kid, I pat him down quickly for any weapons. And would you look at that…
I pull a familiar butterfly knife out of his pocket.
Holding it up, I cock a brow. The mound of his throat dips.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, a low rumble of interrogation for the stranger while pocketing the ivory-handled knife.
Something tells me he’s been in our midst for a lot longer than any of us were aware…
The kid’s lips part. Then they snap shut. He purses them at the ground before releasing a hushed answer. “A while.”
My lashes flutter, head cocking. So very familiar… “How long is a while?”
His eyes spring to mine. They look like emeralds in this light, and in that one look, a memory finally snaps into place.
A gasp fleas my lips.
Oh… shit.
It’s late. And I’m tired.
As usual, really, but the past few weeks have truly been a test to my abilities; my carefully crafted skill in stuffing things down and never thinking about them.
My capacity to party hard, and fuck harder…
To do this job, handle it all like a fucking boss while running on fumes, like my entire composition is made up of whiskey and Adderall.
I’ve been doing it for so long—a decade plus almost three—that sometimes I forget I’m human. I forget that my body isn’t a machine designed to pound holes and beers and faces. It’s actually a vessel of mortality that used to belong to someone with a lot more morals.
But this version of me was designed, by him, to conquer all that human shit, and be a fucking animal.
It’s fine. It’s good… It’s what I’m good at. It’s all I’m good for…
And yet, things have felt different lately. There’s a shift in the air, like when winter turns to spring, and the sun resurrects the color and the warmth and the life of a once cold and barren place.
I can’t possibly fathom why that is…
Okay, I know why. Of course I do. But I’m not gonna say it out loud, nor am I going to think about it and obsess over it the way I have been, because that’s stupid and unnecessary, and feelings are for assholes.
I’m fine. I’m a henchman, and I own that shit.
What do I need with green eyes and dimples, anyway?
Sipping from the bottle I’m just barely clutching between my fingers, I let the burn soothe my fire while I stumble around downstairs.
The music coming from upstairs is loud, as always.
Loud enough to be heard clearly from down here, and the thought has me momentarily wondering if he cares. If he’s bothered by it, or…
If he likes it.
Eyes snapping shut, I shake my head. Doesn’t matter.
If he had a problem with anything, I’m sure he’d put a stop to it. And if he happens to like the music of Soren’s playlist, well… Good for him.
There’s a memory of deep humming melodies in my head as I spin into the library, immediately stopping short, eyes widening.
Holy… shit.
There’s a beautiful person on the lounge chair, bent over in a rather compromising position, while a few other someones share positions equally compromising.
Yea, wow, that’s… compromising all right.
My head tilts, and I bring the bottle to my lips again, swallowing another large mouthful of Appleton as I observe this wanton creature. On all fours, skimpy dress that’s basically a napkin shoved up their back and clutched in Soto’s fist while he tears that ass up.
They look familiar… The gorgeous specimen on the receiving end of a deep dicking. A party guest I vaguely recognize, though we haven’t had much direct interaction.
Shame. They look… versatile.
Silky strands of shoulder-length hair that’s not quite brown, but not blonde either—more like the brass between gold and bronze—strewn about and sex-messy. Light complexion blushed, sheening from the activities; a diamond shimmer highlighting contours of taut muscle.
I don’t make it a habit of assuming someone’s gender by the clothes they wear, the way they style their hair, or even their features.
Sure, it’s drilled into our brains to think that certain facets of appearance mean male or female, but it doesn’t have to be that way, and the beautiful thing about being pansexual is that none of that means a damn thing to my dick.
He truly has a mind of his own. When he sees something he likes, he gives me the twitch of approval.
And right now, let’s just say… He’s definitely awake.
I really have no idea where Soren found this person—maybe they were recruited by someone else. Regardless, they’re far too pretty to be taking it so rough.
I mean, of course it looks damn good… The way their plump ass is turning pink from the rampant skin-slapping, and the strength in their arms as they attempt to hold themselves up. It’s captivating to witness.
It’s not every day you see such an ethereal being split in half like this…
Naturally, I’m enraptured.
My brow cocks when Reyes, who’s kneeling by their head, shoves a popper up to their nose. The symphony of moans and pants dies down long enough for them to sniff, and I actually flinch when Reyes’s meaty palm grabs the person by the jaw, pulling their mouth onto his large, eager erection.
I take another hearty swig.
Just as the pouty pink lips are parting wider, their perfectly subservient mouth sinking onto Reyes’s cock, the hooded gaze of this hypnotic stranger meets mine. I’m instantly pinned in place by emerald irises, shimmering with mischievous lust and a carnal hunger I can feel in my bones.
But there’s something else; a quick flicker of a different emotion, unrelated to the obvious pleasure of being used. It’s like a familiarity, and… admiration? As if they’re just as excited to see me watching this as they are at being spit-roasted. It almost seems like they’re starstruck… By me.
Why are they looking like The Rock just walked into the room?
I know I do a mean eyebrow-cock, but still…