Epilogue
Cain
Every person has a weakness.
For most, their weaknesses are inconveniences. Whether it be drugs, alcohol, sex, or any number of the other mundane, boring things someone can develop a taste—and thereby weakness—for, we all have one.
Not many people are burdened by their weaknesses being living, breathing beings—because those are much more of a liability than they are a hedonistic pursuit.
Maximus, for example. Should I ever wish to cripple him beyond repair, it’d be as easy as killing Viper. If I wanted complete control over him, I’d capture her and threaten to torture her.
Likewise with Greyson. He would pull his own fingernails out if it meant sparing Scarlett the barest bit of pain. I occasionally wonder if he might have an irony deficiency, considering he was once the greatest source of her physical and emotional pain.
Those two may be beholden to their weaknesses, but they’re not slaves to them. They may be addicts, coming back for hit after hit, but they are not completely reliant on their choice of drug for survival.
I am. I have been for years.
I know myself, my capabilities, my limits, and my needs.
I have very, very few of them. I don’t need to eat, or sleep, or give myself basic human courtesies that many others require—not at regular intervals.
The only thing I truly need, the same way I need air in my lungs and blood in my veins to stay alive, is my Azalea.
I need to know where she is at all times, or I can’t function. I have to be able to watch her whenever the urge to do so strikes, or I forget how to breathe. And I must always be able to get to her, even though I haven’t visited her in her waking hours for years.
It’s my fault that she was captured—I know this.
I allowed her too much freedom. I let her roam the world, and the world took her from me.
I underestimated the intellect, reach, and ruthlessness of the rival I chose to take on, and my Azalea has been suffering for my mistakes, in ways I don’t want to imagine.
If I don’t get her back, the world will pay the price. I have no limits, no red lines when it comes to her. There is nothing I will not do to possess every inch of her, and there is no end to the horror I will inflict upon anyone who tries to get between us.
Rain pours down in angry sheets as I observe the cement building where she’s being held.
It soaks through my coat, my bulletproof vest, even my skin.
It drenches every inch of me, seeping a chill into my bones, but even that isn’t enough to stave off the heat of my fury.
The roaring fire of my need to retrieve her, and tuck her safely away where no one can ever find her again.
A quiet beep sounds to my left. My gaze slides sideways, and I watch Maximus pull a phone out of his pocket.
“My source came through,” he says, nodding. “She’s inside. Third level down.” He parts his lips to say more, then promptly shuts them.
My jaw tightens. “What else?” I demand through gritted teeth.
Maximus looks at Greyson, who sits on a rock to the side of him. The two of them share a suitably moronic conversation in silence.
Moronic, because now is not the time to test my patience or generosity. If either of them delay me retrieving Azalea by even a millisecond, I’ll kill them.
Or worse, punish them by hurting their weaknesses.
Max slowly looks back at me, green irises muted by an unnamed emotion. “She’s been in solitary confinement for forty-eight hours, following an interrogation.” He swallows. “No food, water, or medical aid.”
I know what’s implied before Maximus voices my worst, most forbidden fear.
“He’s not sure if she’s alive.”
Thank you for reading Cruel Commander.