Chapter 13

13

T raining with Bravo was exactly what I needed to get out of my own head for a few hours. I'd almost forgotten how cathartic it is to physically exert myself to the point that my brain just shuts itself off to any thoughts other than the intake of breath and the burn of my muscles, my body seemingly running through the exercises on autopilot. It was definitely a healthier release than drinking myself into a coma like I wanted to after leaving the basement.

I figured I'd be deconditioned after taking so much time away from training, but getting back to it was as easy as riding a bike. In fact, I felt so good afterwards that I went for a run; something I haven't done in ages. It's like the workout gave me even more wild energy to burn off than I started with. Probably the endorphins. It kept me away from my laptop, too, since I resolved to take a hiatus from watching the video feed after Luna called me out on it. Not that I give a shit what she thinks, but because I know obsession when I see it, and that's exactly what this is. I need to stop.

I can't stay away forever, though; not unless I want to pass her off to someone else. That's probably what I should do, but I won't. Not a fucking chance. Because this is supposed to be my revenge. It's supposed to be about Ben. Somewhere along the line, I've lost sight of that, and it's high time I steer this train back on its track.

Maybe I'm just fucking weak. That's what my father would say if he knew how soft I've been with our prisoner thus far. He'd tell me to bleed her out until she gave up her secrets, but that's never been my style. Physical pain is so temporary. There are countless ways to impose torture, and mental anguish cuts so much deeper than a blade. Though I'm beginning to wonder who's torturing who in this scenario.

I can't keep letting her get in my head. I've been trying to slow-play this, to let her think I'm lowering my guard as we develop a rapport. The more comfortable she gets, the more she'll let things slip; seemingly benign scraps of information that I can patch together and use to rain down hell on the filthy pack of beasts she came from. She doesn't even realize that by building her confidence and allowing her to win the battles, I'm silently winning the war.

It's not without sacrifice. I'm putting myself through mental torture each time I set eyes on her, fighting an internal struggle over why the hell I'm so attracted to the thing I hate the most. I've spent nearly half my life hunting werewolves, yet here I am, filling my mental spank-bank with images of the whiskey-eyed, sharp-tongued Luna, jacking off to thoughts of wrapping that long blonde hair around my fist and coloring the petals of that floral tattoo on her hip with bruises from my grip. I'll bet she wouldn't shy away from being handled roughly. She wouldn't whine that I was going too hard like the prissy bitches I've occasionally picked up in bars for a quick fuck. For once in my miserable life, I wouldn't have to hold myself back.

I shudder a ragged breath as hot cum spills over my knuckles, a rush of euphoria washing over me with my release. Like always, it's tragically short lived- by the time I catch my breath and clean up, the rapture of climax is replaced with the heavy cloak of shame. It was necessary to get the poison out of me before going downstairs, though. Luna's due for another shower, and the sight of her naked and dripping would only spell disaster if I went in there with a loaded gun.

I'll probably still jack off again later to the image and fucking hate myself for it.

Gathering up the clean towel and stack of clothing from my desk chair, I leave my room and head for the basement. In yet another example of how I'm getting too fucking soft, I had Matty launder my beastie's clothes for her since her last shower. The ones I gave her are ill-fitting and I'm sick and tired of watching her struggle with constantly re-tying the baggy t-shirt around her tits for her little workouts. Sure, I'm taking care of her like a pet rather than a prisoner, but it still fits in with my master plan. Bet she'll get stars in her eyes when I hand over those clothes.

My caged bird is pacing her cell when I step off the last stair into the basement, like she's anxious for my return. Her nervous expression shifts to something that looks like relief when our eyes meet, and I have to fight back a smug grin as I stride over to dump the clothing and towel on the folding chair. I knew it'd pay to stay away for a while and let her stew over whether I was coming back after that stunt she pulled with the toilet.

Pivoting to face her, I dig a hand into my pocket for the keys as I advance toward the bars of her cell, and I swear I see her flinch back. She's more skittish than normal, and the realization as to what's got her spooked stops me in my tracks.

The first thing I notice is the dark line of dried blood creasing her pouty lower lip where the skin has split. I immediately drop my gaze, giving her a once-over to catalog any other signs of injury, and that's when I clock the deep purple bruising on her left wrist in a distinctive fingerprint pattern. I know for a fact I didn't leave those marks- for one, I wrapped my hand around her throat earlier, not her wrist; and for two, I don't make a habit of roughing up women unless it's for our mutual enjoyment in the bedroom.

My gaze pings back up to meet hers, eyes narrowing as I growl, "Who did this?"

Luna makes a scoffing sound in her throat, rolling her eyes. "As if you don't know," she rasps bitterly.

My hands clench into fists at my sides and I slowly draw a deep breath, trying my best to remain calm. The keys to the cell dig into my palm and the pain in my head intensifies under the effort to keep my anger contained. Holding her stare, I ask again, "Who did this?"

From my low, menacing tone, she must realize I'm not messing around. Her lips part in surprise, a little puff of air escaping. Then she quickly schools her expression, carding her fingers through her tangled blonde strands with a scowl. "One of your fucking buddies came down here and threatened me."

White-hot fury sears through my veins at her revelation. It's one thing for me to put my hands on her, but the thought of someone else doing it makes me blind with rage. She's mine to torture. Mine to bend to my will. MINE .

"What did he look like?" I demand, squeezing the keys tighter in my fist until I feel the bite of the metal breaking the skin.

Her blonde hair swishes around her face as she shakes her head. "I don't know," she mutters. "My height, stocky. Scar on his lip."

Kyle fucking Griffin.

I abruptly spin around, storming to the stairs and taking them two at a time in my ascent. I'm so worked up that I key in the wrong code on the lock panel at the top the first time around, a red light blinking at me in response to my error. Taking a steadying breath, I punch in the numeric sequence again and the lock disengages with a beep, allowing me to shove open the door and emerge into the hall, hellbent on finding the man who dared to touch what's mine .

The first place I check is the living room, and sure enough, that piece of shit Griff is lounging on one of the leather sofas, chumming it up with Adams. As soon as I lay eyes on the guy, the beast in my mind starts rattling his cage harder, all my carefully contained rage threatening to spill over. I storm into the room like a thundercloud, my skin tingling, vision tunneling.

"You piece of shit," I snarl as I stomp up to Griff, grabbing him by the front of his shitty black t-shirt and hauling him up from the couch. In the same move, I twist at the waist and slam his back down onto the coffee table, the glass top shattering from the force of his landing.

"What the fuck?!" Griff tries to protest as his body collapses awkwardly through the metal frame, but the time for talking is long over. I tried to warn him about stepping out of line this morning, but the asshole clearly didn't take it on board. Instead, he chose to retaliate, and this is the consequence.

"Did I give you permission to engage with the prisoner?" I shout, raining blows down on him from above. He tries to respond, but my fist connects with his mouth before he can get a word out. "You think you can just do whatever the fuck you want? Disobey direct orders?"

All of my questions are rhetorical. He can't answer while I'm punching him in the face over and over again, my blind fury bleeding out through my fists. Blood sprays from his nose as one connects with a sickening crack, his wails of pain barely registering through the loud buzz of my pulse pounding in my ears. It's not enough, though. I want him to hurt , because he hurt her .

"Whoa, what's going on in here?!" Dad's commanding voice cuts through the white noise in my head and I freeze, whipping around toward the sound. My grip on the front of Griff's shirt loosens, the fabric sliding from my fingers as he collapses, his body folding through the frame of the coffee table. He rolls out from beneath it with a pained groan, curling up into the fetal position on the floor.

Shit . The room slowly comes back into focus, a handful of other soldiers up on their feet and staring at me, wide-eyed. My father's glaring daggers at me, his shoulders bunched and his jaw clenched.

"Outside, now!" he barks, jerking his chin in command and leaving me no choice but to follow as he starts for the patio doors.

I send one last hard kick to Griff's ribs before stepping over him, the other soldiers in the room granting me a wide berth to pass by on my way out. The door to the patio is standing open, my stone-faced father waiting for me on the other side, and I already know I'm going to get an earful.

"What the hell was that about?" he demands as soon as I step outside and close the door behind me.

I fold my arms over my chest, meeting his judgmental stare. "He roughed up the prisoner."

"So?" Dad challenges.

" So , not only did he compromise the progress I've made with her thus far, but the only reason he did it was to undermine my authority," I snap, trying to rationalize the way I just lost my shit in there. "I gave him a direct order to stay out, and he chose to go down there. It wasn't his-"

"Have you been drinking?" Dad cuts in, and my hackles raise even further.

"No, I haven't been fucking drinking!"

Except yeah, I have been. Not that I'll admit it to him, but I slammed a couple of vodka shots before heading down to the basement to take the edge off. This has nothing to do with the alcohol in my bloodstream, though; it has everything to do with Kyle Griffin being a colossal piece of shit.

Dad heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. "This isn't how we deal with our issues here, son," he murmurs, shaking his head disapprovingly .

"No, we've sent men home for less," I point out.

He shakes his head again, grumbling, "You know we can't do that with him."

"Why the fuck not?" I challenge.

He levels me with a stern stare, like I should fucking know , and I do. But still, it's not a good enough reason to keep a lowlife like him around.

"We don't need his fucking money!" I shout, throwing up my hands. "Have you seen the accounts lately?!"

Dad narrows his dark eyes on me, the frustration in them echoing my own. "Yeah, and where do you think that last deposit came from?"

I scowl, kicking the toe of a boot against the pavement. I should've known that. If I'd been keeping up with our financials lately, I'd have a log of each and every donation's source and would've seen that the most recent one was attributable to him.

"Fuck," I grumble, stabbing my fingers through my thick mess of curls.

My father's boots scuff against the pavement as he moves closer to me, clapping a hand down on my shoulder and gazing into my eyes earnestly. "I understand why you reacted, but you need to get your anger under control, Cameron. I don't want to walk in on another scene like that."

"Yeah, I know," I mutter, looking away.

Dad sighs again, giving my shoulder a squeeze before releasing it. "Make nice with Griffy boy. He's been punished enough by you beating his face in. I'm sure he won't step out of line again."

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I begrudgingly nod. "Fine."

My father moves past me to head back inside, while I linger outside for a few more minutes, drawing measured breaths and carefully tucking my anger back into the cage I built for it in my mind. When I finally feel calm enough to go back in, I head straight for the fridge and help myself to a couple of beers. Tucking them in the crook of my arm, I stoop to get an ice pack from the freezer, then march into the living room and toss it at Griffin. He's retaken his seat on the sofa, looking fucking pitiful with his bloodied and bruised face. It's already swelling up like a sonofabitch.

"Let this be a lesson to everyone about respecting authority," I murmur, sweeping my gaze over the other soldiers in the room. "There are rules in place for a fucking reason. Know your place."

A muttered chorus of ‘yes sir' rings out and I refocus on Griff, pointing a finger at him. "You're on thin ice, Griffin. Don't let me catch you pulling that shit again or you're outta here."

He nods weakly. "Understood, sir," he rasps under his breath.

Jesus, just looking at the guy makes me want to punch him again. He's a fucking waste of space.

Turning on a heel, I head back outside to the patio, needing some fresh air to clear my head. I sink down in one of the Adirondack chairs around the firepit and twist the cap off one of the beer bottles, positioning the other on the wide wooden arm of the chair. Tossing the cap across the pavement, I lift the bottle to my lips and throw it back, taking a few swigs as my fingers drum against the armrest in agitation.

If Ben was here, he'd know what to say to help me get my head on straight. He could always talk me down. Nobody understands me like Ben did, not even my own father.

I hear the patio door open behind me, glancing up as Matty walks over to the firepit and claims the chair beside mine. He gives me a sympathetic look, pressing his lips together in a tight line.

"Griff had it coming," he murmurs, shifting his weight on the chair to get comfortable .

I grunt in agreement, grabbing the unopened beer off the armrest and leaning forward, holding it out to him in offering.

He shakes his head.

"Drink it if you wanna stay," I grumble, and he reaches out to take it from me, cracking the top and taking a sip.

The two of us sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, nursing our beers and staring out at the dense forest beyond the cabin. It's not the same as having Ben here, but I appreciate Matty's quiet show of support. He's a good kid; it's a shame he had to get mixed up with The Guild. His years of service will eventually rob him of that light in his eyes, just like they did to me.

"Would you have any interest in taking on some more day-to-day duties?" I ask, finally breaking the silence. "Helping me out with scheduling and team management, things like that."

He lowers his beer bottle from his mouth, nodding slowly. "The stuff Ben used to do."

I wince at hearing his name spoken aloud, taking another swig of my own beer and swallowing thickly. "Yeah."

Matty nods again, chewing on his lower lip. "I know I can't replace him, but I'm definitely up for taking on a larger role here. I just want to contribute, be a valuable part of the team."

"You remind me of myself when I was your age," I say with a wry chuckle. "Well, except you actually want to be here."

"Sure," he replies, a heavy undertone of sarcasm in his voice.

I narrow my eyes on him in question and he heaves a sigh, setting his beer down on the armrest and wiping his mouth off on a forearm. "I never would've heard the end of it from my uncle if I didn't join up. He was pretty adamant that this was the right career path for me."

"Yeah, Matthews is diehard Guild," I agree, picking at the label on my bottle with a fingernail as I contemplate what he's not saying. Lifting my gaze to him, I arch a curious brow. "So you don't actually believe in this stuff? "

"Well obviously I believe in the supernatural now," he replies with a quiet laugh.

"Not that," I grumble. "The rest of it. The fear of anything inhuman and the need to eradicate it from existence."

Matty flicks me a hesitant glance. "Honestly?"

"Don't bullshit me, kid."

He sighs again, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Not like the others do. Doesn't mean I won't do my best in the field, though. I'll still cut my teeth and earn my place."

"I can respect that," I murmur, nodding. Because I feel the same damn way. Despite my father's indoctrination, I've always struggled with fully committing myself to the cause. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me," I say with a wink, and Matty's lips pull into a grin in response.

At least I don't have to pretend with him. Maybe the two of us can work through our doubts together; find something worth believing in other than revenge.

"C'mon, I've got a few things you can get started on now," I say, finishing off the rest of my beer and pushing up to my feet. I wave for him to follow me inside and he readily complies, looking eager to get started.