Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(102)

No!

He can’t leave like this.

He can’t be so heartless to leave without saying goodbye.

Damn him! Damn his revenge. Damn his drive to avenge me.

Didn’t he get that all I wanted was him to be safe? To live a life together?

What if he got hurt? Everything we’d been through would be pointless!

Tonight wasn’t about business meetings or interviews. He was no longer a man in a suit but a biker in a cut. Last night had been the beginning of something. But today was the end of someone.

Today was war.

He hadn’t even had the decency to tell me!

My heart fissured with a soul-destroying earthquake.

Grasshopper gunned the bike, taking his frustration out on the engine. “Don’t hate the dude. He’s doing the best he can.”

No, he’s doing what he’s always done: not letting me share his problems.

Suddenly, it was all too much. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I didn’t want to be there. “Take me back, Hopper. I’m done.”

Grasshopper stiffened and for the longest moment, I waited for him to crack and admit what he seemed too afraid to say. When he didn’t, I squeezed his middle. “Take me wherever he is. Do it.”

Grasshopper inhaled, his chest expanding beneath my touch. “I would if I could, but I can’t.”

“Why is that just a common phrase these days?”

He shook his head. “I can’t because he’s already gone.”

No, no. No!

Everything inside became a fossil.

“What do you mean … already gone?”

He cringed. “I was supposed to keep you distracted. You weren’t supposed to worry. I’m sorry, Cleo, but he’s already there.”

My lungs ceased to work. “Where … already where?”

Don’t say it.

Do. Not. Say. It.

“He’s gone to face Rubix. He’s gone to finish a war.”





Chapter Thirty


Kill


I’d always known I’d been raised to be a killer. Being the son of a murderer sort of defined my destiny. I’d been twelve when my father had taken me to witness my first homicide. Everything he’d done—boosting a car, trading coke, laundering a few rifles—was his side business. I’d been sworn to secrecy. Thorn Price never knew. I didn’t like lying to Cleo’s family. I’d hated blatantly hiding things from my president. But I’d had no choice. I’d lied to survive. —Kill, age fifteen

Grasshopper lied.

He lied for me. He lied to my woman. And he hated it.

Once more, I was a fugitive.

A liar.

A thief.

And I was about to become a murderer all over again.

I despised lying to Cleo. But I couldn’t tell her my true plans. I couldn’t run the risk of her following me and getting hurt again. I’d caused her enough suffering. These were my sins—not hers. And I f*cking refused to have her pay another cent.

Lying was the only way I could keep her safe.

Sleeping beside Cleo last night, I’d ached to touch her one last time, to whisper in her ear and say that I loved her and would miss her—just in case tonight didn’t go well.

But I couldn’t do that.

I could only drink in the sight of her blazing red hair and hope to f*cking God I survived.

Watching her sleep, I begged her not to dream of me. Not to dream of death and destruction.

And when the sun rose, I had to pretend that today was any normal day. I hid my rising anxiety and played the perfect part so I didn’t raise her suspicions. Luckily, I’d had practice misleading those I cared about. First Thorn Price, then Cleo, then my own father as I fell more into Cleo and lied to protect her.

If I hadn’t learned through habit and necessity, there was no way I would’ve succeeded. She would’ve guessed the moment I said good morning—her intuition far exceeded my ability to bullshit.

The minute we’d eaten, I sneaked away—like the fugitive I was.

I couldn’t stand to be around her for another f*cking minute in case my entire plan collapsed like a hopeless stack of cards.

The men had been informed.

The plan put into execution.

And Grasshopper was enlisted to distract her with monotonous businesses and pointless errands. Only once the brothers had been equipped, armed, and headed out to Night Crusaders could he return her home and come and join us.

Tonight, she would curse me. She would hate me for what I’d done. But I would take her hate gladly, as it would mean there was no way for her to chase us. We would vanish to do what was necessary, while she would be safe, far away from carnage.

If tonight worked—if the gods of fate had decreed I’d paid my toll and deserved my final retribution—then I would return a peaceful man. I would never raise arms again. I would have no need to. I would be content and redeemed. And Cleo would never have to worry.

I’d lived the past few years smelling nothing but blood. I’d existed craving nothing but revenge.

That was all at an end.

Tonight, I’ll finally find closure.

My appetite for peace would be sated. My hunger for justice fed.

Salvation.

Shaking away the cobwebs of my thoughts, I centered myself. All thoughts of Cleo were silenced. All nerves that I might die deleted. All I needed to focus on was clearheaded anger.