Page 32 of Betrothed in Fury
“You clearly weren’t the only one enjoying it.”
I won’t reveal the circumstances under which Logan gave me that blowjob, but I don’t dismiss what Rage says either. Despite Logan’s insistence, even I felt a moment where his jaw relaxed and he submitted entirely to the experience.
Fuck, if he gives me all his holes like that…
Again, I try to stop these perverse thoughts, especially around my brother.
“I’ve some wheeling and dealing to manage today,” he adds.
His charm positioned him at the head of our PR front. He’s very much the salesman of the family. We each have our talent, but sales certainly wasn’t mine. Not with this personality.
He starts like he’s about to head out before noticing the roses I clipped.
“Say hey to Pops for me.”
It doesn’t surprise me that he understood why I’d cut Old Terror’s favorites. It’s been too long since I’ve paid him a visit.
Rage grabs my face, the way Dad might have. “I gave you an instruction,” he says in his best imitation, and despite how degrading the move is, it does make me miss the fuck.
Rage heads on his way, and when I finish pruning the roses, I have Jaime drive me out to St. Luke’s. I don’t have any meetings today, and for a change, Rage isn’t in any trouble I need to get him out of, so it’s a good day for the visit. Besides, I have some things weighing on my mind after everything that’s happened with Logan.
When I come to Dad’s headstone, I settle on my knees.
Adoring husband, loving father,his epitaph reads.
Despite what the rest of the world saw, I knew the truth of his character. Yes, he was a psychopath, and if you were his enemy, he would crush you same as I would, but he was more than the foul deeds that gained him his reputation. He could be good, kind, caring, though he didn’t necessarily show it the way others might expect.
I set the roses beside the headstone.
“Well, here we are. And you’re still dead.”
Even after all these years, it remains a painful blow.
Given the particulars of my personality, I don’t experience loss as others do. I don’t miss a great man as much as a great weapon—a possession, even. And where others might think of what their loved one is missing out on, I reflect on those benefits I had from his presence in my life. This feeling seems reserved for Old Terror because, while I miss my mother and siblings, that loss is mixed with disdain at the inconvenience of their deaths.
There’s an echo in my ears, the sound of gunshots on the day the Folcrums descended upon us while we were securing a shipment. They slaughtered the Lordes with abandon, successfully trimming down a family of eight to a family of two, myself and Rage the only survivors.
I wait for the echo to quiet before I go on. “I had that meeting with that bastard Wilde. Honestly, I thought he might be too much of a coward to pull it off. But it seems we’re really going to follow through. I don’t know that I believe this is a good idea anymore.”
For the first time since our conversation, I let some of those thoughts I’ve resisted since breakfast creep back in…when I mentioned our responsibilities to Logan. Emotions bubble up—rage being one of the few I can experience with any intensity—before becoming a hurricane in my mind, terrorizing me as I see the moment when he was in the heat of killing Sik Vik.
That was the real Logan. The version of himself he doesn’t show the world, can’t show the world, just like I could never show the world my true self, the character flaws my siblings and I inherited. Old Terror demanded we each harness the power of our true characters since he knew it was the only way we would survive in this world. And he was right, but of all my siblings, I spent the most time grappling with my diagnosis in my teens—between various mixes of medications and therapy to find a way to manage the darkness. There was plenty ofdisagreement on the precise genetic and environmental mix of my mental cocktail, but several phrases were repeated among specialists—antisocial personality disorder, co-occurring factor 1 and 2 psychopathy, obsessive behaviors, narcissism, Machiavellian, borderline traits. And while I appreciate the observations made by experts, I consider myself utterly unique, which unfortunately, might make all the things suspected about me one hundred percent accurate.
Despite the years I’ve spent learning to harness the darker part of my nature, Logan makes me want to cave to the sickest impulses within me. When I first summoned him, I wanted to possess him because of the agreement, out of duty. But now that I’ve seen what he is, I want to possess him still, but out of selfishness. It’s something I haven’t wanted to admit to myself, something that’s still hard because I know what that means.
“I’m not the kind of man who should be marrying anyone,” I tell Dad, “but at least I’ve seen enough of him to know that if there’s a man who can understand my black heart, it’s him. Yet I see something beautiful and powerful in him, something more honorable than me, and it makes me want to possess him even more. I wish I could be scared for him. Scared what this wickedness in me will do to him. Because it doesn’t know how to love, only command and destroy.”
I side-eye the headstone, imagining what Dad might say to that.
“I don’t want to hear any of this.”
“Get a backbone before I tear out the one you have.”
“I’ll shoot you in the foot if you keep acting this pathetic.”
Oh, Dad… It’s moments like those I miss.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t betray you. I’ll do as you wished and marry him. I will protect the Wildes like they’re Lordes, ignoring my own happiness. And whether either of us likes it ornot, I will make sure he submits to me. Even if that means I have to break him.”
