Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2) Read online

  For a minute, there was no noise. Just the gentle hissing of fire devouring gasoline. It lulled me into a false sense of anticlimactic apprehension.

  Then … the first explosion sounded.

  It ricocheted around the world like a ring of Saturn.

  Both Arthur and I cried out at the pain ringing in our ears. He stumbled backward as the windows of the Clubhouse suddenly detonated outward, raining in an almighty storm of glittering shards.

  “Boom!” Grasshopper laughed, clapping his hands as Arthur staggered toward his brothers.

  “Perfect night for fireworks, huh, Kill?” Mo winked, his face alight with erupting fire.

  Another explosion followed, thumping through the night sky like a battle drum. The pressure of it sent shock waves pulsing around us.

  Larger and larger.

  Hungrier and hungrier.

  Dagger Rose was completely engulfed.

  The bigger the flames became, the more entranced I was.

  Fire had hurt me. Fire had almost killed me.

  But I couldn’t hate or fear it.

  That was the thing with flames. It was neither friend nor foe. It had no feelings or agendas. One moment it was a necessity of life: a giver of both heat and safety; then, without warning, it could become the greatest of enemies.

  I’d crawled through its painful embrace.

  I wore its mark upon my skin.

  I was part flame, part human.

  And in a way, I understood it. Appreciated its singular purpose with no favorites between wicked and right.

  We stood silently, each wrapped up in the symphony of explosions rocking the night around us. And as I watched my old home become consumed by fiery teeth, I felt a purging.

  A release.

  I hoped Arthur felt it, too. I hoped he’d finally begun the journey to moving past the hatred and finding salvation.

  My amnesia still toyed with my memories, but I knew enough of my birthright that our enemies should quake in terror at the formidable force Arthur and I would create.

  This was just the beginning.

  This was the start of our reign.

  Holding out my arms, I hung in Arthur’s embrace, giving myself once again to the fire.

  Only this time, I didn’t burn.

  I glowed.

  Chapter Eight

  Kill

  I could solve any equation.

  I could find any sequence or pattern.

  But I was completely idiotic when it came to understanding Cleo Price.

  She said she wanted me as her friend. Yet when I did my utmost to remain in the parameters of friendship, she demanded more from me. And when I told her I wanted to give her more but she was too young, she no longer wanted to be my friend.

  What did she want from me? And more importantly, what did I want from her? —Kill, age sixteen

  Holding her in my arms was sheer fucking torture.

  Watching our old home disappear into smoke was a triumphant honor.

  I was both happy and sad. Relieved and terrified.

  Cleo was safe. Dagger Rose was destroyed. But my father was still out there … plotting my demise as I plotted his.

  These cat-and-mouse games had to stop.

  I thought of all the times I could’ve dispatched him. I could’ve slaughtered him the moment I was released from jail. But where was the glory in that? Where was the joy in delivering an easy death to a man who deserved agony instead?

  I wanted to make him pay.

  So, I’d worked tirelessly on plans and elaborate conquests, concocting ideas to bring him to his knees.

  I wanted him suffering.

  I wanted him to beg me to chop off his head with my rightful vengeance.

  That pleasure belonged to me. I was owed that.

  So why did I feel as if I’d failed Cleo all over again?

  Why had she paid another fucking price in my quest for perfect revenge?

  Because something deeper than revenge now rules you.

  Cleo eclipsed everything. She was my Sagittarius, my soul mate, my best friend. Not only had I failed her once and persecuted us to eight years apart, but she’d also been harmed twice at my father’s hand. She’d suffered more than she ever should and it was all because of me and my need to settle the score.

  I wanted to forget about my goal—to halt the guillotine hovering over both our futures—because if I didn’t, if I continued chasing death, then I didn’t deserve her.

  And I want so fucking much to deserve her.

  While I’d been busy preparing for Rubix’s death, he’d been busy preparing mine.

  Twin graves.

  Twin murders.

  And if he won, he would take Cleo.

  That can’t fucking happen.

  This wasn’t about my need for perfection anymore.

  This was about ending it so Cleo was safe.

  There was no time for pleasure or precision.

  War was no longer coming.

  It was here.

  Chapter Nine

  Cleo

  Mom had taught me how to apply lipstick and mascara.

  She said makeup could be used in all forms of warfare. She said I could use it against Arthur. To make him fall, make him stumble. She said I had all the power. But I didn’t agree. No matter what weapon I chose, I couldn’t break through his walls. I couldn’t get him to admit the truth. He hid behind secrets—trying to protect me with silence. He didn’t understand that he hurt me more by ignoring what was between us, rather than facing it and giving me a chance. —Cleo, diary entry, age thirteen

  “Where did you get this car from?” I asked as Arthur gently placed me on the beige leather backseat. The front consoles gleamed with newness and a Mercedes logo glittered on the steering wheel.

  Arthur gave me half a smile, tucking the duvet around me and brushing hair away from my blood-sticky cheeks. “No idea. It’s Grasshopper’s new … acquisition.”

  My ears pricked at the half-truth. “He stole a car?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Seriously, after everything that’s just happened you’re pissed over a boost?”

  Trying to soften my shock, I smiled teasingly. “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you can take anything you fancy.”

  He relaxed, light returning to his strained gaze. “I think you’ll find that’s exactly what having money means. Look it up—I’ll bet you that’s the definition in the dictionary.”

  Rolling my eyes, I winced as my head throbbed in response.

  Note to self: don’t roll eyes.

  “What do you bet me?” I never looked away from him. The moment stretched like a kitten, aged like a fine wine. It was so nice to just be … to enjoy a tiny respite of normalcy.

  How long had it been since Rubix took me?

  Time felt both longer and shorter.

  The past eight years had faded to inconsequential along with every other second that we were apart. Vibrancy only entered my life when he was in it.

  “I bet you …” His voice trailed off, thoughts flickering like colors in his gaze. “I bet you an orgasm.”

  “A what?” I giggled, ignoring my hammering head.

  “You heard me.” He glanced at my lips. “I’ll show you that wealth means you can have anything you want. If I’m wrong and you win, I’ll give you the best orgasm you’ve ever had. I’ll obey whatever you ask. I’ll do whatever you need.”

  My heart faltered in favor of a quivering clench. “And if I lose?”

  His lips turned up into a wicked smile. “If you forfeit and I win, you have to do what I want. Submit to whatever I desire.” His arms bunched as he planted them on either side of me. “Let me rule you.”

  Rule me now.

  I shivered as the air crackled with belonging.

  I was mostly naked, Arthur was in pain, and Dagger Rose was in flames behind us, but our desire was a stronger force—knitting us together after our time apart.

  I’d never get used to the intensity bet
ween us.

  Untangling my hand from the bedding, I held it up to strike our bargain. “Deal.”

  Arthur shook his head, amused. Taking my hand, he shook firmly and rolled his shoulders to slide backward out of the door. “Deal.”

  He looked happier than before—less burdened and bruised, but his gaze still held acres of pain. “Oh, and, Buttercup? I already know what I’ll make you do when I win.”

  My mind ran amok with sexual scenarios. Blindfold me again? Tie me up?

  I know.

  The one thing he never let other women do.

  A blow job.

  My mouth watered at the thought of kneeling before him. Of submitting to him, but ultimately controlling him.

  “I like a man who is decisive.”

  He laughed quietly.

  Leaving me lying on the backseat, he stumbled a little as he stood upright outside the car.

  My heart deflated and I scrambled into a sitting position. The world swam for a second, before righting itself. “Wait, Art?”

  He ducked again, his eyes connecting with mine. “What?”

  Leaning forward, I grabbed his hand and looped our fingers together. “Are you okay? Truly?”

  He squeezed my grip, all while trying to untie me from him. His eyes skittered from mine, doing what he did in the past—hiding things from me. I hate that he’s so good at that.

  A distance that hadn’t been there before sprang up. It hovered like a warden, overseeing every spoken word and weighing them with meaning.

  Managing to free himself, he said gruffly, “I’m fine.”

  I shook my head. “No, you’re not.” Shuffling higher, my voice grew demanding. “What happened to you?”

  He ignored me, backing away from the vehicle.

  My pulse rose. Terrible conclusions filled my head. “Arthur Killian, you tell me right now. I’m done with you keeping things from me.” My voice softened, but my anger didn’t fade. “You already keep so much. Secrets upon secrets. Concerns upon concerns. You’re not alone anymore. How many times do I need to tell you that?”

  When only silence replied, I slouched against the leather. “I want to help you but I can’t unless you let me in.”

  You didn’t let me in in the past. You didn’t let me console you or brainstorm a solution to stop your abuse.

  My hands curled at the thought of how different things could’ve been if he’d confided in me or my father—if he’d trusted others to help him.

  “You can’t keep hiding behind walls, Art. Not anymore.”

  He ducked, his knees creaking under his large bulk. “I’m not hiding. And you can’t push me to discuss things I’m not ready to.”

  “Just like you won’t talk about that night?”

  He stiffened. His nostrils flared. “I told you why.”

  “You want to be behind closed doors. But why? I know what happened. Let me tell you so you can—”

  He shot upright, staggering against the Mercedes and grabbing the roof for support. “It’s so damn simple for you, isn’t it?” He bared his teeth. “Can’t you stop and think for just one second how this is for me? I’m the asshole. I’m the fucking murderer. Is it so wrong of me to pretend that you’ll still want me if we talk about that night? Is it so fucking weak of me to ignore it so I can keep you for a tiny bit longer?”

  I froze.

  His green eyes locked on mine.

  We stopped breathing.

  He’s completely clueless.

  He was more screwed up than I feared. What had his father done to him all those years ago? How had he been so brainwashed and blinded?

  “Arthur. It wasn’t like that. You don’t have to ignore or pretend—”

  Holding up his hand, he snapped, “Stop it. Just once in your life, stop trying to fix me. I know what I did and I know I can’t ask for forgiveness.” Breathing hard, he winced through a wave of pain. “Just like I can’t ask forgiveness for lying in a fucking bed with a damn concussion while you were being tormented.”

  I sat straighter, gathering my gown of bedding. “A concussion? So you aren’t okay! You’re lying to me about how bad—”

  “That’s not the fucking point, Cleo! Goddammit, don’t you see? What happened that night was because of me. And what happened now is because of me. It’s all because of me.” He punched himself in the chest. “That’s the shit-awful truth.”

  So much torment. So much incorrectly harbored guilt.

  This poor man who I loved more than anything was festering in shame that wasn’t his to bear. “You’re so wrong,” I whispered. “You’re killing yourself by not seeing the truth.”

  He ran his hands through his disheveled hair. “Not seeing the truth?” He pointed at my blood-smeared cheeks and rust-daubed chest. “You’re drenched in blood and there was a corpse in the Clubhouse. They made you watch while they killed someone. They scarred you physically as a kid and now emotionally as an adult. I can guess the rest, Cleo, and I don’t fucking like it. You can’t hide things from me—you’ve never been able to hide things from me.”

  Crap, he’s good at guessing. Always had been.

  My temper overflowed. “No—never like you, of course.” I slapped the billowing blankets. “I’ve never been able to hide—not like you. I don’t have your talent. I could never compete with the Great Secretive Art.”

  He shook his head. “Are we seriously having a fucking argument? Here?”

  “You started it!”

  “You won’t let things go!”

  “You won’t let me tell you the truth!”

  “You’re just trying to push me away because of what I did!”

  “Ah!” I grabbed my hair. “You’re impossible!”

  Pain slammed into me, reminding me my temper might want to fight but my body definitely didn’t.

  I slumped in the backseat. “I can’t deal with you right now.” I couldn’t look at him. Had he always been this frustrating? This hard to convince?

  Yes.

  So many times we’d locked horns and screamed until we were torn apart by worried family members. We fought over everything. When we were younger, our battles were over stupid things like stationery thievery and bicycle tampering. When we were older, it was about lipstick smears on his cheek from two-bit hussies and innocent messages to me from boys in my class.

  We were jealous.

  We were possessive.

  We were passionate and explosive and consumed.

  And that fiery combustion never ceased because we never gave in to what existed between us.

  But now we are together. Shouldn’t it be easier?

  Silence was heavy and breathless as our cease-fire lengthened.

  Tears pricked my eyes. My head bellowed, my stomach was empty, and all I wanted to do was have a shower and get rid of the sticky blood and memories. But I also wanted to clear the air between us. To let him know that he didn’t need to fear—

  Of course!

  Sitting higher, I said urgently, “All this time and I didn’t see it.”

  He frowned. “See what?”

  “The past few weeks I hurt you with not remembering us, our past—of leaving you behind. When you took me to the beach, I knew how much you needed me to remember, but at the same time, you were hoping I would never recall that night—”

  He reared back; his face shut down. “We have to go. We’re going around in damn circles.”

  Slamming the door, he didn’t hear my whispered, “Everything you think you know about that night is a lie. You went to prison believing a lie. And you’re pushing me away because of a lie.”

  How could I be so stupid? How could he be so stupid?

  Arthur thought I would leave him. Did he honestly think after the trauma of the past few days that I wouldn’t remember in explicit detail? If I had to thank Rubix for anything in my life, it would be that. For smashing through the panic, shame, and bitter grief and showing me I was strong enough to face the one recollection my mind had tried to delete.<
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  Sirens sounded on the horizon, splicing through the thick smoke from burning Dagger Rose. I’d wanted to witness the houses turning to dust. I’d wanted to laugh at the symbolism of a new beginning. But that wasn’t possible with the compound being so close to civilization and me covered in blood. Questions would be asked. Men arrested.

  Arthur was right. Talking would have to wait. And then by God, I would make him listen, even if I had to hit him over the head with another baseball bat.

  A tap on the window wrenched my head up. Grasshopper grinned, waved, then took off in a roar of thunder on his bike.

  A torrent of leather-jacketed men followed him, their motorcycles kicking up dirt like angry stallions galloping through the darkness. Roar after roar of super-charged engines devoured the silence, turning night into nightmares.

  A thrill went through me at the sound. The purr of motorbikes no longer scared me. It was my heritage. My home.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, Arthur slammed the door and slipped the key Grasshopper had given him into the ignition. The engine was so quiet, it didn’t sound like the car was on after the raucous of bikes.

  Tension and awkwardness prevailed from our unresolved fight.

  Rather than address it and bring our tempers back to boiling point, I said quietly, “I feel like you’re my taxi driver.”

  The rigidity of his back softened a little as he looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyebrow quirked. “Why?”

  “Whenever we’re in a car together, you’re always in front and I’m in the back.” My mind slipped back to the day he’d thrown me into the 4WD and shot across town to the harbor to sell me. We’d had a massive argument then, too. Seemed the only way to slap any sense into this man was to fight through his pigheadedness.

  Art didn’t say a word. Locking his fists around the steering wheel, he looked as if he prayed for patience … or pain relief.

  My heart twisted at the void between us. “I love you, Arthur,” I breathed. “No matter what, I hope you always remember that.”

  His head shot up, a low groan escaping his throat. He made eye contact in the mirror again, his face contorting with so many things. His gaze glowed in the car’s gloomy interior before he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “You kill me every time you say that, Buttercup.”