Page 16 of How Much For a Life of Lies?

The adrenalin rush had long since worn off, leaving me hollow and drained. Memories flooded my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. The years of torment, the endless cycle of abuse—it all crashed back with a vengeance. I thought I’d be able to handle it—look Clarke in the eye and not hurt him for what he’d done to children just like me. I’d wanted to do my bit, take him in and let the authorities deal with what he’d done.

But…

I could still hear the voices from my childhood, mocking and cruel, the sting of blows, the pain, and all I felt was hate. I faced Zach, and his expression was neutral, as if he’d cycled through disbelief, betrayal, worry, fear, and landed on nothing. I opened my mouth to explain, to offer him some sarcastic comment that might defuse the situation, but I was weak, dizzy, and my legs gave out on me when I sank to my knees under the window. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, hot and bitter, as I struggled to understand what I’d done.

Of the fact there’d been a witness.

In that moment, I felt like a child again, small, and powerless in the face of overwhelming darkness. But a hand touched my shoulder, startling me, my eyes opening as Zach’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Talk to me, Kai.” He was too gentle—he didn’t demand to know what the fuck I’d done, or why I’d gone off-task. He didn’t accuse me of having no control, of messing things up. He watched me as if I was something fragile.

I hate that.

“I killed the bad guy,” I said after a while. The words were ash in my mouth, and I swallowed.

“Why,” he asked, and went from a crouch to sitting cross-legged in front of me. “Why was this one…” Different? Violent? Completely out of control?

“Shit,” I muttered, and buried my face in my hands, scrubbing my eyes. He yanked at my damaged hand and examined the wounds.

“We need to get to the hospital,” he began.

I slipped my hand free. “It’s nothing,” I said.

He explored the split skin up close. “These could get infected, maybe scar.”

I huffed a laugh, then knocked my head back to the wall. “One more scar won’t hurt.”

He made a tut of disapproval, reached for the med pack, grabbing my hand again to smooth antiseptic on the wounds, then put Band-Aids on the worst of them with a gentle touch. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken questions hanging between us. I knew he was struggling to make sense of my actions, to understand the motivations that had driven me to kill Clarke. When he finished, I sat back with my legs crossed, and he shuffled his ass until his back was against the bed, then waited. His expression softened with empathy and understanding and what was worse was there was no judgment.

As if he wanted to understand.

“Start from the beginning,” he said.

I groaned and closed my eyes.

SEVEN

Zach

Kai’s gaze flickered to mine, his expression blank now, after I’d watched him cycle through shock and disbelief, then settle on dismissive, as if it didn’t matter at all even with Clarke’s blood on his hands.

He tilted his chin. “I did what I had to do.”

He was trying for confrontation, but I knew him well enough to hear that his voice strained with emotion. This wasn’t the Kai I was used to sitting in front of me, and instinct told me not to call him on his attitude or lose my shit and end up arguing. There was no real bluster and confidence. This was him broken.

We sat for a beat and I had to think about how I worded this for fear of him losing his shit and walking out.

“Killing the target wasn’t our mission.”

He winced as he dropped his focus on me to stare at his lap instead. “Duh.”

That was a non-answer, and I wasn’t letting him get away with that. Knowing why it had happened would tell me whether I’d have to lie to have his back, or just embellish the truth. “So, why did you kill him?”

There had to be a reason, somewhere beyond temper, and I wanted to hear it from him. The way he’d ended the man was animalistic, raw, and so fucking painful for him.

He gave a heavy sigh, then removed his weapon from his holster and balanced it on his knee. A psychologist would have a field day with the way Kai often sat with the HK in his hand, smoothing the metal, like some kind of comfort blanket.

“You should go,” he murmured, tapping the gun, and curling his finger around the trigger, then loosening his hold.

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