Page 50 of Tempest

Tempest

“We haveto get rid of her.”

Miguel’s office door bangs against the wall from the force of my entry.

“Oh?” He doesn’t look up from his papers as I spread out in one of the wingback chairs in front of his desk.

I force myself to say her name. “Ardyn Kaine is a problem.”

It’s risky to mention her to Miguel—again—and draw continuous attention to her, but after last night’s party, I’m left with little option.

“For whom?” Miguel raises his gaze enough to stare pointedly at my tapping foot. I force it still.

An unwelcome voice adds behind me, “If her attendance at our university pisses you off so much, why didn’t you kill her along with the friend when you had the chance?”

My upper lip twitches. I stifle the urge to leap over my chair and bang his forehead against a stack of books.

“How nice that you’re here, Hunter,” I say, gripping the armrests. “I was sure you’d be nursing the tits of some co-ed while asking her to wear your goat mask this morning.”

“Ah, if you knew me at all, Storm Cloud, you’d know I jacked off over three of them last night before they licked my cum off each other’s bellies.”

Miguel curls his lip in distaste. I mime blowing my pinky and sticking my tongue in my cheek, to which Miguel holds up his finger in warning. Why I get reprimanded while this asshole behind me prances around with his small dick and big mouth is beyond comprehension.

“How much longer is this prick in our lives?” I ask Miguel.

“For about as long as it takes for you to be a big boy and tell a girl to weave you awone.” Hunter adopts the pitch of a toddler, and this time, I give myself full permission to bolt out of my seat and ram him against the bookshelf.

Snarling, Hunter aims a punch at my kidney, which I dodge, then land an uppercut to the back of his neck.

Hunter sprawls to the floor. I quirk my lips in satisfaction. Then he ruins it by lifting up from the ground, cackling. Fucking cackling.

“You’re a sick motherfucker,” I say, stepping over him. I fix my cuffs, then resume my seat.

“And you are both immature burdens on my otherwise satisfactory life,” Miguel says dryly as he watches the tussle. “Can I ask why the two of you are ruining my morning coffee break?”

“I’m concerned over my comrade’s loyalties,” Hunter says, smoothing his slacks. “Storm Cloud didn’t participate in last night’s ritual. He was too busy trying to fuck damaged goods.”

A wildfire spreads from my gut to the backs of my eyes. I’d like to roast Hunter where he stands and use his ribs as my pitchfork. “Call her that again, think about her one more time, and I will personally ensure you meet one of your coveted Anderton witches after I carve out your—”

“Enough!” Miguel’s roar cuts between us. He lifts from his seat. His palms slam into his desk so resolutely that the paperweights rattle. “I did not sign on to be your mother hen to prevent you two from pecking each other to death. You’re meant to be above all this. I rotted in hell for years to become this, and you two have the gall to insult our ethos, to shit all over our traditions, and for what? To see who can piss the furthest?”

Only Miguel possesses the power to shut me up. The veins in his arms bulge with temper, a particularly big one making it to the center of his forehead. It’s no secret within our Outfit that Miguel worked his way up from the streets, first as a messenger, and then, once he’d proven himself a cold-blooded killer, to a soldier who fucked up, was exiled to this university, and then ultimately paved his path to the current lieutenant of the Vultures. We’re known in our circle as cast-offs and mistakes. Still, we’ve made infamy by picking at the bones of our enemies and feasting on their rotted meat by leaving them as messages for our future targets to see. After witnessing how far Miguel would go to protect his men, I have no doubt in his capabilities to exact particular and immediate punishment.

I don’t come from the streets, but I’ve emerged from another kind of filth. Dirty money, a twisted father, and an initiation into a cult in high school that would make even the goat fucker over here blush.

Miguel has earned my respect, a moniker very few individuals claim. In the few short years under his tutelage, he’s become more of a father to me than my own. It’s for that reason alone that I shut my mouth and allow Hunter to run his.

“I don’t get distracted,” Hunter defends. “Unlike Storm Cloud. You want me to gut, mutilate, and kill? I’m your guy. A pretty lady doesn’t factor into it. I can fuck and fulfill my duties all day. It’s why I can so easily see that you”—he points at me—“need a serious wake-up call.”

“That is my decision to make,” Miguel warns. “And as yet, Tempest does not require it.”

I give a curt nod in thanks.

“Though I do agree Tempest’s lines are currently blurred.”

I pull in my brows. “Excuse me?”

Miguel leans back knowingly, folding his arms across his chest. “Your sister. You didn’t want to leave her as the only remaining runt of her tiny litter of friends and left her one to play with instead of cleaning up the mess entirely. Well, son, now you must endure the consequences, as any effort on my part to expel Miss Kaine from the premises will be openly studied by the higher-ups.”

---