Page 44 of Morally Corrupt

"I can't."

"Damn it, B."

"Look, I can't leave. But I'll do my best to wean myself off on my own."

Vlad sighs in defeat. "Fine. But you call me if you need anything."

"Of course," I agree, and I go for a hug. For all his nagging, Vlad has been a prized friend for an awfully long time. He's probably one of the few people who know the whole truth about me, and I trust him with my life.

"I should probably go."

"Take care. And contact me if anything. I mean it."

"I will." I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Then, before I leave, I go to the wall and retrieve my knife.

"Thanks for everything, Berserker." I wink at him, and he groans.

* * *

I am a certified sociopath if you couldn't already tell.

You grow up surrounded by wealth and glitz but zero human connection. You act out in a manner that is typical to you, that is normal for you. You lie, cheat, deceive. Until someone comes along and tells you that's not normal. That you're not normal.

That's what happened to me when I was ten.

When I suddenly found out why my father ignored me and why the staff avoided me. I wasn't normal. I was defective. But I was also disruptive.

Evil.

If my father had been religious, he'd have called for an exorcism. But he was just cynical, so he'd shrugged it off and moved on.

It wasn't until Drew was assigned as my bodyguard that someone pointed out my behavior was wrong. Different. He cared enough to get me professional help, even though the prognosis wasn't something to be proud of.

Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Suddenly, there was a reason why I liked violence. Why I didn't value human life. Why I'd spin whatever lie I could to achieve my goals. The shrink told me the cause might be early childhood neglect and abuse. I didn't believe him. After all, I'd never cared whether my father acknowledged me or not. I had my own world.

But as I was growing up, so did my ideas evolve into more complex scenarios. Scenarios that put people at risk and made me into a danger to society. Or so I'd been told.

My father didn't care. Of course, he wouldn't. I didn't care either; I didn't care about society. But Drew cared. Drew had a high sense of morality, and he felt it was his duty to ensure I could control myself.

He'd taken it upon himself to help me channel my rage and bloodthirst into more productive endeavors. He'd taught me how to fight, spar, and shoot. The shooting soothed me. That calmed the rage. It started with pistols. Then, when he discovered I had an inclination for it, he'd taught me how to use sniper rifles. And that's how my love affair with shooting started.

By the time I was sixteen, I was as well trained as any professional. But I also had something most didn't—a disregard for right or wrong. To make sure I kept my urges in check, Drew guided me towards mercenary work. I didn't kill because I needed the money. I killed because I needed to kill.

Besides my comprehensive skill set, I was also blessed with a small frame and quick reflexes that helped me get out of most situations. My penchant for disguises also came in handy, and I always managed to cover my traces thoroughly.

I killed my first target the summer I turned sixteen. It wasn't glamorous or messy. Or anything, really. It was also how I met Vlad, three years my senior and one of the sons of the Pakhan of the Russian Bratva, my contractor. He'd laughed at me when he'd been told I was accompanying him on the mission. We were to kill a Ukrainian official who had a fondness for underage girls and who had gotten on the Bratva's wrong side. Initially, Vlad was supposed to make the killing while I'd serve as a distraction. I didn't care about specifics. I'd gone to a hotel room with the man, and within five minutes, he'd been dead. When Vlad had come in to finish the job, he'd raged at me for stealing his kill.

"I thought you said girls are useless." I'd raised an eyebrow at him and dared him to comment on it. He'd pursed his lips and told me to get out of there.

That was the start of a very rocky partnership. We were paired together on different missions for the whole year, all of which ended in arguments and bickering. For all the disagreements, though, a pleasant camaraderie developed between us. I'd quickly recognized that Vlad, like me, didn't have a moral compass. (Although his sense of humor was more developed than mine.) But we did share something far more critical than any feeling of right and wrong. Loyalty. While we both struggled with human companionship and social interactions, we recognized loyalty for what it was—the ultimate badge of honor.

Although we were branded as monsters by society, we built our own honor system, and we held each other in the highest esteem. We became known as Artemis and the Berserker.

Until it all changed.

* * *

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