Page 27 of Vicious Luna

“So, not only did he compromise the progress I’ve made with her thus far, but the only reason he did it was to undermine my authority,” I snap, trying to rationalize the way I just lost my shit in there. “I gave him a direct order to stay out, and he chose to go down there. It wasn’t his-”

“Have you been drinking?” Dad cuts in, and my hackles raise even further.

“No, I haven’t been fucking drinking!”

Except yeah, I have been.Not that I’ll admit it to him, but I slammed a couple of vodka shots before heading down to the basement to take the edge off. This has nothing to do with the alcohol in my bloodstream, though; it has everything to do with Kyle Griffin being a colossal piece of shit.

Dad heaves a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This isn’t how we deal with our issues here, son,” he murmurs, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“No, we’ve sent men home for less,” I point out.

He shakes his head again, grumbling, “You know we can’t do that with him.”

“Why the fuck not?” I challenge.

He levels me with a stern stare, like I should fuckingknow, and I do. But still, it’s not a good enough reason to keep a lowlife like him around.

“We don’t need his fucking money!” I shout, throwing up my hands. “Have you seen the accounts lately?!”

Dad narrows his dark eyes on me, the frustration in them echoing my own. “Yeah, and where do you think that last deposit came from?”

I scowl, kicking the toe of a boot against the pavement. I should’ve known that. If I’d been keeping up with our financials lately, I’d have a log of each and every donation’s source and would’ve seen that the most recent one was attributable to him.

“Fuck,” I grumble, stabbing my fingers through my thick mess of curls.

My father’s boots scuff against the pavement as he moves closer to me, clapping a hand down on my shoulder and gazing into my eyes earnestly. “I understand why you reacted, but you need to get your anger under control, Cameron. I don’t want to walk in on another scene like that.”

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, looking away.

Dad sighs again, giving my shoulder a squeeze before releasing it. “Make nice with Griffy boy. He’s been punished enough by you beating his face in. I’m sure he won’t step out of line again.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I begrudgingly nod. “Fine.”

My father moves past me to head back inside, while I linger outside for a few more minutes, drawing measured breaths and carefully tucking my anger back into the cage I built for it in my mind. When I finally feel calm enough to goback in, I head straight for the fridge and help myself to a couple of beers. Tucking them in the crook of my arm, I stoop to get an ice pack from the freezer, then march into the living room and toss it at Griffin. He's retaken his seat on the sofa, looking fucking pitiful with his bloodied and bruised face. It’s already swelling up like a sonofabitch.

“Let this be a lesson to everyone about respecting authority,” I murmur, sweeping my gaze over the other soldiers in the room. “There are rules in place for a fucking reason. Know your place.”

A muttered chorus of ‘yes sir’ rings out and I refocus on Griff, pointing a finger at him. “You’re on thin ice, Griffin. Don’t let me catch you pulling that shit again or you’re outta here.”

He nods weakly. “Understood, sir,” he rasps under his breath.

Jesus, just looking at the guy makes me want to punch him again. He’s a fucking waste of space.

Turning on a heel, I head back outside to the patio, needing some fresh air to clear my head. I sink down in one of the Adirondack chairs around the firepit and twist the cap off one of the beer bottles, positioning the other on the wide wooden arm of the chair. Tossing the cap across the pavement, I lift the bottle to my lips and throw it back, taking a few swigs as my fingers drum against the armrest in agitation.

If Ben was here, he’d know what to say to help me get my head on straight. He could always talk me down. Nobody understands me like Ben did, not even my own father.

I hear the patio door open behind me, glancing up as Matty walks over to the firepit and claims the chair beside mine. He gives me a sympathetic look, pressing his lips together in a tight line.

“Griff had it coming,” he murmurs, shifting his weight on the chair to get comfortable.

I grunt in agreement, grabbing the unopened beer off the armrest and leaning forward, holding it out to him in offering.

He shakes his head.

“Drink it if you wanna stay,” I grumble, and he reaches out to take it from me, cracking the top and taking a sip.

The two of us sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, nursing our beers and staring out at the dense forest beyond the cabin. It’s not the same as having Ben here, but I appreciate Matty’s quiet show of support. He’s a good kid; it’s a shame he had to get mixed up with The Guild. His years of service will eventually rob him of that light in his eyes, just like they did to me.

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