Page 102 of Sunrise Malice

I see who I am and who I want to be.

Brianne’s husband, her protector and lover. But also, I want to be the man that lives up to her expectations.

I want to be good enough for her.

As she sleeps, I sneak out of bed and pull on clothes. My gun is lying on the top of the dresser; I check the slide and make sure it’s loaded.

The clock says it’s slightly past midnight.

I creep down the hall to Pascal’s room. I knock twice to make sure he’s awake before I pull back the bolt.

The room’s dark. My eyes are already adjusted to the weak moonlight though. Pascal’s lying on the cot we provided, still in the same clothes, now beginning to smell ripe. He’s unshaven and disheveled. His eyes are narrowed though, and he’s still very much in control of himself.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I stare at the old man from the doorway. Even now, even after everything, I still have respect for him.

I remember those first heady months living in his house. Life was new again. I had comforts for the first time in my life. I had food when I wanted it, clean clothes when I needed them, warm water in the shower, a roof over my head. There were couches, TVs, an entire new world to explore.

And there was Pascal Moreau, a giant in my memory, lording over all of it.

He was so powerful. I respected him—no, Ilovedhim—and I would have done anything to make him happy.

Then the training started and I began to see another side of my Grandpère.

He was brutal and nasty. Being faster, stronger, and smarter than everyone else wasn’t enough. No matter how well I did, no matter how many tests I passed, he still demanded more.

That’s why I left. That’s why I rebuilt my life here.

But I never rebuilt myself.

No, I was still a shell of a man, living deep in a pit of rage and self-loathing.

Until Brianne came along.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, staring at the old man I once respected more than anyone in the world.

I speak French for him, and he speaks it back.

“Sounds like a novel concept for you.” He sneers at me. “What is this? I’m tired. My wrists ache. I’m hungry. Is this supposed to be torture?”

“Do you remember when I was sixteen and you let me sit in on a meeting with one of your street-level dealers? You basically threatened him, and he stood up to you. Do you remember that?”

Pascal leans back on his cot with a sigh. “I’m not interested in reliving the past with you, Julien.”

“After he left, I found him outside. I beat him with a club and broke six of his ribs. I nearly killed him because he disrespected you. And do you recall what you said to me when I got back home?”

He’s staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. “You got blood on your shirt. That’s another fucking expense.” He closeshis eyes and yawns. “If you’re here to whine about how hard I was on you, I’m not interested. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m here to make you understand. I respected you. I trusted you. But there was never any of that in return. That’s why this is happening. That’s why I should have done it much sooner.”

“Ah, yes, you grow a spine, but much too late like always.”

I walk over to him and press the barrel of the gun against his right knee. “You let me down. But really, I let myself down, and that won’t happen again.”

He stares at me, eyes going wide. “Julien. Wait a moment.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Pascal. You’re worth more alive. But that doesn’t mean you need to be whole when I’m done with you.”

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