Page 14 of Damaged

Later that night, a shadow hovered just outside of his hospital door and Wrath’s hand settled around the Sig Sauer P360 that Rogue had tucked beneath his pillow the day before.

Once he caught sight of who appeared in the doorway, he released his grip and gestured the boy to come closer.

Like a cautious wild animal, Azrael approached the bed. The young man’s head was on a permanent swivel, checking the room for danger. Wrath got it. Azrael had been raised by amadman. The boy had been physically and sexually abused to the point that Wrath feared for Azrael’s sanity.

The eighteen-year-old held a book in his hands. It was the one he’d lent Azrael a week ago. The boy was a voracious reader.

“So, what did you think of that one?”

The book in question was a mystery romance by a popular author and the couple got together in the end.

“I didn’t like the ending.” Azrael tipped his chin up, fire spat from his dark eyes, and Wrath laughed.

“Ow.” He grimaced and pressed a hand to his side.

Concern flashed in the younger man’s eyes. “You okay?”

“Yes, why didn’t you like the ending.”

“There are no happily ever afters.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s fiction. Real life is cruel and shitty and something to endure,” Azrael said with conviction and gazed toward the window where the night sky was encroaching. The boy moved like a dancer, light on his feet, over to the glass to gaze beyond. Even in profile, Azrael was beautiful. His loose hair fell to the middle of his back. And like a dancer, Azrael had the body of one.

Azrael was one of Erebus’s assassins.

The boy looked the part of an assassin but was also highly skilled. With the ability to get in and out of places and with his looks, the marks never saw him coming.

When Azrael had been rescued from Solomon at the age of seventeen, the boy had already killed his fair share of people. Azrael had had to cool it for a few months while adjusting at Dave’s, which meant no hit jobs until he turned eighteen. Which had come and gone.

Wrath knew that Azrael had been taught the same skills as Rogue, Echo, and Fisher, but Rogue told him Solomon had refused to teach Azrael swords—saying he didn’t want the boyinjured. Wrath could picture that; Solomon had probably feared Azrael would turn on him.

So now, Rogue was the lucky, or maybe that was unlucky, one to get the job of training.

Lucky because Azrael was a natural-born killer, but unlucky because the boy had no fucking fear at all.

None. And that meant Azrael had placed no value on his own life.

“What kind of ending would you have given that book?” Wrath asked to snap Azrael out of whatever was going on in his head.

“One where the bad guys die and the killer lives happily alone.”

“What about the woman who loves him?”

“She’ll find another,” Azrael muttered. “They always do.”

“That’s not true. Sometimes people never find love and happiness.”

“What’s so special about love and happiness? It’s all lies.” The boy clenched his hands around the book and then stalked over to place it firmly on the empty food tray. “I want to read something that’s true.”

“True crime?” Wrath scowled. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Azrael said hotly. “It’s who I am.”

Rogue booted open the partially opened door and strode inside carrying a tray laden with all kinds of food from the cafeteria.

“It’snotwho you are,” Rogue told the boy. “It’s what you do. It’s your job.”

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