Some part of me—a pretty strong part, though I couldn’t admit that to my people—never actually expected him to surrender. Even with Angel here, I figured he’d keep pulling his usual all-powerful, never-surrender, Genghis Khan massacre everyone who even breathes wrong bullshit.
And yet, here he is, striding into enemy territory more or less unarmed…Begging.
It’s completely fucking asinine. And I’d be a moron if I didn’t suspect him to be playing me. Though, I’ve known him a long time… and in thirteen years, this is something I’ve never gotten.
Which makes it even more infuriating.
I can hear his footsteps growing closer, crunching on leaves and twigs. My people grip their weapons, as if preparing for an ambush. I wouldn’t put it past him. But if he wants to come in here guns blazing, he’ll get his ass popped in seconds flat. I’m all too ready to shut him up for good.
My trigger-finger is itchy as shit.
“Jonathan…” He calls my name from just beyond the trees.
But I stay planted inside the armory, M-16 in my fist.
“Come on out and we’ll talk,” I seethe. “Slowly.”
Barely ten seconds later, he emerges from within the darkness of the forest. And honestly, my first instinct is to just fucking shoot him in the face.
Apparently, I’d forgotten, after not seeing him for weeks, how much animosity I’ve been harboring toward this man. Over a decade of actions that in so many ways have proven him evil, or at least as evil as a human being can get.
After everything he’s done to me, putting a bullet in his brain would feelsogoddamn cathartic. Maybe a little confusing, unwittingly disparaging.But mostly satisfying as fuck.
And yet, something annoying happens. When I see how visibly distraught he is, disheveled and dripping with worry, anxiety, fuckingfear… Itseverelydampens my desire to rip him apart with my bare hands.
That he’s oozing this angsty, timorous yearning from his pores like a goddamn pheromone is watering down my fury considerably.It’s a fucking buzzkill.
But then, the irritation of his current state ruining my rage-high is making me angry all over again.
“Hands!” Peters shouts at Manuel Blanco as he takes tentative steps closer.
He lifts his hands.
“Weapons on the ground,” I command, unable to help the low growl that is my voice.
No matter. He’s barely twenty feet from me now.
“Right. Okay,” he breathes, reaching behind his back as slowly as possible. He obviously knows how this works.
Removing a pistol from his belt, he holds it between his two fingers, bending just enough to drop it onto the ground by his feet.
Peters stomps over, rifle aimed at him, and picks up the gun.
“That it?” I grumble.
The Ivory sighs, “That’s it.”
I glance at Peters, a quick nod signaling to pat him down, which he does, rather aggressively, which is amusing to witness.But still, goddamn mind-boggling.
“He’s clear,” Peters grunts, shoving The Ivory forward.
He stumbles, making it within ten feet of the armory before I bark, “That’s close enough.”
Near enough that I can see his throat dip, he slowly lowers his hands. Swaying on his feet in visible apprehension, his eyes are wide, brows furrowed.
Oh man… This timidity game is fuckingsendingme.
You can’t play concerned Daddy when I’ve seen the browser history of your mind, motherfucker.
