by SE Jakes
And even if they could continue to live with all of that, as they’d been doing, the fact that John might have a plan that could impact thousands of lives? That was something Prophet and his teammates couldn’t turn their back on. Especially because they carried the weight of the crimes John had already committed, and that albatross was strangling them.
“I still look for the bastard . . . every single time.”
PTSD: the bitch that kept on giving.
Tom had stayed quiet, just watching . . . but when he finally spoke, there wasn’t an ounce of judgment or jealousy there. “You want to save him before you can’t,” was all he said of John, and it was nothing like what Prophet expected to hear, or even deserved, and his throat got too tight to speak, tighter even when Tom added, “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”
Finally, Prophet managed, “You’re not on the ‘Prophet’s in denial’ team then? Because you’d be in damned good company with Mal and King and Ren.” His team, the men who’d stuck with him even as they’d been dragged through hell because of him.
Tom shook his head slowly. “Never have been. Never will be. But I can see why they are. It’s because you want them to be there, on that in-denial team. You’ve always got your reasons. But you’ve got them fooled with this one, because they think John’s your kryptonite.”
“Doesn’t everyone have a kryptonite?”
Tom tapped his fingertips on his thigh thoughtfully. “I guess my partners always dying was mine. My curse.”
Prophet shoved aside the thought that maybe Tom’s curse was Prophet himself, because that was too maudlin for an already maudlin afternoon. But Tom’s fingers stilled and he narrowed his eyes at Prophet.
Fucking Cajun voodoo bastard. “Shut up, Tommy.”
“Fine.” Tom pressed his lips together before continuing. “Are you in on this with John?”
Prophet leaned back against the couch—a nondefensive posture to be sure, but that didn’t stop the hurt from flashing for the briefest of seconds in his storm-filled gray eyes. “You and your fucking voodoo shit—why don’t you answer that question for me?”
It was probably the hardest question Tom would have to ask him. Prophet gazed at him, his eyes cool, and for a split second, Tom saw the machine behind the man, the special forces operator, trained, bred to kill, to follow the mission to its logical end.
And then Tom answered his own question. “No, you’re not.”
Prophet’s jaw clenched. Tom ran his hand over Proph’s cheek, and the jaw unclenched, expression softened. “So what do we do now?”
“It’s not your war.”
“It involves you, so yeah, it is.”
“It’s getting harder to . . .” He motioned to his eyes, and Tom told him, “Then let me be your eyes on this.”
“There’s never been a choice, has there?” Prophet asked him. “Not from the goddamned beginning.” He sounded half-angry, half-pleased as Tom shook his head. “John’s not my kryptonite, Tommy. Not by a long shot. But you . . .”
“Yeah, but I don’t make you powerless, bébé.”
Prophet gave a wan smile, but his mind was obviously moving too fast to settle onto anything. “What if this fucks up the adoption?”
“I don’t know.”
“You and Remy could go into official protection.”
“By the time all this goes through, we hopefully won’t need it. And while we’re away, the foster visits . . .”
Prophet sighed. “We’ll just have to say we have jobs out of town sometimes and that he’s got significant supervision.”
“Mal is considered ‘significant supervision’?” Tom groaned.
“He’s an adult. We don’t have to use the word ‘appropriate,’ but man, you’ve got a Special Forces operator and a doctor watching this kid. How could he be safer?”
“Don’t you think we might need Mal with us?” Tom asked.
“Shit.” Prophet frowned. “I’m trying to keep all of them away but . . .”
But life—and John—didn’t always work like that. They might need all the resources they could muster.
“How long, Proph? Really.”
“Could be a week. Three weeks. A month. Depends on his timetable. But John’s escalated. My gut says under a month. And if I press, we can bring him out sooner.”
“Then press.”
“I will, T. Dammit, it hasn’t been a game, ever. But he’s treating it, and my life, and Mal’s and the others’ lives like it is.” Prophet sounded firm, not defeated. “I’ve been looking through his things, looking for a mistake, a sign, anything that links his banking to any of this. Mal’s got some hits in offshore accounts, but beyond siphoning out his money, there’s not a lot to go on.”
Tom nodded. “He seems to be spiraling.”
“As the plan comes to an end . . . this spiral, this letting us get close? Could all be an act.” Prophet shook his head. “He’s still the same . . . as much as he’s changed, he’s stayed the exact goddamned same.”
“Would I have liked him, back then?”
Prophet glanced at Tom like he’d asked a trick question. “You’d have hated him on sight.”
“I feel closer to Mal than I ever have.”
Prophet snorted. “John’s an acquired taste. We didn’t love each other as much as we hated to love each other. It was complicated, and not in the good way.” He looked at Tom meaningfully. “We need to end this.”
For so many reasons.
“We will,” Tom promised him.
“Tell me what you want. Spell it out,” Prophet told him.
Tom gazed at him, so full of goddamned trust, with none of the wariness like there’d been the first time they’d done this. “I want you, Proph. All of you. Good, bad, sick, well. You. That’s all. You’re my goddamned family. You, Remy. Doc. Even Mal.”
Prophet smiled. “Even Mal?”
“You tell him I said that and—”
“I won’t. But he knows, T. He knows.” He ran a thumb along Tom’s bottom lip. “So you’re in it.”
“Long haul.”
“Suppose it gets ugly?”
Tom gave a small, lopsided grin. “I’ve seen ugly, Prophet. We’ll get through it.”
Prophet believed it, believed Tom meant it. But sometimes when you’re in the thick of it . . .
He stopped mid-thought, because Tom’s voodoo-meter must have pinged. Tom was palpably angry when he grabbed Prophet’s biceps, hard. “Don’t you fucking underestimate me. I’ll fuck that right out of you.”
“I’d like to see you try,” was all Prophet got out before Tom’s mouth was on his, as rough and punishing as his grip. And Prophet relished it. Wanted all of what Tom could give him, wanted him to leave marks all over his goddamned body.
Wanted Tom to erase this day, purge the memories and leave Prophet whole again . . . for as long as that would last.
He was beat down exhausted. Fragile. Pissed and sad and on the verge of losing it completely, and Tom knew it. Prophet wanted to throw him off, buck him away, but Tom would fight him every step of the way.
There was nothing else he could do—nothing to do—but let Tom take him, anyway he wanted to.
He surrendered into Tom’s fierce kiss and unrelenting grip, to accept the warm slide of Tom’s tongue along his as Tom forced him toward the bedroom. There wasn’t an escape, not into himself, because Tom wasn’t going to let that happen, like he knew it was too dangerous for Prophet to disappear into there . . . because if he went down that road, he might not come back.
Instead, Tom set about keeping him on the damned road, crawling, cut and bleeding, instead of walking, but going down the road just the same. Stripped him down physically, and set about doing the same to his mind.
“Knees, Proph,” Tom told him in a tone that brokered no argument. Prophet turned reluctantly, forehead pressed to the mattress as his arms were pulled behind his back, not roughly, but enough to remind him that leaning on them wasn’t an option. Tom wra
pped the leather cuffs around his wrists, and there was enough chain between them so Prophet’s arms didn’t feel the strain. But he was still bound. Open. Vulnerable.
God, it fucking hurt to do that, especially now. He wanted to glance over to the window where John had come in God knew how many fucking times to violate him, over and over again, but he didn’t. Instead, he screwed his eyes tight and just breathed as Tom spread him, buried his face in his ass in a way that forced Prophet to whimper, helpless against the onslaught. Forcing him to feel, to react, to need.
“Fuck you, Tommy,” he muttered and Tom dug in deeper, letting Prophet know it was message received. His tongue took Prophet until his balls tightened and he ached to come, thrust his hips into air, needing something to touch his dick, to grind against him and let him release.
Frustrated, he cursed—at the ache, at Tom, at everything—and with the pull to the window becoming more possible to ignore, he didn’t. He turned his head and opened his eyes and stared at the reflection of Tom lording over him in the glass. He saw another figure there, above them, and he blinked and forced himself not to say shit, because it wasn’t real.
He had no right to be there, but every goddamned reason to be.
Suddenly, Tom stopped, but it took Prophet a few seconds longer than it should’ve to realize it. The room chilled, even as Tom’s hand swatted Prophet’s ass several times, hard as hell, bringing him back to earth.
“You want to stare at the window?” Tom taunted. “I’ll do you one better.” He grabbed Prophet roughly by the biceps and dragged him up and toward the window, slamming his upper body against the glass. With a palm on the back of Prophet’s head, he forced Prophet’s forehead against it and said calmly, “Open your fucking eyes and look for him. Look at him, for all I give a fuck, because I’m the one who’s here with you. Inside of you. You’re mine, goddammit it. So say it.”
Tom thrust up into him and Prophet growled at the invasion, the taunts, the orders. But Tom wasn’t having any of it, thrust up into him over and over with an unrelenting motion until Prophet mouthed, You’re mine.
He didn’t say shit out loud, he hadn’t even been able to hear his own goddamned voice, but somehow, Tom did.
“You’re mine, Proph. And better than that? I’m yours.” With that, Tom pulled out of him entirely and then entered him again, and Prophet cried out, eyes staring down at the alley below until it blurred under his gaze and melted away into nothingness.
Only then did he smile.
With Prophet pressed against that window, Tom fucked the ghosts out of him—all of them, the best he could, until Prophet’s body relaxed, part bliss and mostly exhaustion, and Tom didn’t care so long as Prophet found momentary peace.
When he helped Prophet back into the bed, Prophet stared at him for a long moment . . . and Tom didn’t see any of the ghosts there, just a reflection of himself before Prophet closed his eyes.
For Tom? No such luck, at least not tonight. He lay there, a leg thrown across Prophet’s body, staring at the window John had been sneaking into and wondering how the hell they’d all missed it. If Prophet really had, or if John’s stranglehold was stronger than anyone realized.
Discontent grew in Tom’s gut as that last maybe took hold. Prophet was the strongest man he knew, but everyone had their kryptonite, their breaking point, their weakness. For a while, Tom thought he was Prophet’s, but now he realized that was something he never wanted to be.
Prophet opened his eyes in the darkness, the weight of Tom’s leg grounding him, and even so, Prophet had to simply lie there and fucking breathe so he didn’t trigger himself into any kind of flashback.
When he felt steady enough, he pushed Tom away, murmuring, “Bathroom,” and Tom grunted and moved. Prophet took a piss and grabbed his jeans, leaving Tom in dreamland.
Prophet had places to be. People to yell at. And he knew exactly where to start, he thought as he walked grimly down the steps and began to pick the lock to Cillian’s door, even though he had a copy of the key, just to piss the guy off.
Cillian had his ear to the ground . . . and so did Gary. Gary knew the kinds of things to look for regarding John and what exactly his plans were. But Gary wasn’t here, and the asshole at his disposal slammed his loft door open and glared at Prophet.
“What the hell? You’ve got a key.”
“Figured it would be rude to just let myself in.”
Cillian rolled his eyes and walked back into the apartment. Prophet joined him, closing the door and roaming through the rooms on the current floor.
“I’m alone,” Cillian called. When Prophet came out of his bedroom, Cillian shook his head. “Who were you hoping to find? John?”
Prophet stared at the couch, if it could even be called that anymore. It’d been thrown out of a window in the rain, pushed up stairs and thrown down them, and otherwise defiled—and put together again with pink duck tape. “That looks pathetic,” Prophet informed him.
“I keep it to annoy you. Good to know it works.” Cillian paused, and then sighed, obviously knowing why Prophet was there and admitting, “John’s got more of a stronghold since Sadiq was killed.”
In the ultimate irony, killing Sadiq had actually helped John, a fact that hit Prophet like a physical blow. Cillian had been right to tell him, even though Prophet could see the reluctance to share in his eyes.
Prophet, in turn, threw the first thing in his path against the wall, which was hopefully some priceless sculpture or some shit like that. It went whizzing by Cillian’s head and fuck, he had to work on his aim.
“If you’re going to destroy something, can you make sure it’s in your own apartment?” Cillian asked, seemingly unperturbed. Prophet took a step toward him and Cillian stood his ground.
“Don’t tempt me. Not now,” Prophet warned.
“I’m shaking.” Cillian threw up his arms and frowned.
“Did you know? Did you know John was really here?”
Cillian’s expression went serious. “Prophet, if I knew John Morse was here, flesh and blood? I would’ve killed him with my bare hands.”
Prophet believed that. What worried him now was the skill level John had achieved, and while survival could give a man an edge, John had received some serious training. Maybe even more advances than the CIA could’ve given him. “Could SB-20 be employing John?”
“I’ve thought about it, yes,” Cillian said slowly.
“And?”
“If they did bring him in and train him? They lost control of him rather quickly. And once that happened, they wouldn’t own up to it for fear of being exposed to the CIA, thus compounding the problem.”
“And the CIA was already in fear of being exposed. John screwed them all over and forced them to keep quiet.”
“And prepared you and your team to take the fall,” Cillian added. “SB-20 wanted him alive—as though they were doing the CIA a great favor, but John’s got to have something on them too.”
“Maybe you could ask your old boss, Trent—oh, wait, you can’t, because you killed him,” Prophet pointed out.
“What are you really asking? Because the man I know wouldn’t dance around this shit.”
“My bedroom window. It’s been opened. Painted over. You’d know that because you’ve got the same alarm access I do.”
“Yes, Prophet, your bedroom window’s been opened many times since you’ve lived here. You’re allowed to open your bedroom window. You do it often.”
“But it chimes.”
“So you didn’t hear the chimes.”
“No. I heard a lot of goddamned things during my flashbacks, but I’d know the chimes. I fucking listen for them, because I’m not completely out of it. I’m always waiting for the chime, so I can know if someone’s coming to really kill me.”
Cillian stared at him. “Say what you mean.”
“You and I are the only ones with access.”
“Really? You haven’t given codes to Tom, Doc, Phil, Mal, King, Ren . . .”
“Right, because they’re all far more likely candidates to let John come in here and fuck with my head.”
“What do you want from me? Go through the codes.”
“You could doctor them.”
“True.” Cillian crossed his arms. “Say it.”
Prophet had been fighting this urge. Couldn’t anymore, not after this. “It was you.”
Cillian raised his chin. A haunted look flashed in his eyes. “You need to trust that I have reasons enough to want John dead, more than anyone. Except maybe you.”
“Or Mal.”
Cillian’s eyes got that haunted look again for a fleeting second. “But why would I let him in? What would I gain?”
“I don’t know, Cillian. Money? Power?”
“Bullshit you don’t know.” God, his brogue was so heavy these days. Must’ve been weird for Mal to finally hear that. He’d freaked the first time he’d heard King’s brogue, and had tried to drown him in the ocean during a BUD/S exercise, and no one noticed because the instructors were all regularly trying to drown them anyway.
“I’ll leave,” Cillian said.
“Right. Convenient.”
“You don’t trust me to leave. You don’t trust me to stay.”
“Maybe I should do what Mal can’t.”
“Won’t,” Cillian corrected him. “I have no doubt that Mal could, in a heartbeat. But he won’t, for several reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Ask him. This question-and-answer period is done.”
And there was John, ruining another relationship, because whateverthefuck happened between Mal and Cillian had to do with John. He was always in the way.
Because yes, John and the CIA framed their team, but John saw Mal as competing with him for Prophet’s attention, much more so than Ren or King or Hook. Because none of them loved John, but Mal’s hatred was instant and absolute.
