Hard Justice (The Alpha Antihero Series Book 2)

by Sybil Bartel

  But as I stared at the rotting structure, I knew the true test lay before us.

  With her shotgun perched on her shoulder and the pants she had taken in one arm, she opened a padlock on the outside of the door to the cabin.

  Without seeing the inside, I knew we could not live here long.

  Roughhewn wood, no insulation, sagging roof, no foundation, not raised off the ground but one step—the cabin would not survive the elements for long.

  She pushed the door open, and the scent of must and mold followed.

  “Let me just find a light.” She took a step forward.

  I stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Do not turn a light on.” I could not be sure we had not been followed.

  She looked over her shoulder. “You think we were tracked all the way out here?”

  I did not know. I had never been trained as a hunter. I had relied on instinct getting out here, but the loud call of the cicadas had masked most sounds, and once we were deep in the cover of the mangroves and pines, I did not have enough moonlight to see behind us. “Can you make your way around the cabin without light?”

  She swatted at a mosquito. “Yeah.”

  “Inside,” I ordered.

  She stepped in, and I followed. Closing the door behind me, I dropped the two backpacks to the floor. “Does it lock from the inside?” I could not see anything in the pitch dark.

  “Yes.” She reached around me, and I heard her secure the padlock from outside to the inside of the door.

  The air still, sweat pricked at my neck. “Are there any screened windows?”

  “There’s one, and I got a fit-in screen for it. You know, one of those things you can get at the hardware store.”

  I did not know. “Where is it?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  The air shifted as she moved around me, then moonlight filtered in as she pushed a dark curtain aside. The sound of wood sliding against wood broke the silence, and a moment later, I could smell the scent of swamp, mangroves and pine that was as familiar to me as breathing.

  Pushing the window halfway up and fitting a wood-framed screen into the casement, she then closed the window enough to secure the frame into place. “There we go.” Brushing her hands off, she stepped back.

  I assessed the cabin in the light from the moon.

  One small cot, one small table with two small chairs, an arm’s length of counter fastened to the exposed wood wall—the entire space was maybe two by three paces, and it was filled with supplies. Canned goods, paper goods, bottled water, lanterns, blankets, and books.

  “What do you think?” she asked hesitantly.

  Despite her supplies, I thought she had far underestimated her food resources. We would not last until summer on what she had stocked. “Do you have cooking fuel?” A daily fire would be difficult during summer rains.

  “Yep. I got a campin’ stove that runs on these little tanks, and I got two cases of ‘em. I think I thought of everythin’—water, food, lanterns, batteries. And I got a solar shower.”

  “Solar shower?”

  “Yeah, you hang the bag up where it can get sunshine and fill it with water, and presto, by the end of the day, the sun heats the water for you. All I gotta do is clear a few tree branches, and we should get enough direct sunlight.”

  Only on days the sun shone. But I did not comment. I also did not comment on the sleeping cot sized for one. I would fashion a larger frame from the slash pines and hopefully she had another mattress of air we could use.

  She crossed her arms, and her voice quieted. “You’re not sayin’ anythin’.”

  “Take the sleeping cot.” I turned a chair toward the window. “I will keep watch until daybreak.”

  She did not respond.

  Neither did she move.

  She stood there, her gaze assessing her supplies.

  Then her shoulders slumped and she exhaled. “Okay, look, I know this ain’t the Taj Mahal of accommodations. And I got no idea what kinda life you been used to or what those men’s quarters were like that you talked about, but this is what we got. It ain’t half bad compared to sleepin’ out in the open, and it’s a hell of a lot better than bein’ dead.”

  I did not know what the Taj Mahal was, but I did not disagree. I took two bottles of water from a stack on the ground and handed her one. “Drink.”

  She took the water. “You can’t just do that all the time, you know, and get away with it.”

  I opened the water and drank the entire bottle. “Get away with what?” Her bottled water supply would not last us a fortnight. We would have to boil water from the well outside to have safe drinking water.

  “Bossin’ me around and not sayin’ what’s on your mind.”

  I studied her a moment.

  I could not think of a single female at River ranch who would have exhibited the type of strength and fortitude she had shown today. Neither could I think of any men, save for the hunters or the brother who had made me memorize the address of the place where I could become an Army Ranger, who would have come out of today’s events unscathed.

  My woman was not weak.

  She deserved the truth of my thoughts.

  I replaced the cap on the empty water bottle and set it on the small table. “Your food rations will not last till summer. Your water supply will not last more than a fortnight. The cabin does not have any means for proper air circulation, and it is not suitable for long-term habitation. We will not be comfortable come summer, nor will we be safe here during the hurricane months. The roof will not bear its own weight for long, and the bed is too small.”

  “Huh.” Crossing her arms, she sat on the cot and dropped her gaze. “I didn’t think much about hurricanes. One hasn’t come through these parts in a while.” She looked up at me. “What’d you do at River Ranch when there was one?”

  “We covered all the windows with sheets of wood, brought everything inside we could, and everyone moved into the concrete-reinforced structure we had on compound for the duration of the storm.”

  In the barely penetrating light of the moon, I saw her eyebrows draw together. “What structure was that?”

  “The main hall.”

  “You had an event hall?”

  “It was a large building that had seating for everyone and a kitchen where the women prepared food. It was used for gatherings, worship and meals.” I did not want to think about River Ranch any more than I wanted to think about what the next few fortnights in this cabin would be like as I conditioned my body. I needed to be stronger than before I was vanquished so I would be ready for the Army Rangers.

  “So it had electricity and plumbin’?” she asked, continuing her inquiry.

  I nodded once, trying to remember any words the brother from River Ranch had spoken about being an Army Ranger, but I could recall none save for the fact that he had been one.

  “Oh. Well.” She slapped her hands on her thighs and stood. “Guess that settles that. Sounds nicer than here for sure.” Reaching over a stacked pile of canned goods, she grabbed a blanket and sat back down on the cot. Kicking off her boots, she brought her legs up, and despite the heat inside the cabin, she shook out the blanket and laid it over herself.

  Then she turned her back on me and clipped out words in anger. “Night night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite, and whatever the hell else you say to someone before you fall asleep.”

  I removed my gun from my back waistband and placed it on the table. The chair creaked with my weight, and the table wobbled from either uneven supports or flooring or both.

  Stretching my legs out in front of me, I glanced out the window at the moonlight filtering through the slash pines, and my stomach made a sound of hunger.

  “Great,” she said with attitude. “I can’t turn on a light to get some food, but I gotta listen to that all night?”

  “We will eat come daybreak.” It was not only the light I was concerned about, but the scent of food. With no perimeter to stop wildlife, the scen
t of cooking could draw any number of animals to our doorstep.

  “Terrific,” she sulked.

  I thought about what she had said earlier. “Why would I want to leave the Army?” She had said they provided housing. It had to be better than this.

  Rolling over, she stared at me. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed as if irritated. “You don’t go into the military without risk. No one does. They send men to war. Yeah, it’s all in the name of protectin’ our country, and I respect that, a whole lot, but that don’t mean it’s not dangerous as hell. That kinda life ain’t no better than the club life my daddy lives, and you saw how that turned out today.” Her voice quieted. “I don’t wanna live that kinda life, Tarquin. Wonderin’ every time you step out the door if you’re comin’ back.” She stared at me. “I want to be with you, not be a widow.”

  I nodded once as if I understood.

  “You know if you sign up, you only gotta give them eight years, and I don’t think all of that is even servin’, or active duty, as they call it. I think you can give them half that, or six years, and then be like, on reserve.”

  “Reserve?”

  “Yeah, like standby, in case they need more soldiers or somethin’ for some emergency. You could do that. Go in, serve your time, get out, then start another career. That’s why I mentioned workin’ on bikes. You could do that. We could have a little house. Maybe by the ocean.” Her voice turned quiet. “We could have our own family.”

  Since the first assault to my flesh from my compound brothers, I was driven solely by one thought. I wanted River Stephens dead. But I knew I could not breach the compound and do it myself knowing only the skills of a digger. I wanted to become an Army Ranger to learn the skills necessary to take down River Stephens.

  It had been my only plan.

  But sitting in the dark with my woman, the seed of a new thought took hold and I could almost taste it.

  The possibility of a different life.

  A life I had had no concept of before this moment.

  A free life. With my woman. In a house by the sea. Her body swollen with my offspring. And as I looked at my beautiful woman, a night breeze blew in the scent of the Everglades, and I wanted the life she described. “I have never seen the ocean.”

  A smile, pure of heart and full of hope, spread across her face. “Well, Tarquin Scott, I think it’s time we fixed that.”

  Lightning lit up the night a moment before thunder clapped, then the sky opened up. A sudden torrent of rain hit the small cabin and all sound save for the weather was drowned out.

  My woman lifted the blanket in invitation. “Lie with me?”

  I glanced out the window.

  No one would come this deep in to the Glades in this weather.

  I removed my boots and stood.

  The small cabin filled with her feminine voice as words tumbled out of her mouth. For four fortnights every morning had begun like this—with my woman singing. And I had listened to every word that had crossed her lips.

  But this morning, I was not hearing the individual words of the song.

  The sun just up, heat filling the small enclosed space, I was fighting off agitation. “What are you doing?” It was too early for this.

  Her hips moved from side to side as if she were being taken. “What’s it sound like, silly? I’m singin’.”

  She was not only singing.

  Gritting my teeth, sitting at the small table in the middle of the cabin, I whittled at the piece of wood in my hand. My cock hardening, my jaw ticked. I had already taken her when we awoke. I had also taken her before we had bedded down last night.

  Holding a cooking utensil, she spun around and leaned down toward me. Her sleeveless, tight shirt doing nothing to hide the sway of her breasts, she sang out words to a song I had never heard.

  Because I had never heard any songs.

  Except the ones she sang.

  Every day.

  For the past two months.

  Music had never been allowed on compound. I had been used to nothing except the sound of the Glades around me. But for eight weeks I had been listening to her voice bend and shape words, and I had thought about the mostly senseless lyrics late in the evenings, long after she had stopped singing for the day. I even compared the range of her voice against the natural sounds of the Glades.

  I did not know if I hated her singing or anticipated it.

  All I knew, the more I took her, the more she sang.

  But today, the hip swaying was new.

  I did not like it.

  I did not like it at all.

  “Finish breakfast,” I clipped, unable to stop the thought that if she were on compound, she would be taken by all the men. They would all desire her. The thought was not new. I had had it with increasing frequency the more days we spent out here. I did not like the thought any more than I could control it surfacing.

  Dismissing it and her hip sway, I used my knife to carve the next angle into the small piece of wood in my hand.

  She laughed a laugh that was not of humor but mockery. “Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?”

  Pissed? Cheerios? “Watch your mouth.” The thought of her mouth being desired by the brothers on compound surfaced, and I had to remind myself I was not River Ranch and never would be again. I would take my own life before I allowed that. Hers too, if it came to it.

  She laughed. “Or you’ll what? Bend me over your knee?” Her voice lowered as she taunted me. “Kiss me?”

  Dropping the wood and my knife, I stood.

  Her smile disappeared, and her throat moved with a swallow, but the attitude did not leave her. “Someone’s in a mood today.”

  I was in no kind of mood. “I do not have moods.” I had a disposition, and it was singular. “Take your underwear off.” I hated them and the word.

  “Ha! Nice try. You already had your mornin’ allotment.” She waved the cooking utensil at me. “Now I’m cookin’ because I’m hungry.”

  Precise and quick, my movements practiced, I grabbed the material as it hugged her hips, but this time I did not drag it down her thighs. I fisted my hands and yanked.

  The material tore.

  “Tarquin!” she gasped, her hands going to my shoulders and her fingers digging into my flesh. Her grip signaling intent, not protest, she leaned in to me. “Those were my nice lace panties. They matched the bra.”

  “You will no longer wear such undergarments.” I hated how they withheld access to what was mine. “Spread your legs.”

  “So romantic.” Layering sarcasm with obedience, she sat on the edge of the bed and spread her legs, but her shirt fell between her thighs and covered the view I wanted most. Her voice sweet, she pushed at my patience with words meant to provoke. “You got nothin’ to say for yourself about my pretty underwear you ruined?”

  My cock already desperate for her, I turned off the camping stove and shoved my pants down before fisting myself. I did not think about how she had become an addiction I could not fight. “Lift your shirt.”

  She fingered the hem like this was a game she wanted to play until sunset. “How far?”

  If she was an addiction I could not fight, her strong will was the drug I could not quit. “Show me your cunt.” I wanted to see her desire for me.

  Her voice dropped. “And you’ll what?” She slowly lifted her shirt past her curved hips. A smile teasing her lips, her finger skirted the edge of her womanhood. “Play with me?”

  “I do not play games.” Staring at the wetness dripping out of her cunt onto her soft thigh, I stroked myself.

  “Maybe I want you to play one with me.”

  I was not playing at anything. “I will fuck you, and you will come before I release my seed deep inside your cunt.”

  She shoved a finger inside herself.

  My nostrils flared, and I bit out a command in warning, “Stop.”

  “Why?” She stroked into herself. “Are you the only one who ca
n touch me like this?”

  “Yes.” I had fought for my rights to her, and I had won. We had been out here two months, and I had trained my body every day and tended to her body every sunup and sundown. I owned her cunt, I owned her orgasms, and I owned her body. She was mine. “Remove your finger or I will do it for you.”

  Half breathless, half defiant, her voice lowered. “You make me crazy.”

  She made me weak. Which was more dangerous than living out here without the protection of a guarded compound around us.

  Pushing her to her back, I brought my cock to her entrance and gave fair warning. “I own your releases. I tend to you. I make you come.”

  “Yes, you do,” she whispered with a coy smile on her face.

  I shoved into her.

  Her mouth opened, her back arched, and she let a sound she only made when my cock was inside her. Deeper, throatier, the moan was more than when my fingers took her cunt or my mouth sucked her clit.

  I liked this sound better.

  I was addicted to this sound.

  “Again,” I demanded, pulling back and trusting hard.

  But she did not make the sound of need again. She bit her lip, cupped my cheek, and her darkened eyes met mine. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  Except she did not merely whisper it.

  She begged for it.

  She begged for it like she needed it, asking for more as if I were not enough. As if my cock was not already deep inside her cunt, driving her toward a release.

  Anger surged.

  I did not kiss. I fucked. She liked it. She had always liked it.

  “Take what I am giving you.” I ground the words as I thrust into her hard.

  Her smile disappeared, her hand dropped, and she turned her head.

  My jaw clenched, I held her hips down. “Speak.”

  “Why?” she defied. “You don’t seem to need my input for this.”

  My cock deep inside her, harboring anger at her words I did not fully understand, I needed to release, and so did she. “You will come,” I ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied dryly.

  My hands fisted, my nostrils flared, and I jerked back. Pulling out of her, I shoved off the makeshift bed I had fashioned from slash pine boughs, hitched my pants and stormed out of the cabin, slamming the door behind me.