Chapter 10

Satan stood staring at me for a few more seconds, his face unreadable, then dropping his gaze, he turned and made his way over to the bar that ran almost the full length of the back wall of the room. Slipping behind the counter, he stood motionless for several seconds as he gazed almost absently at the fully stocked wall of alcohol in front of him.

Second passed, then he reached out and grabbed a bottle of JD and a glass from behind the counter. Afterward, making his way back around to the front, he splashed a healthy amount of whiskey into the bottom of the glass. Once he had set the bottle down on the surface of the bar he turned, his gaze once again settling on me.

With his back pressed against the scarred, rigid piece of wood of the bar counter, and his legs crossed at the ankles, he swirled the glass of alcohol in front of him. Moments of silence ticked by before he finally breathed, "Yeah, seeing the ghost of someone you love and lost, can sure fuck a person up!" Then, downing the whiskey, he pushed away from the bar and walked out of the room.

**~SATAN~**

The explosion at the warehouse a year ago had torn me all to hell, but Burdock had pulled my ass out of the debris. Afterward, with the help of the team, they'd somehow managed to get my ass back to the compound. There, Doc had pulled off a miracle and stitched me back together.

I'd thought we'd been prepared. However, no matter how many hours, days and weeks of planning were done, something could always go wrong. That day, it had. As a result of the fuck up, I'd become a victim during our attempt to dismantle the gun-runners base, and the botched job, had damn near killed me.

For days after the explosion, I was in and out of consciousness, unaware of the world around me. Then, for weeks after I'd finally regained full consciousness, my mind had been like a cracked, chipped eggshell, fragile, and missing pieces.

Slowly, my mind had healed and I'd begun putting the pieces back together, and when it was whole again, I'd remembered. I'd remembered everything. I remembered the confrontation with Marlowe's dad, and the result. I remembered the agreement I'd made with Dillon about leaving the Sons Of Morning Star, of staying away from Marlowe.

At the recollection, a giant void had opened up before me and I'd fallen in, not giving a shit if I climbed back out or not. Though my body had mended, improving with each passing day, my mental state hadn't. As a result, my anger at the world had touched everyone within the unit.

In fact, in the months that had followed, I'd wholeheartedly embraced the nickname of Satan. I'd become a twisted, mean motherfucker. As such, I was now barely hanging onto my position on the team; I'd shrugged off all authoritative commands, and had gone into every situation with a chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude. Not the most ideal thing to be when you're a walking weapon, but I'd been gutted, my heart ripped out of my chest. I'd gone into each assignment looking for trouble, and hoping to walk away from it with blood on my hands.

After I had left the Sons Of Morning Star, I'd gone into the military, and for a while I had taken pride in being a member of a Special Operations Group, or ‘SOG'. But as the realization Marlowe was forever out of my life, I'd stopped giving a shit, and knew that my team members were beginning to look at me as a possible liability. The attitude I'd carried was a dangerous thing to have when you needed to be able to trust the person next to you had your back one hundred percent.

I was still teetering right on the edge of going over. Burdock knew it, but as well, knew I needed my position within the team—the assignments. They were the only thing that kept me breathing, the only thing, which kept me going. That got my blood pumping—my adrenaline flowing. They were the only thing, which brought meaning to my life; the only thing, which got me through each day. Otherwise, during the down times…I was one of the walking dead.

Yet, this mean motherfucker had just been brought to his knees the moment I'd seen Marlowe. The sight of her had hit me hard, and I'd had no idea of how to react, and I'd become a sarcastic ass.

But when I'd heard the pain and anguish in her voice as she'd uttered my name, my world had tipped on its axis and still hadn't found its way back to its normal rotation yet.

My heart—the organ which had been missing from my chest for four years now—had slammed back into my body with such a violent force, I'd literally thought I wouldn't survive it. The pain, which had wrenched through me when I'd seen Marlowe's face at the flippant remark I'd made about her misplacing things, had damn near ripped me in half!

God help me, the devastation I'd read in her eyes when she'd replied to my comment, had shattered my soul. Now, anger at Burdock was running ripe and rich through me at the realization he'd brought her here on purpose, and with murder in my eyes, I stalked toward his office, ready to rip his goddamn balls off.

As I threw the door open to his office, Burdock glanced up. Words abruptly ceasing to the person he was talking to on the phone, he took in the rage on my face and muttered into the phone, "I'll call ya back in a bit."

As he set the phone down, I crossed the room in three strides, then snarled, "You goddamn, sorry motherfucker, why the fuck did you bring her here?" Afterward, rearing back, I swung out with a powerful undercut, slamming my fist into his jaw.