Page 50 of The Perfect Wrong

The way she tore herself away from me last night like I was a plague rat after I shoved my lips on hers makes a gunshot to the face feel subtle.

Today, without the whiskey in my veins and more common sense, I can’t blame her for running me out of her room.

I almost fucked up royally.

Like it or not, she’s my stepsister, courtesy of this fuckery, and she’s got a point.

Getting freaky comes with radioactive consequences.

I’m allergic to drama—especially with women.

It’s been my policy ever since my balls dropped and I learned to love a bedroom moan.

Love? Romance?Feelings?

Give me a damn break.

Casual, worry-free fucking has served me well. There are also a million chicks in this city who’ll be happy to suck my dick without any risk of stepping in a family bear trap.

I’m planning to hit the bar tonight after I work out, read the latest reports, and get home.

When I get to the fitness wing of this massive building, I’m ready to blow off some steam.

I work through my usual routine—going extra hard on the rowing machine because why the hell not—and hating that none of it helps.

No matter how much I beat my muscles into grits, I can’t stop thinking about Delia under me. Preferably in her own bed, defiling her right under our oblivious parents’ noses.

Demented?

Yeah.

Or maybe I just can’t get over my horseshit luck.

Something needs to go right after that raid on Warzach, doesn’t it?

The universe fuckingowesme.

If there’s a God, he knows I’m due for good karma after pulling those kids out of the devil’s clutches.

He owes me big for watching two good men nearly slaughtered too. I wore their blood for hours while we were pinned down, trying like hell to prevent my buddy Bao from bleeding out.

I close my eyes for a second and flatten my back against the wall.

I still see it, hear it, smell it like it was only yesterday.

The screams, the explosions, the poor girls chained up in that storage closet of a room when Warzach had an entire fucking palace. To him, they were lower than dogs.

And that other monstrous fuck with the dead eyes, the soulless purveyor of flesh who escaped...

Goddamn.

I wish we weren’t under orders to capture either of those freaks alive. If Mr. Strauss said differently, I wouldn’t have batted an eye at putting hot lead through their skulls.

I certainly would have made sure Joaquin never slithered back to whatever hole he’s gone back to.

“Look alive, Triton,” a gravelly voice says, clapping my shoulder.

“Sex? Didn’t know you were here today. I thought you had the whole week in Utah with your granddaughter.”