Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

fore questioned whether to fill his Wolves in on anything, but he sat behind his desk, fingers thrumming on the wood, uncertain yet again.

“Just means I get the chair.” Little O shrugged deeper into the seat in the corner.

“What is it Boss?” Big O asked, noting the way Anteros thrummed his fingers. Anteros watched the pads of his fingers connect with the wood, slowly shifting his head back up to them.

“It’s nothing,” Anteros replied after a few moments. At his words, he thought back to Crazy A. I’m questioning you now. He’d never lied to his Wolves before or kept anything from them, but here he was, keeping a secret.

“I’ve been thinking about what Crazy A said down at the docks,” Pretty Boy said. “Ever since you bought the slave, things have been getting really fucked up. Just look at the funeral.”

“That had nothing to do with Frankie,” Anteros replied, louder than he had intended.

“Frankie?” Pretty Boy’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead.

“The slave,” he amended. A few minutes passed in silence. Big O stood up off the couch and picked the plush basketball off the ground, unperturbed by the quiet. The low rumble of the heater sounded, vibrating through the walls. Kneading the ball between his fingers, Big O watched Anteros. They all did.

“With all due respect…” Pretty Boy said with a cough, breaking the silence. “Nothing to do with the slave?”

“You committed a fucking honor killing,” Little O pointed out.

“Arlo’s dead because he tried to take something that didn’t belong to him,” Anteros said, fists curled. There was an edge to his voice that even he was surprised to hear. Little O’s eyes went wide and he quickly shut his mouth, sitting back in the seat. Someone, maybe Big O, sucked in a breath.

As if trying to change the subject, Little O said, “So I’ve started beating up the homeless. We’ve never gone this long without a hit and I’m pent the fuck up.”

“Where are you doing that?” Big O asked curiously. “I haven’t seen any homeless.”

“I don’t know if they’re homeless,” Little O confessed. “They could be hipsters.”

Big O nodded and, putting a finger to his lip, pointed it back at his brother. “Doing God’s work.”

Barely a moment passed before Pretty Boy said, “She isn’t good for you, Boss. You need to get rid of her.”

“It’s off the fucking table,” Anteros yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. The wood cracked a little. After all the abuse it had suffered, it was a wonder it had lasted so long. In the ensuing silence that followed, Anteros stared at his fist on the table. He could feel their eyes on him, their surprise and confusion hot like irons. Anteros never lost his cool, never got emotional. Then again, they hadn’t been around him and Frankie.

He exhaled.

His Wolves made a point.

“Just get the fuck out.” Anteros sat back down, rubbing his fingers through the muscles on his forehead. “All of you.”

Anteros was knotted up when he got home, filled with a fury that couldn’t be wetted. The morning started off terribly and the day didn’t go any better. Everything his Wolves said was rational, yet his mind warred against it.

He was unrested.

Angry.

He needed an outlet for his anger. When he was a soldier, he killed so often, there was always something or someone to punch. As Boss, it was spreadsheets and organizing kills, not real blood. Red, sticky liquid coating your hands—that was the reason he’d been at Antonio Notte’s.

He’d felt caged.

Anteros stood in the foyer of his home, coat hanging from his hand. Floor-to-ceiling windows sprawled from the first floor to the second, but he felt it again, the caged feeling. His gaze drifted to the library.

He dropped his coat.

Anteros expected her to be on the chair as she always was, but it was vacant. Alarm overcame him. He curled his fists and sucked in a breath, stymying his anger—anger not at Frankie, but at himself…foolish, stupid, anger that he’d given Frankie the okay to leave in the first place. Confronted with the reality of her departure, he realized he would never, could never—

Then he saw her. On her knees, book in hand, she appeared to be grabbing something from the bottom shelf. She looked so beautiful, so submissive like that, but it wasn’t her pose that stopped him in his tracks.

“What are you wearing?” His voice was hoarse. Frankie gasped at his voice, dropping the book. She turned to look at him then looked down at herself.