Miscreants: Next Generation (Badlands 8)

“Come with me,” I said, hopping off the porch.

If I were going to do damage control, I couldn’t do it in still-motion. Being caught talking to him would only cause us both problems. I scanned the foliage, half expecting someone to be watching us from within it.

Was it ridiculous to have to worry about these things? Yes. But Samael took possessiveness to a new level. He was the epitome of manic. It had been this way since we were children.

“Did I make you mad?” Mack asked as soon as he caught up with me.

“No.”

“Ya sure? You look pissed.”

“I’m not. And to answer your question from before, the problem isn’t that you were coming on too strong, it’s that you decided to come at all.”

“…Am I not your type?”

That was his take-away? The answer was a resounding no.

I didn’t have a type.

I had Samael.

This guy could never hold a candle to him. With a quick scan of Mack from head to toe, I began to think he’d been initiated as a giant joke in general.

It wouldn’t be the first time or the last.

Not only did he lack the inked insignia that represented the double faction, but he was also dressed like an ordinary lag. He hadn’t been given the customary Stag or Lazarus uniform, and he wasn’t carrying a mask.

“Look, whoever told you to approach me was doing so for their own entertainment. Men don’t do that around here. Ever.”

“You’re not allowed to have friends?”

“I didn’t say that. The guys that I care to be close with are essentially my family. I’ve known them for years.”

“I could be family.”

I laughed. He hadn’t the slightest clue what that would entail.

“We both know you don’t really want to be considered friend or family.”

“What? Of course I do,” he protested.

“No. You want to get in my bed.”

He was silent for a minute or so, leaving chatter from the birds to fill the quiet as we walked. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head.

“Is there something wrong with that? I meant it, about you being the prettiest girl here.”

Ew. Was him telling me I was pretty supposed to make my legs spread in invitation?

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me. There are plenty of beautiful women here that aren’t taken. I am.”

“You…are?”

I thought that me saying I was in a relationship would be the end of this, but Mack was proving to be determined—cementing the fact that someone had put him up to this.

I never acknowledged or divulged my relationship status. It was a complicated beast that needed to be left sleeping. Very few people understood the perplexity that was Samael and me.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Mack prodded, just as I knew he would.

“Doesn’t matter,” I quipped. “The spot you want in my bed isn’t available, and the only man who can fill it will take your life in a heartbeat if he so much as thinks you want what’s his.”

I knew he would have a ton more questions now, but, fortunately for me, we were nearing the end of the pathway that led to and from my cabin. If he seriously wanted to know the identity of my mystery guy, all he had to do was ask someone. Just not the person who’d told him this would be a good idea.

This in mind, I decided to offer the guy some non-solicited pointers. I came to a full stop, bringing a hand to Mack’s chest so he was forced to do the same.

“You need to be careful. Not everyone here takes kindly to strangers. If you want to live, focus on being fully initiated. They’re slow to kill one of their own unless you piss off the king of the castle. So, seriously, quit letting all your brain cells flow to the wrong head and start using the one between your shoulders.”

“I’m not worried about being killed off, but I am happy you at least care.”

How could someone be this stupid? Was he purposely missing how serious I was being right now?

“What do you mean by them killing one of ‘their’ own? You say that like you’re not one of them.”

“It’s complicated.” That was the most honest answer I could give him.

The insignia inked on the underside of my wrist said I was. The Leviathan cross tattooed on my hip made that contradictory. My heart was torn on the matter, but that didn’t change the facts. Savage blood was what swam through my veins and made me who I was.

“I can handle complicated,” he continued.

“That may be true, but you can’t handle me.”

The boyish grin that spread across his face didn’t give me much hope for his future.

“That your way of telling me to fuck off?”

“No. That was my way of telling you it’s complicated,” I reiterated. “Now I’m telling you to fuck off.”