Page 4 of The Fire We Make

Her blood boiled like lava had been injected into her veins as the rage took over her body.

Like an addict, her forehead became slick with sweat and her hands trembled as she warded off the desire to reach for the desert eagle she’d tucked into her pants.

Every man in the room looked down on her with disgust and fear. The same men who had trained her. Gained profit and power off of the back of the violence they all instilled in her.

She was ashamed of herself and that realization only made the rage bubbling under her skin boil hotter.

What did she have to be ashamed of?

He made her this way.

He crafted her from scratch and molded her into the pretty soldier who, at his command, would take back his kingdom by any means necessary. They’d stripped her of her childhood and in exchange, gave her the burden of reviving her father’s legacy.

Her prize for her merit and success was rage and an uncontrollable response to the trauma he’d introduced her to.

She tried to ignore the familiar ringing in her ears, but when her eyes returned to Cleve, she saw the smug grin plastered on his face.

And she snapped.

She moved so quickly no one noticed her motives until she’d hopped over the table and had Cleve knocked out of his chair and pinned to the ground under her shoes. Water glasses shattering, chairs scraping, and men yelling didn’t register to her as her mind went blank and her body moved of its own volition.

One foot was on his chest and the other was holding his right arm out, away from his body. She slid a large, sharp blade from her boot and, in one motion, brought it down at Cleve’s wrist, severing the hand from the rest of his body.

He let out a blood-curdling scream that was muted to Joy’s ears.

She picked up the severed hand and stood. Tendons and muscle tissue dangled from the cut. With vacant eyes, she tossed it on the conference table in front of her stunned father.

“There’s your right hand,” she snarled.

When Joy’s vision refocused and her soul was present in her body again, her father’s office was empty leaving her alone with blood drenching her hands.

She could hear a commotion in a distant part of the building, but Joy’s body wouldn’t move to go see what was happening.

Slowly, the memories trickled back to her and once again, she was ashamed.

Fuck… not again.

The look on her father’s face would haunt her for the rest of her life.

He was afraid of her.

Disgusted by her.

Joy’s head throbbed as her mind tried to make sense of his reaction. This was the same man who taught her to fight. Taught her to shoot. Trained her in his image. Raised her to be a soldier. Why, now, did he look down on her like her actions weren’t warranted? Like they hadn’t been praised in similar circumstances.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Byron’s voice boomed as he charged into the office, the door slamming against the adjacent wall.

Joy looked up from inspecting her hands with wide eyes. “Me? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? How could you vote me out?”

“Watch your fucking tone when you speak to me, little girl,” Byron pointed his finger in her face.

“You kicked me out! What am I supposed to do?” Joy asked, standing. She knew nothing but the Cartel. Since she was 10 years old, everything she did was for the sake of the family and training her to one day run it.

What was she supposed to do if they kicked her out? Who was she if not her father’s perfect soldier?

“I don’t give a damn,” Byron gritted out. “You’re not about to burn down everything I’ve built because yo unstable ass don’t know how to control that temper.”

Joy reared back, and if her heart wasn’t breaking, she might have laughed. “Everything you’ve built? So, I guess I didn’t do shit huh?”