I point to his gun. “I don’t advise doing that.”
“Listen, we don’t want problems,” 55 says, glancing at 48 by his side. He doesn’t drop his hand from the grip of his gun. “She’s ordered to stay in her room. And trust me, we’re not going within ten feet of her roomorher.”
I grit my teeth, inhaling patience as I take in his words, noting they are positioned at the entrance to the hall and nowhere near her door. “Let me deal with Fallon later—”
“It’s not Fallon’s order,” 48 says. “It’s Reaper’s.”
“He chose us to secure her room after…” 55 glances away.
“After what?” I bark out.
“Ask Reaper.”
“Where is he?” Breaker asks.
48 points upwards.
Breaker grips my arm, pulling me away. “Calm down,” he whispers. “Let’s find Reap and get more information before flying off the handle.”
Taking a deep breath, I nod and head up the stairs. If Reaper trusts these two, then so do I. By the time we land on the fourth floor, I’ve gone through a million different scenarios in my head of what happened in my absence. None of them are good. When I reach his bedroom door, I don’t bother knocking.
“What happened?” I ask, barging into his room.
Just inside the doorway, I freeze, taking in his disheveled state sprawled out on his bed. His hair is out of place, hanging over his ears, not combed and slicked back like usual. Shadows paint under his eyes nearly purple, giving him a haunted, desperate look, and I wonder if he’s slept. His black pants rest low on his hips, the dim light of the bedside lamp casting agarish glow on his abdomen, making the deep ink of the tattoos over his chest look harsher than usual, the thorns on the vines snaking up to his neck, seem to sink into his skin as if embedded.
“You look like shit,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. Breaker moves past me and enters the room, casting me a worried look over his shoulder.
“What happened?” he asks Reaper.
Reaper sits up when he sees us and scrubs his hands over his face. “About fucking time.”
“We got here as fast as we could,” I say.
He swings to a sitting position, placing his bare feet on the floor. Adjusting the thin chain with the cross around his neck, he scans both of us as if checking for wounds. He brings the gold cross to his lips, absently tracing the scars, then drops it and rubs his hands over his face.
I hate seeing him like this. Such a wreck and out of sorts. Not that I’m surprised. We’ve been watching him unravel for weeks, the seams of his control fraying and popping loose one by one as each day passed. If he’d just admit what he craves is also his ruin, maybe he could begin to figure out a way to keep her.
Maybe we all can.
“What happened and why are Father’s soldiers outside Delilah’s room?” Breaker asks.
“57,” he grates.
“The man is an asshole,” I say. “What’s the problem?”
He lets out a humorless chuckle. “He is no longer a problem.” His dark eyes meet mine. “Fallon is down a soldier.”
My brows knit as I search his face. “As in…”
“The fucker is dead.”
Fuck.
Breaker mutters something unintelligible, his finger tapping his thigh.
“What did he do?” I ask.
“Tried to touch what wasn’t his.”
