The lights pop on as we walk toward the table. Clyde sets everything down, gesturing to the guns and ammo as if he wants me to set it all up, then presses buttons on the control panel. Two targets slide into place with a mechanical whirr. I glance at him occasionally as I lock clips into place, arranging the extras and boxes of ammo on the table.
“How mad is Breaker?” I focus on the rifles, avoiding Clyde’s eyes.
His exhale cuts the silence. “Furious.” Then a second later, “Worried. He blames himself.”
“Because of Zane,” I say, my stomach tumbling. Breaker’s face flashes in my mind. Jaw tight, the hollowed-out expression. I blink hard, trying to erase the image. I can’t stand the thought of Breaker blaming himself for what Rune did.
“How long?” Clyde says suddenly.
I freeze, my fingers curling around the grip of a rifle, my throat tightening.
I guess we’re doing this.
For a second, I debate how much of the truth I should give him, my focus on the shiny black weapon, tracing the cold metal barrel with my thumb. There’s no point in lying now.
“Since right before my eighteenth birthday.” The words scrape my throat, and I cough, hating how they taste in my mouth. Like dirt and ash.
Clyde’s hand flies out, gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I don’t dare look his way. I don’t think I can stomach what I see.
After a few deep, shaky breaths, he picks up the earmuffs and jams them over his head, covering his ears like he can’t stand how harshly the truth sounds. He slides a pair of earmuffs toward me, then picks up his own rifle. I place the earmuffs overmy ears, and pick up a rifle, checking the barrel, adjusting my grip, doing anything but chance looking at him. When I finally risk a glance, the expression he wears isn’t what I expect. There’s no rage, no disgust.
I don’t knowwhatI see.
Like he’s seeing into me maybe. Seeing the trap I was caught in. Surrounded by powerful men who could ruin me. All the years I lied and protected Delly. Him. Myself, by staying silent.
He lifts his chin, eyes locked on me. Tearing free of his penetrating stare, I take aim and a deep breath, then pull. Bullets spray out, and I keep tapping the trigger, shredding the target as each bullet lands. His eyes bore into the side of my face as I empty the clip. Chest heaving, I lower my weapon, and face him. His gaze hasn’t wavered, but the moment my magazine clicks free, his rifle snaps up and fires. He keeps shooting until the clip is empty, then sets the gun down, pushing the earmuff clear of one ear as he reloads. I do the same.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he asks, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
Inside my head screams with everything I wish I could say.I wanted to. I was too scared. He’d hurt you.
My vision blurs, and I swipe at my cheek with my shoulder. “He would have killed you if he had thought even for a millisecond you would betray him.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his jaw clench, his chest moving a tad too fast with each breath.
“True,” he says, voice thick, then snaps a new clip into place, slamming it with his palm with too much force, then sets the gun down. Tt’s hard to miss the tremble in his hand. He leans forward to place his hands flat on the table as if to steady himself, head dropping forward. “Does he…” the words catch in his throat, but I already know the question he can’t ask.
“He’s never laid a hand on Delly,” I say, slamming a fresh clip in place. “And she didn’t know. Not until right before I was brought back.”
A heavy sigh escapes him and his shoulders slump, then he stands upright, puts his earmuff back in place, motions for me to do the same, then fires. Each bullet lands dead center and with each hit, his body coils up tighter. Like he’s coiling all his anger and grief, gathering it inside into one dark mass, methodically. Precise. Every pull of the trigger, done with deadly precision. Which means one thing.
I’m right. He may want Rune stopped, but he wants something more.
They all do.
Jaw grinding, Clyde sets the rifle down, all that rage bottled up tightly, and punches at the control panel as he slides his earmuffs back. A new target glides into place.
“You’re going to kill him,” I say.
Clyde shoves his earmuffs back in place and snaps in a new magazine, then aims. “No. I won’t be the one killing him.”
Chapter 8
Delilah
Acooldraftslipsundermy nightgown, raising goosebumps across my skin. The wooden banister slips beneath my fingertips, cold as ice, as I climb each step, wincing when my ribs protest.
From what little I could see in the mirror this morning, bruises scatter my back, and a faint one discolors my ribcage from where Fallon kicked me. Striker said there was no broken skin, and the welts from last night have faded, leaving only a deep throb.
