“Go to your room,” Reaper shouts. “And do as I say from here on out, Delilah.”
My name. Not my pet name. Not Kitten, the little play toy he stole from Rune. Me.
I shoot forward and run for the stairs, fear overriding the pain in my ribs. My sweaty palms slip over the railing as I stumble down the steps. On the second-floor landing, I pauselong enough to peer over the railing to the foyer below. Striker rushes from the library, and his gaze immediately darts up. When he sees me, he freezes, but he doesn’t need to tell me.
Fallon is here. I feel it in my gut.
Outside, the familiar slick sound of van doors sliding open cuts through the house, and bile rises in my throat. Why is he back? Is he coming to hurt them again? Hurt me to get their cooperation?
Striker’s eyes dart from the front door to me, then he bolts up the stairs, two at a time. I take a step back, then turn and rush to my bedroom, knowing that whatever happens next, they’re going to do everything in their power to keep me safe.
My hand lands on the door just as Striker reaches me. He grips the back of my neck and turns me to face him. Our mouths crash together, his tongue slipping past my lips. I clutch his hair, like my grip alone might keep him safe. He breaks the kiss and backs away, then shoves me backward. I stumble over the threshold, my heart in my throat.
Striker grips the doorknob, his eyes saying everything he’s not, then shuts the door. The snapping of the lock as it slips into place hits me as harshly as the belt.
I take a step back, a strange numbness creeping through my limbs.
I said I would do this. Cooperate. Train to kill.
Betray my father.
Murder him.
And I think Fallon may have just returned to ensure that I do.
Chapter 9
Viper
15 Years Ago, June, Age 17
Killingiseasy.Tooeasy.
Not that I’ve killed before. That’s not true. I’ve killed, but not on purpose. Not with intent. The only intentional killing I’ve done is when we leave the school to hunt small game in the woods. Little rabbits and squirrels caught in the snares we set up during one of the training missions we’re forced to endure.
Survival. That’s the purpose of those outings. Do whatever it takes to live, even at the expense of the innocent. It’s human nature in its purest form. Consuming and destroying everything around us. We’re the apex predator, and we’re born starving formore than just food. We crave power over innocence and eat it bit by bit, leaving nothing in our wake.
I wonder sometimes what corner of the human mind is charged with devouring innocence? Why does this black hunger to destroy sing so loud in some people’s veins while others seem untouched by it?
Is it bred into us?
Makes me think about my father, Fallon, and if it’s a generational thing. Sickness and evil passing on from one person to another, or if cruelty is taught.
Was my real father cruel?
I like to think my mother never would have loved him enough to create me if he’d been a merciless man.
But what do I know? I’m just an orphan living in a cold militant hell.
My mind shifts back to the present as water splashes onto the counter around the large metal sink. Cook’s thick, meaty shoulders come into focus.
Maybe his father was cruel.
Cook curses under his breath and drops the dishrag onto the counter with a wet smack. He drives his hand into the dark, sudsy water, submerging his thick forearms up to his elbows.
The water laps at his elbows, and I wonder how long it takes someone to drown. A few minutes? I would bet the lungs burn as the mind races, desperate for air before a person finally gives in to the clawing need to breathe, instinctively opening their mouths only to suck in a lungful of water.
What a terrifying way to go. Slowly. Painfully.
