The memory may very well ruin me.
Her pain.
Her refusal to bend.
For us.
“Did you all really fuck her?” His nasally voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to face him, my vision hazing red at the corners. My gaze locks with his brown eyes.
“Excuse me?” I ask, taking a step toward him, and tap the shiny black number on his black shirt. 57. That’s his name. His number. I’ve never seen the full list of the men Fallon has gone through over the years, but I know it’s over a hundred.
We were among his earliest attempts to train soldiers for hire. These are his last, and Fallon’s tactics didn’t change. If anything, these men have endured far worse than us. We at least received a smidgen of Fallon’s good side.
They didn’t, and it’s left them cold and empty of all humanity.
And I really, really don’t fucking like this one.
The fucker held a gun to my head.
I angle my head, staring into his shit-brown eyes. 57 shifts as I tap his number again. “Did you just speak out of turn?”
He lifts his chin toward the stairwell behind me. “She’s a hot piece of ass. I’d fuck her if I we—”
His words cut short as I grip his throat. The blurred halo around my eyes pulses scarlet, rage searing away all logical thoughts. Before I can think, I spin him, taking him down, my fist pulled back and aimed for his nose the second his head hits the wood floor.
“Enough.” Fallon’s sharp voice snaps through the foyer. The deadly tone snatches me out of my anger just enough that I unfurl my fist, but keep my knee to 57’s chest.
The front door slamming closed echoes in the foyer. Damp winter air blasts through the line of soldiers at my back. Cold fingers grip the back of my neck, and I stiffen.
“Mind yourself,” Father says.
My teeth grind.Fuckhim.He ordered this piece of shit to shoot me last night. The humiliation still sears through me, a fresh wound, festering and bubbling below the surface of my skin.
“Release him,” Reaper says, tone like ice. My gaze snaps to him, and he gestures to 57. “He’s not worth it.”
Slowly, I unravel my fingers from his throat one by one, my eyes on his, daring him to make a move as I stand. 57 scrambles to his feet and moves back into his position, adjusting his mask around his neck.
“55,” Father barks, and a tall, thin man steps out of formation. “I want two guards posted at her door twenty-four hours a day.” He points to 57 and 55. “You two take the first shift. The rest of you set up in the west wing.”
“Not him,” I growl. “That sack of—”
“Silence,” Father says, cutting me off. His cold eyes bore through me, and I swear heknows. Not just my hatred for the soldier he ordered to restrain me, but how dangerous it is to post him outside her door.
“I don’t trust him,” I say.
“And I do not trust my sons,” Father barks. He points to me and then Reaper. “You two, prepare our meal. We can discuss trust issues over dinner.” When Reap doesn’t move, he gestures toward the back of the house. “Go. Now.”
Reaper tenses, his stormy gaze reminding me that I’m not the only one being humiliated. Put in place for defying our Father. He marches past without a word. I roll my shoulders, loosening my anger, and follow him to the kitchen.
Without a word, Reaper stalks to the fridge and opens it, fingers drumming on the door. The bright white glow highlights his cheekbones, the line of his nose. Turns his black hair nearly blue. My heart aches at the sight, and I tug out a chair, a bit too aggressively, then sit.
Reaper slams the fridge door closed. “We have to keep ourselves in check,” he says. “Not react to him.”
“Are you reminding me or yourself?” I ask, watching as he moves around the kitchen, collecting items, knowing it’spointless to help him. He won’t let me, or he’ll end up redoing everything I attempt to make.
“Both of us,” he grates, slamming a bag of potatoes on the counter.
I flash back to all the times he would help Cook prepare our meals. Viper too sometimes. I had always thought that Reaper’s obsession with ensuring our food was prepared well, that we all had enough, sometimes more than him, came from the fact we were always so hungry. That his deep fear of never having a full belly fueled his need for control, and the only way to have any at all was to make sure we were fed.
