My skin crawls under his slithering gaze. I changed into one of my dresses and put my boots on, my little knife tucked between my boot and sock just in case, and it seems from the creepy feeling slicking over my skin, he likes my outfit.
“Downstairs. Now,” the other one, 55, says, but he doesn’t seem too interested in me.
I gather my dress in a fist to settle my shaking hand, and take a step forward, but the creepy one grips my arm and panic seizes my breath. With a violent jerk of my arm, I pull free and glare at him.
“Do not lay a hand on me,” I snarl. 57 makes a move toward me, but I shove past him and step between them into the hall.
“Too much sass,” he mumbles. “I bet I know how to fix that.”
I swallow, keeping my head high, refusing to show fear as I stalk down the hall toward the stairs.
“Shut the fuck up,” 55 whispers to 57. “If Commander were to hear that, he’d remove your head.”
My shoulders ease somewhat.Noted.
Right as my boot brushes the first step, a hand clasps around the back of my neck. Before I can scream, a large gloved palm clamps over my mouth, and I’m jerked back into a hardchest, pain searing through my bruised ribs. My hands fly up to grasp the thick glove covering half my face, smashing my nose.
“Come on, bitch,” 57 snarls. “Commander wants to see how they pull your strings.”
He uncovers my mouth, but keeps the hand on my neck and shoves me forward. I stumble, catching myself on the railing, grinding my teeth, trying my best not to react.
Do everything I ask.Reaper’s order rings in my head. I take an unsteady step and then another, my thoughts spinning.
If I’m being taken downstairs to Fallon, then that means they must be okay. But god knows what they endured for the last few hours. I shove down the fear rattling my bones with a deep breath, and relax, not fighting, as he shoves me forward again.
“Don’t fight me, bitch,” 57 snarls, and for a millisecond, I debate snatching my knife from my boot and stabbing him in the balls, but know the ramifications wouldn’t be worth it.
We continue down the steps, then through the foyer and down the hall toward the dining room, his hand at my neck guiding my every move. His fingers dig sharply into my neck, making me wince, and every time he steers me in a new direction, he jerks me violently, and by the time we’ve reached the dining room, my neck is sore and my ribs ache.
We stop behind a wall of soldiers blocking the door. They part, and 57 shoves me forward. I stumble through the gap between the soldiers, nearly falling to my knees. My gaze lands immediately on Striker, dressed in uniform and mask, standing to the right of the table. I catch the way his bare hands flex like it’s taking every ounce of control to remain still.
“57.” Reaper’s dark growl creates goosebumps on my arms. My eyes dart to where he stands on the other side of the long wooden table with the familiar tray of food. His black eyes swirl with violence. “If you touch her again, I will remove your hand.”
“Yes, sir,” 57 says.
I’m a little surprised that he called Reaper sir, and it makes me wonder about the dynamics between these soldiers and my men. Did they train together? Fallon implied he doesn’t treat these soldiers like he does his sons, so maybe that means they take orders from Reaper as well?
“You are dismissed.”
I stiffen at the sound of Fallon’s voice. Instinctively, I shrink away as I turn and find him at the end of the line of five soldiers. The line breaks, and they file out one by one, leaving just the four of us.
The urge to ask about Cora, to scream at him for taking her back, taking her away from me, burns my throat, but I swallow it down.
Reaper snaps his fingers. The sound ricochets through my head like a whip, forcing my focus to him. Reaper gestures to the chair he had just occupied. “It’s time to eat.”
I swallow, glancing at Striker, who pulls out the chair at the head of the table and gives me a lethal glare before sitting.
Sit.
Eat.
With another look Fallon’s way, I inch forward, my dress clutched tightly to keep my hands from shaking, and ease myself down into the chair. Another quick look at Striker and I catch his eyes widen slightly as he glances at the table before me. With my heart thundering so hard, I’m sure they can hear it, I place my hands flat on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. Striker visibly relaxes.
Pull your strings.
My teeth gnash together as it dawns on me. Fallon wants to see my compliance. My submission. He is here to witness how they got my cooperation. I’m about to get fucking fed again, andthis time it isn’t sensual, woven tightly with lusty seduction; it’s wrought with demands.
Reaper tears off a piece of bread, moving in close enough that his hip brushes my shoulder, and leans against the edge of the table. I stare at his belt, thinking of the first time we did this. How he was so hard, his cock strained against his black pants. He’s not hard now. I glance at his bare hands, one thumb hooked into his waistband, the other in front of my face offering bread. So casual, so calm. I want to look up to see his eyes, see if they are as dark with dread as I feel, but keep still.
