Themorningaftermygrueling training session with the men, two soldiers I don’t recognize guide me toward the west wing. Their heavy boots thud on the worn wood floors, echoing down the halls and through large, empty rooms as we silently wind our way through the house. A heaviness sits in my belly, unsure where they are taking me and why we’re breaking routine.
This part of the house is older and more worn down, but there are obvious signs of restoration. Some halls have fresh paint. A few have sanded wood floors ready for fresh varnish. We pass through an enormous sitting room overlooking the woods, with ornate double doors at the far end. In this room, the faded and cracked wallpaper that covers most of the mansion was removed, and large portions of the plaster underneath have been repaired.
The soldier with the number 46 on his uniform gestures toward the tall double doors. I take that as my cue to enter and grip the carved metal knobs. The doors swing open, anda large ballroom comes into view. Dusty chandeliers with hundreds of tiny crystals line the high paneled ceiling from one end to the other. Bright sunlight filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the tiny clear beads and spilling muted rainbows along the worn wood floor. Faded murals and peeling wallpaper cover the far wall, broken up by more massive windows.
A cold draft slips up my sweater as I take a step into the room, and I notice several panes of glass in the windows are broken or missing, making the room just as cold as outside.
“Exquisite, is it not?” Fallon’s voice echoes around the room, and my heart drops to my feet.
I turn, expecting to find him with the men, but freeze when I see him standing alone behind a long wooden table placed at the far end of the room. The daylight spilling through the massive window at his back casts him in a golden glow. With his three-piece suit and lithe frame, he could pass as distinguished instead of the devil he truly is.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, taking a cautious step toward him. I glance around, looking for Striker and Reaper, my heart skipping when I realize neither man is here.
Their absence creates a heavy darkness in my chest that feels a little too close to fear. But I refuse to show Fallon fear. He’s proven repeatedly that he feeds off it, so I square my shoulders and take a step toward him.
Like he can sense my apprehension, Fallon says, “My sons will not be joining us today.”
“Where are they?” I ask, my pulse jumping when I spot several guns laid out in neat rows, along with what looks like a few suppressors.
“Not here,” he says, then sweeps his hand over the table. “Today I will show you how to assemble your weapon.”
Twisted vines weave through my belly at the thought of being alone with Fallon. Biting back more questions about where my men are, I make my way toward him.
“Respecting a weapon’s power means learning how it works,” Fallon says, circling the long table to meet me. He points to the spot where he had been standing, indicating I should move to the other side. “Let’s begin.”
With a glance back at the open doors, I walk around the glossy wood table and stand where Fallon had been. I note the soldiers didn’t enter with me, and wonder if they left or if they are stationed outside the doorway. The thought they left and I’m truly alone in a remote part of the house with Fallon sends a slippery unease creeping along my limbs. When I pull my eyes up from the guns to meet his, I catch something pass over his features. Some dark look that resembles the cruel man I witnessed a week ago. He smiles, covering it up, and my nerves ratchet up higher.
He’s up to something.
Clasping his hands behind his back, that smile breaks and his face turns cold. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, silence is a virtue.”
My heart stutters, and I take a step back, my hands fisting.Is he threatening me?An acidic fear swirls with anger, making my head spin.
Fallon unclasps his hands and adjusts his tie. Winter eyes lock with mine. “‘He who guards his mouth preserves his life, but he who opens wide his lips shall have destruction.’” Fallon smiles. Cruel to the point of cutting. “Proverbs 13:3. I’m sure you’re familiar with the verse, Ms. Gavin, are you not?”
I unfurl my fists, splaying my fingers, letting the anger slip away. Oily darkness slips over me, but I refuse to flinch at his blatant threat.
“I’m familiar with the verse,” I say, my tone even. Unwavering even as my insides crawl.
“I’m glad we understand one another.” That slick smile returns, and Fallon gestures to the weapons. “Now let’s begin.”
Ripping my eyes off him, I step forward, aware of his presence just as sharply as I was the night in the study.
He’s not above threats, I’m well aware, but this threat not to tell the men about today means he’s up to something like I suspected, and that something will no doubt anger them.
With a deep breath, I focus on the guns and nod.
Fallon steps closer to the table and my heart skips, but settles when his tone turns casual. Almost friendly. “My sons learned to respect a weapon and its capabilities at an early age. Something they should have done with you.”
“How early?” I ask. In some remote part of my brain, I must have known Fallon took part in their training. They lived in a school, grew up there, and learned to be his soldiers. His militant demeanor should have told me he was a huge part of not just their upbringing but turning them into his soldiers.
“Weapons training began at different times depending on the boy,” Fallon says. “Usually between seven and ten.”
His answer takes the breath from my lungs. “How old were they when you adopted them?”
His jaw pops. It appears he doesn’t like all my questions, so I’m surprised when he answers. “They came into my life at different ages. Striker was five when he came to the school. Viper six, and Breaker was three.”
“Three?” My voice cracks trying to suppress my scream, and I inhale, trapping air in my lungs before saying, “You took a three-year-old to a military school?”
