“I want to kill them all.”
He felt Titus’s knees give by the sudden slack in his weight. Before Viper could brace him, Titus sank to his knees and retched into a large planter set discreetly along the wall.
Viper stayed with him, rubbing slow circles between his shoulders. He reached into his pocket, drew out a folded handkerchief, and held it out. Titus stared at it for a beat, then looked up—something like disbelief flickering across his face.
“Mom was old-fashioned,” Viper said, answering the unasked question.
Titus took the white square and wiped at his eyes and mouth.
When the worst of it passed, Viper helped him back to his feet—and looked up just as a staff member appeared at the far end of the hall.
“Clean this up.” Viper pressed a hundred into the man’s hand.
He found a restroom and steered Titus inside, where he rinsed his face and drank from one of the unopened bottles lined on the counter.
Titus braced his hands on the sink, staring down into the white porcelain.
Viper waited.
“I’m bad blood.”
It took Viper less than a second to hear where Titus was taking it.
“Oh, hell fucking no,” he said, the snarl low and immediate. “You are not them. Blood doesn’t define you.”
Titus looked up then—bright eyes rimmed, tears held back by force alone.
“No?”
“You are a good man.” The words tore out rougher than Viper expected.
He yanked Titus in close—so close they could’ve been the same breath, the same heat—and held him.
When Titus steadied, Viper eased his grip, brushed his thumb once at Titus’s wrist, and steered them toward the door.
They stepped out of the restroom to find Hale waiting in the hall, posture easy, hands loose at his sides—as if he’d merely paused for a refill. Not defensive. Not rushed. A man who believed the ground under him was solid.
“You’re sick?” Hale asked.
“Something I drank,” Titus said softly, giving a slow nod. “Feeling better now.”
“Good.” Hale’s mouth curved, almost amused. “I heard you’ve been exploring.”
That didn’t surprise Viper. Men like Hale didn’t miss movement in their house—and when it went unanswered, they mistook silence for acquiescence.
“Didn’t expect you to find that room so early,” Hale added, conversational—faintly indulgent.
Titus stayed quiet. Viper kept his posture controlled, closed, unreadable. Neither of them wore shock. Neither wore disgust.
Hale smiled like a man whose assumptions had just been confirmed.
He thought this was alignment.
“That was one spoke of a much larger wheel,” Hale went on lightly. “Temporary storage. Logistics are handled elsewhere.” He tilted his head, as if offering context rather than confession. “That space is… inelegant. Necessary, but inelegant.”
Viper said nothing, though the urge to speak—to reach out and wring Hale’s smarmy fucking neck—burned hot and immediate. Instead, he waited, settling deeper at Titus’s side.
“Intriguing,” Titus murmured, expression edging toward bored. The man was a damn good actor.
