Page 34 of Viper

He came.

Like he promised.

“Hey, pretty Vixen,” Viper says, a feral smirk playing on his lips. That grin turns hard as he steps back and swings open the little back door, then gestures to the interior of the car. Somehow, he looks bigger with his mask off. Meaner. Sexier. “Get in the car.Now.”

Chapter 12

Viper

1 Year Ago, December 12th

Coldairblaststhroughthe vents, barely combating the heat in the small interior of the van. I’ll never get used to how blazing hot it is in this part of the world. How sticky and gross the air feels, even in mid-December. Sitting in our surveillance van makes it worse. It’s muggy and uncomfortable, even with the AC running.

“Fuck, it’s hot today,” Striker says from the driver’s seat. He fiddles with the controls and the AC cranks up, but then the van door slides open and a blast of warm, humid air sucks all the cool air out the door. Brilliant daylight slices through the darkinterior but cuts off as Breaker climbs in, removing his hat and slamming the van door closed behind him.

“We need to move.” He drops into the single chair in front of the row of small monitors we use to track Rune and the girls, the blue lights highlighting his jawline. With a grunt, he tosses his hat aside, and props his brown leather boot on the bench next to me where I’m sitting with Reaper at the back of the van. “Even with the company logo on the side, we stick out like a sore thumb.”

My lip curls into a scowl at the boot, and I shove it away, tugging at the collar of my t-shirt. We’re all dressed the same. Gray shirts with the same electrical company logo, jeans, and work boots. Our cover, and a reason to sit outside the small building on a busy Thursday afternoon.

Breaker leans sideways and taps Striker’s chair. “Turn up the AC, Strike. It’s stifling in this fucking van.”

“No shit,” I snap, stretching my legs out, but it flattens my thigh to Reaper, whose elbow drives into my side. I catch his glare but ignore it.

He chose to sit next to me. It’s not my fault we’re crammed together on the bench.

“Doesn’t exactly feel like Christmas is just under two weeks away,” Striker says. He turns the dial up all the way, and I lean forward, debating sitting in the empty passenger seat, but eye the row of cameras. The little camera on the top of the van is currently aimed on the front door. If I sit up front, I won’t see them leave the building.

Probably why Reaper is flattened to my side. So he can watch them too, though he’d never admit it.

“And what is Christmas supposed to feel like?” Reaper asks, shifting to put space between us.

The van is too small. Especially now with all four of us crammed in here.

“Cold weather. Snow,” Striker says, twisting in his seat to look at him. “Hot chocolate and sugar cookies.” He shrugs. “All warm and fuzzy. Like puppies.”

The chuckle that slips out of Reaper makes my brow lift. I glance at him squeezed next to me and catch his dark eyes.

“What?” he asks. His gaze drops to where our hips press together, glaring like it’s my fault we’re touching. He motions to my face. “Stop looking at me with that fucking face.”

“With what face?” I grin. “Besides, I can’t help it. I was born with this face. December 12th, thirty-one years ago.Today.”

Reaper spreads his thighs, which does nothing but press us together more, as he leans back against the van and crosses his arms, making a sound in his throat. He lifts his chin toward Breaker. “Give it to him.”

Breaker reaches into the cooler where we store drinks and snacks and pulls out a small box. He tosses it my way, and it lands in my lap. “Happy birthday.”

I eye the little box wrapped in a plaid ribbon sitting at an awkward angle, then pick it up and shake it, grinning at Breaker’s scowl. I read the label.

Fudge straight from Scotland.

“Fudge?” I ask and he shrugs.

They do this every year now, though I have no idea where it’s delivered. They must have a box at the post office I don’t know about.

Beside me, Reaper shifts, digging under the bench. Another box lands in my lap.

I glance over and find Reaper’s black eyes on me. I quirk a brow, holding up the box. “What the fuck is this?”

“That nasty, sweet cake shit you like,” he says, eyes traveling to the row of screens showing footage of Rune’s houseand the entrance to the girls’ condos, alongside the live feed streaming in from the camera on the van.