Page 39 of Viper

“That’s what I thought.”

Harlow lunges, grabbing the collar of my shirt with one hand, the other cocked back. His fist grazes my jaw as I twist away, my shirt stretching in his grip. I catch his next punch mid-air. The impact jolts up my arm, and I shove him back hard enough to send him staggering.

The veins in his neck bulge, eyes wild and burning with an intensity that could level a city as he screams, “You fucking knew? You knew Rune was hurting her?”

Another punch comes flying, faster than I expected, but I block it, a little taken aback at how fast he is. How skilled. Though I shouldn’t be surprised considering what I know about him.

“Watch it, old man,” I snarl, gripping his fist and shoving it away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His rage collapses, his eyes hollowing. The anguish making his shoulders slump would affect someone who gave a fuck, but I don’t. I don’t care about his fucking feelings. I care about our girl.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” I snarl, jabbing a finger into his chest. Into the fucking suit he always wears that reminds me of Fallon. “Don’t act like you didn’t turn a blind eye to everything Rune has done over the years. Don’t act like you feed Fallon info for any other reason than to assuage your guilt for what youallowed.”

Harlow pins me with a glare. “I didn’t know.”

“Which part?” I say, malice icing my tone. “And which woman did you fail to protect? Pick one.”

My words hit him so hard he takes a step back.

I dig in deeper, wanting him to hurt, needing him to feel as much agony as our girl. “You’ve ignored what Rune has done for years. Pretended it didn’t happen even when you saw for yourself what he does when he thinks no one is watching.”

“I didn’t know what he planned,” he grinds out. “And I certainly never knew about Cora.”

“But you suspected.” I shove past him, heading for the door.

Give her space.Fuck that. She doesn’t need space. She needs people who care.

I’m going to have to do.

The second my palms hit the metal door, I freeze. The memory slams into me like a brick to my chest. I close my eyes, breathing. Focusing. Trying to rid myself of the image that suddenly occupies every corner of my mind.

I roll my shoulders, unease creeping up my spine as I walk into the room. Water drips from the shower head, hitting the tile with a shallow, echoingplink. I grind my teeth, refusing to let my mind take me back there, and move further into the room. When I see her, I stop, breath rushing from my lungs.

Cora sits, her back to the far wall, eyes closed, head tilted back against the tile, her arms wrapped around her middle like she’s holding herself together. She must not hear me because she doesn’t move as I walk toward her.

Her fiery hair escaped her ponytail, the pretty ringlets framing her face. The too-bright light overhead washes out her skin, making all the little freckles on her nose and cheeks stand out. My throat closes at the sight of her. She’s so tiny and delicate.

So fucking beautiful, it wrecks me.

I remind myself to move slowly, to be gentle. But that’s not what I needed. I needed wrath and ruin and someone to make the monsters hidden in plain sight bleed.

Right now, Cora needs strength and fucking vengeance.

And I need to know she’s okay.

My footsteps echo as I stalk toward her, and her eyes pop open. She tracks me as I approach, her face devoid of all emotion. I grip her arm, pulling her to her feet, more roughly than I intended, and her lips part. Her eyes grow wide as I grip her long-sleeved button-up shirt and yank it off, tossing it to the floor. I scan her wrists and arms, lifting them above her head to see every inch. When my eyes land on the faint bruise and the remnants of stitches, the world turns a blurry red.

It was removed. Cut out of her.

ForZane.

My pulse hammers against my skull, drowning out everything but the roar of blood in my ears. Before I know it, I’ve yanked her tank top over her head. The faint bruise in the shape of teeth on her breast shreds every ounce of control. I pull her toward me, trailing my fingers over her stomach, searching for more evidence of abuse, then spin her to examine her back. When I see none, I let her go.

She stumbles back into the wall. Something flickers across her face, maybe fear, but it fades when our eyes lock. I step closer, the need to feel her making me move on instinct. I run my hands over her shoulders, down her arms, my thumb moving over the stitches. Glide my fingertips over her belly and lower back and ass, then around to between her thighs.

She makes a small sound as I cup her over her jeans. There’s a primal urge to shove my hand under the denim and drive my fingers into her. Feel her warmth wrapped around me. Bend her over to reclaim what he touched. Instead, I keep my touch gentle, soft. Just letting my hand rest softly against the place that’s been used to control her.

After a minute, my heartbeat finally slows. The unease swirling through me settles now that I have my hands on her. I step back, and she presses her back to the wall, her gaze dragging all over me.