Page 4 of Viper

“Don’t stay in this place too long,” the man says, waving as he turns away. “Devil might bind to ya.”

Striker says something to him, but I’m not paying attention, I’m so focused on the picture. Every memory I tucked away, rattles and shakes in my head.

“Hey,” Breaker says, nudging me with his elbow. “Are you okay?”

“Do you think he loves us?” I ask. “Father?”

Striker chuckles. “If he does, he has a strange way of showing it.”

I glance back at the ruins. I swear the wind still carried their screams. I can imagine them trapped. Terrified. On their knees, praying for mercy, begging to be saved.

And none of their prayers were answered.

Just like mine never were.

“Do you remember her?” Breaker asks, tapping the image of the tall, thin woman holding a baby with bright red hair. “That’s your mother, right?”

I nod, examining her face.

“How come you never told us?” Breaker asks, a slight accusation staining his tone. Like he’s hurt I didn’t confide in him.

But what was I supposed to tell a boy who had no mother, or good memories, and had lived through the same hell in that cold school that I had? Breaker was born from hate and death, and I was born to a mother who loved me but who was taken too early.

“She’s pretty,” Striker says, looking over my shoulder. “She looks young, though.”

“She was,” I run my finger over the image, tracing the shape of her face before tucking it into my back pocket and heading back down the path.

“Hey, Viper,” Breaker calls. I pause, shifting to look at him. “Do you remember her?”

Part of me wants to lie. Tell him I have no memory of the young woman who gave birth to me. But I don’t think I could shatter the hope on his face that at least one of us had something good before the school.

“Yes.” I nod. “I remember watching her dance. I remember walking across the stage, following her as she practiced. Her whispering that she loved me.”

Striker comes close, that strange expression I saw earlier returning. “So you remember that your mother was a ballerina?”

Chapter 2

Delilah

Pain.It’severywhere.It’sall I am.

Every inhale sends lightning through my ribs. My back throbs in rhythm with my pulse, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of fire across my skin. But the pain surging through my body isn’t nearly as consuming as the agony shredding my heart.

Outside, the faint, slick sound of a van door sliding closed, then another, breaks the quiet room. Then it’s just my heavy gasps as I try to regain control, each breath loud in the thick silence.

I curl my fingers against the floor, anchoring myself, but all I see is the gun pressed against Striker’s temple, Reaper kneeling. Both helpless. Defeated.

I twist my head to press my cheek to the cold floor in a desperate attempt to focus, and squeeze my eyes shut, sucking in a shaky breath, slowly easing air into my lungs. A tug of pain, like a dull blade in my ribs, makes me gasp. I exhale slowly. Firerakes across my back. I freeze, half-curled on the floor, afraid to move again.

Fingers delicately touch my shoulder. “Princess,” Striker whispers.

When I don’t move or speak, or even open my eyes, he says my name again, his voice just a trembling breath and paper-thin. Like he’s terrified I’ll shatter.

Maybe I will.

I’m barely held together. Just threads of pain, stitched together with a fear that’s quickly melting at the seams as fiery rage scalds my bloodstream.

Striker gently swipes at the hair in my face, tucking strands behind my ear. “Delilah.” His voice changes. Cracks a little.