Page 45 of Viper

Now, over the years, I think it’s become something he just enjoys doing. Not that learning to prepare food with Cook made him good at it. But he kept us all fed after Fallon sent Cook back to the States, never bothering to replace him.

Watching Reaper now, searing meat in a pan, it’s obvious this is one of the few times he’s not enjoyed cooking.

“Are you going to tell me what you discussed with Fallon?” I ask, noting how his precise movements become jerky at my question.

“No,” he says, pushing up his sleeves to wash the potatoes in the old enamel sink.

“Did he tell you why he’s here?” I lean sideways, trying to read Reaper’s expression, but it tells me nothing. “He was only gone a few hours.”

“Maybe he missed us,” Reaper says.

“Sarcasm is a shitty self-defense mechanism, Reap.”

He keeps his back to me, angrily tossing chopped potatoes into a roasting pan. “So is slicing his throat. Be proud I’m choosing the less violent option.”

Rising from my seat, I move next to him, leaning against the counter, and crossing my arms. He meets my eye. It’simpossible to miss the dark shadow that passes behind them before he looks away.

He’s not just pissed; he’s a caged dog, furious.

Terrified of what is going to happen next.

Exactly how I feel.

We both know what Fallon could do. What he may try to make us do.

Train her. Brutally.

“Have you heard from them?” I ask, lowering my voice.

Reaper shakes his head. “No.”

I curse under my breath. It’s been hours since Viper snuck off. He’s in the SUV, which would slow him down with gas stops, but I’m sure he’s there by now.

The rattling of the knife hitting the enamel sink crashes through the small kitchen. Reaper blows out a breath and props his hands on the edge of the counter, his knuckles turning white.

“He put a fucking gun to your head,” he grates, closing his eyes. “He fucking hurt her.”

I uncross my arms and shift, the memory assaulting my senses. Another zap of anger races through me.

That. That I will never forgive.

And neither will Reaper.

***

“She is impressive in her loyalty,” Father says, taking another bite.

I track the movement of his hand as he delicately pierces another potato with his fork, his gaze fixed on Reaper across from me. Right now he’s Father, sitting at the head of the table, making conversation. It doesn’t matter that five soldiers block the dining room door, making this more like a hostage situation than a family dinner.

Fucked-up family that we are.

But this is how Father works. One minute he’s instructing us as a father would, guiding us through life with wisdom and what might actually be genuine affection. The next, ordering us to attention and scrutinizing our every move.

“Maybe fucking the girl was the right move after all,” he says.

The crassness of his words creates an acidic taste in my mouth. He’s needling us, trying to shock us, make us uncomfortable so we react. But it won’t work. Not anymore. Everything about him is grotesque and cruel and undeserving of our loyalty.

Reaper’s cutting gaze makes Father smirk, a slick curve of his lips, I know all too well.