Page 54 of Viper

Then what, Delilah?

Focusing on the rocky drive to keep my brain from exploring that too deeply, I trudge along the rocky path, my boots crunching under each determined step.

It’s not the first time I’ve had the random thought pass through me, but it is the first time I’ve felt it lined with such want. Seeing the level of violence they have endured makes me ache for them, and I think this is the first time I’ve admitted to myself I want to be all theirs.

And, I want every detail, every scar, every fragment of memory.

Striker has fed me bits and pieces of their past over the last four weeks, Reaper told me more, and Fallon inadvertently told the most with just the few conversations we’ve had. I know they were in a school and were trained as mercenaries of sorts. They went on jobs, hired by who I can only assume are people like Rune, to do god knows what, all the while, gaining immense wealth and power.

Fallon most of all.

They aren’t so different, Rune and Fallon. Greedy. Cruel. It makes me wonder if Fallon would have cared about the hunts if Rune had not killed his son, but then I remember he said he was forced to cut ties years prior, which makes it sound as ifsomething happened. Or maybe Fallon’s level of evil doesn’t fall to the perverse depths as Rune.

From what I understand, their friendship developed before my mother was killed. Fallon told me as much. I assume he meant my father started the hunts after her death, and that’s when my father changed, became crazed.

Is there a correlation between the hunts and my mother’s death?

My father went to the lodge not that long after my mother’s funeral. But then Cora came to live with us, so it didn’t matter to eleven-year-old me that he was not just distant but different. I had my best friend, and she was just as sad as I was about the loss of a mother.

“Hurry,” 57 says, hitting the center of my back and shoving me forward. I stumble a little, and shoot him a look as I right myself.

“Reaper won’t be too happy to hear you’re touching me,” I remind him.

“Shut up, bitch,” he says, and does it again.

“Stop it, man,” 55 says. “You know Reaper means what he says.”

My stomach dips, remembering Reaper’s warning. I like the idea of him hurting anyone who touches me. Maybe a little too much to be sane.

“He’s a prick,” 57 says.

I bristle at the insult, but keep my mouth shut. Yes, Reaper is a straight-up asshole, but that’s not all he is. He’s layered, with more depth than the man behind me.

“He’s also Commander’s son, so it’s best to heed his warning,” 55 says, and I turn to agree with him when the men come into view.

My belly flutters, seeing them in their masks and tight uniforms. The black jackets that make them look even larger.How imposing Reaper and Striker both look, standing in the middle of the open road, framed by the tall trees and dark woods on one side and the rolling ocean on the other. Just the sight of them in all-black uniforms, rigid postures, would elicit fear in anyone who doesn’t know them. Even with Fallon next to them, who emanates a force all his own, they radiate power.

How easily it crumbles when their father asserts his.

As I approach, Fallon makes a movement with his hand, signaling the men to move toward the cliff. When they turn to follow his order, I spot the large knives sheathed in black, strapped to their belts. Unease grips my throat. I’ve not once seen weapons on them since I woke up.

That they are choosing now to carry them sends pinpricks up my spine.

Fallon strides toward a long wooden table set in the clearing where I usually practice and waits as I approach. It looks so out of place with its glossy varnish and engraved corners, placed in the open space before the trees where a large target sits. Various guns cover the top, along with ammo boxes and earmuffs. 57 and 55 take position a few feet away, but not nearly as far back as the men.

“Good morning,” Fallon says, holding out a hand, and beckoning me toward him. He’s wearing another suit, charcoal with a blood red tie, and a long black leather coat that reaches his knees like some sort of movie villain.

Glancing toward the men, I note they are tense, but say nothing. When they remain unmoving, I walk forward and I place my hand in his, fleetingly thinking how his long fingers remind me of Reaper. The slight squeeze he gives my hand should reassure me, but my pulse skyrockets, and I cast a look over my shoulder at the men.

No reaction.

“You didn’t sleep well,” Fallon says, drawing my focus back to him. His features seem softer today, his entire demeanor less volatile, which makes me tense. Men like him aren’t soft or nice. Men like him, casually cruel yet so beautiful it’s an assault to the senses, aren’t crafted from the same materials as regular humans. Fallon is almost god-like in his perfection and brutal precision. “You appear tense.”

I’m unsure if it’s a question, and since I shouldn’t answer unless asked one, and I don’t know if casual conversation is permitted, I remain silent. The last thing I want to do is piss him off with all these weapons nearby.

“Are you nervous?” Fallon asks, still holding my hand and watching me.

I glance at the men standing off to the side, wondering why they are so far away, before answering. “Yes. I’m nervous you won’t approve.”