Page 89 of Viper

Fallon props his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward to pin me with those icy eyes. “I saved those boys froma terrible fate. Their lives would have ended tragically if not for me.”

“You truly believe that?” I ask. A tightness winds up in my chest, the same anger that burned through me when I realized Fallon would kill his son to keep control. That he hurts them to maintain order. My vision blurs from the intensity of it as I glare at him. “You believe that by taking young boys and training them to”—I gesture to the table—“to kill and kidnap and god knows what else, you saved them?”

“They were orphans. Tossed aside and alone.” Fallon stands upright, a righteous expression turning his handsome features darker. “Despite what you think of me, I love my sons dearly. I rescued them from a system designed to keep them from thriving.”

My chest nearly cracks open at the thought of small boys losing their parents and being placed in orphanages. Five is old enough to remember a mother. A father. Viper was six, so he must remember his parents before being orphaned. Did any of them have siblings? Were they separated?

Breaker.His beautiful face flashes in my mind. He was so young. Is Fallon all he has ever known?

“Are you finished with your line of questioning?” Fallon asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. His perfect brow quirks. “May we continue?”

I realize he never mentioned how old Reaper was when he came to the school. I open my mouth, about to ask, but resist the urge to question him further. With a nod, I focus on the weapons.

“We must always ensure the gun is safe before disassembling it.” Fallon picks up the Sig and removes the clip, then pulls the slide back, showing me the empty chamber. “As you can see, it’s free and clear.”

“I see,” I say coldly, keeping my eyes locked on the weapon in his hands.

“You’re angry,” Fallon says.

My gaze snaps to his, and I can’t help indignation from staining every word as I spit them out. “I’m angry that you hurt little boys and treat your sons as if they are expendable.”

Fallon lowers the weapon to the table. “You love them.”

I swallow, looking away, my heart nearly pushing its way through my chest at the word. Love isn’t something that’s allowed here. Not even in my fantasies, where I imagine staying in this mansion with Cora and the men. Not after everything. There’s room for lust, yes. I’ve allowed myself to feel the fierce protective desire to keep them safe and this need to be near them, taste them,havethem, but I can’t, Iwon’texamine what I feel for them. This fucked up, messy ache that clings to my heart when I think of them. I crave them, carry a bone-deep desire to own them, but it couldn’t possibly be love.

Love is gentle. Protective. Loyal.

I love Cora.

I’ll kill for her.

For them.

I meet his eyes, and his faint smile tells me he knows, even if I refuse to admit it.

“Let’s continue, Delilah,” he says softly, like he just proved a point without having to say more.

He spends the next several minutes disassembling the Sig, explaining the various components and their functions. Fallon shows me the takedown lever, which releases the slide from the frame. How to remove the recoil assembly and the barrel before he puts it all back together, then takes it apart again.

We continue down the line, while I watch and he leaves them laid out in pieces as we go, while I do my best to tuck the information away.

When we reach the last one on the table, he picks up a suppressor. “This will improve your aim, reduce recoil, and of course, muffle sound.” After he takes the weapon apart, he shows me how to put it back together, then screws the suppressor in place.

Instead of picking up the empty magazine on the table, Fallon pulls a clip from his jacket pocket and loads it into the firearm.

“Now we begin,” he says.

My brows knit. “Begin?”

He removes a small gold pocket watch from his vest. “We will start with sixty seconds on the clock and reduce it by ten as we go along the line.”

Confusion clouds my thoughts as I look from the watch to the line of disassembled weapons.

Fallon’s sleek black shoe whispers across the wood floor as he takes a step back. My pulse skitters, a strange disquiet winds up in my middle, and every nerve ending snaps into overdrive. My hearing, my vision, my sense of smell, spark with clarity. Fabric rustles in the silent room as he extends his arm holding the gun, and aims for my head. I take a step back, blinking at the end of the barrel. He holds up the stopwatch, his thumb hovering over the top button.

“Sixty-seconds to assemble the weapon before I fire,” he says. His thumb lowers.

The ticking crashes through the silent room.