Page 92 of Viper

With Father.

My heart races as I rush up the stairs behind him, and into the house, dread building with each step.

“He fucking planned this,” Reaper says, shoving the front door open.

My thoughts exactly. He purposely sent us both away so he could do god knows what without us interfering.

The second we step into the foyer, Father’s voice rings out from the library like he’s been waiting for us.

“I’m in here,” he calls, voice as sharp as a blade.

Reaper’s focus snaps that way, and he stills, shoulders rigid. With a brief glance my way, he storms forward, shoving past me. I follow, hands clenched into fists. When we enter the library, we find Father in the worn armchair, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie slightly askew, a glass of whisky in one hand.

“You deliberately sent us both away,” Reaper snaps, looming over him. “If you harmed her…” his voice fades, leaving the threat unspoken.

“Threats again?” Fallon’s lips quirk. “What a possessive creature you’ve become, Reaper.”

I move forward, my gut churning with worry. “Where is she?”

He takes a sip of his scotch but doesn’t respond. Instead, he sets the glass down with a decisive clink on the worn table. “You took longer than I expected.”

“Your errand took all day, just as you intended,” Reaper says, barely holding back a growl. “Next time you can go yourself.”

His gaze locks on Reaper, cold and callous. “I don’t like your tone, son.”

“And I don’t like your scheming,” Reaper growls. “Where is she?”

“Don’t fret, my sons. Your target remains unharmed. Though I have discovered today she is quite willful.” Father gestures to the doorway behind us. “She’s finishing her meal alone, since you two decided to waste an entire day running an errand that should have taken only a few hours.”

I bite my tongue, refusing to let him rile me. He sent us on runs that took longer than they should have. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had the shipment delayed just to fuck with me. And who knows what wild-goose chase he sent Reaper on. As much as I want to rage, it’s useless. He’s once again made his point.

Father controls this mission now. Not us.

With a rumbling growl, I snatch my mask from my back pocket and pull it on, leaving Father and his fucking mind games and head toward the dining room, with Reaper at my heels. Outside the doorway, two soldiers I don’t recognize guard theroom. They must feel the dark energy coming off me, because they step aside without a word.

When I enter, she bolts from the chair, relief melting her face, but she covers it quickly. My gaze travels from her face to her neck, down to her wrists and hands, searching for bruises, marks, any signs of harm. The vise around my chest loosens enough to breathe again when I see she’s unharmed. Tense, yes. A slightly feral look in her eyes, but physically unharmed.

“Any training today?” I ask.

“None. We just talked.” She meets my eyes, then Reaper’s, her mouth a hard line. “That’s all.”

Reaper tugs at his mask, irritation rolling off him in waves. His eyes travel over Delilah’s face, her neck, her collarbone, then dart to me. We both know something happened, and Delilah is refusing to tell us.

My jaw clenches so hard that a dull ache spreads through my temples. I should have seen it when he handed me the supply list. The way Father’s eyes glinted, how his mouth twitched at the corners when he insisted I go personally. I hate myself for leaving, thinking we had the upper hand. For letting him get anywhere near her.

For this fucking hell we’re putting her through.

Behind us, one of the soldiers clears his throat. “Commander wants us to return her to her room.”

“We’re taking her to her room,” Reaper says, eyeing the soldiers outside the door. “You two change shifts with 48 and 55. They will guard her room tonight.”

With a curt nod, the two leave us, and I glance at Reaper. He lifts his chin toward the door, and I grip her arm, tugging her into the hallway. We need to get Delilah somewhere we can talk to her privately and find out what happened.

Instead of guiding her to the foyer, I turn toward the back of the house. She makes a sound, glancing at me but doesn’t say a word as I guide her forward.

“Music room,” Reaper whispers.

I nod and drag her around the corner, heading toward the music room. Pushing the door open, I shove her through, and Reaper follows, easing the door closed, his back pressed against the door. Without the radiator blasting heat, the draft from the large windows sweeps across the room, hitting my bare hands like ice. The last dregs of daylight leak through the curtains, painting the room with violet shadows. In the center of the room, the piano looms, and my chest squeezes, missing listening to Breaker play late at night.