Chapter 9
Viper
Killing is easy. Too easy.
Not that I’ve killed before. That’s not true.
I’ve killed, but not on purpose. Not with intent.
The only intentional killing I’ve done is when we leave the school to hunt small game in the woods.
Little rabbits and squirrels caught in the snares we set up during one of the training missions we’re forced to endure.
Survival. That’s the purpose of those outings.
Do whatever it takes to live, even at the expense of the innocent.
It’s human nature in its purest form. Consuming and destroying everything around us.
We’re the apex predator, and we’re born starving for more than just food.
We crave power over innocence and eat it bit by bit, leaving nothing in our wake.
I wonder sometimes what corner of the human mind is charged with devouring innocence? Why does this black hunger to destroy sing so loud in some people’s veins while others seem untouched by it?
Is it bred into us?
Makes me think about my father, Fallon, and if it’s a generational thing. Sickness and evil passing on from one person to another, or if cruelty is taught.
Was my real father cruel?
I like to think my mother never would have loved him enough to create me if he’d been a merciless man.
But what do I know? I’m just an orphan living in a cold militant hell.
My mind shifts back to the present as water splashes onto the counter around the large metal sink. Cook’s thick, meaty shoulders come into focus.
Maybe his father was cruel.
Cook curses under his breath and drops the dishrag onto the counter with a wet smack. He drives his hand into the dark, sudsy water, submerging his thick forearms up to his elbows.
The water laps at his elbows, and I wonder how long it takes someone to drown. A few minutes? I would bet the lungs burn as the mind races, desperate for air before a person finally gives in to the clawing need to breathe, instinctively opening their mouths only to suck in a lungful of water.
What a terrifying way to go. Slowly. Painfully.
Cook casts a look over his shoulder, his thin lips pulled down into a frown as his dirt-brown eyes land on my little brother.
“Are you going to help?” he asks Breaker.
My spine straightens. I hate it when he looks at him.
Any of them.
“I’m pretty sure I’m on laundry duty this week,” Breaker says.
The blue tin plate clatters loudly through the kitchen as he sets it down before pulling a stool out from under the long metal island.
As he sits beside me, his bony knee hits mine.
He’s still so scrawny. He shot up several inches this past year, which just makes him look skinnier.
The kid is going to be tall. Probably almost as tall as Reaper and Hunter. Maybe even taller.
Breaker’s knee nudges mine again, and he glances my way, checking my reaction. I don’t think he realizes how much he looks at me. I cast a look around the kitchen, making sure my brothers aren’t paying attention. Though I’m sure they notice how much he looks at me.
Hunter catches my eye and smirks. I drop my gaze to my bowl. We’re all gathered around the metal island, eating breakfast. If oatmeal and nuts are considered breakfast, that is. Sometimes I wonder how Hunter and Reaper got so big with how little we eat.
“And I could be wrong,” Breaker says with a mouthful, “but Striker is the dishwasher this week.”
Hunter leans over the island and slaps the top of Breaker’s head before pushing his stool out and heading for the sink. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Not my turn,” Striker says from my left. He stands up, gathering his bowl and spoon, and makes his way around the long island, then sets them on the counter by the sink. He tosses the spoon in the soapy water and grins at Cook. “It’s Hunter’s.”
“The fuck it is,” Hunter says. “It’s Reaper’s turn.” He lifts his chin in Reaper’s direction. “He’s the asshole who volunteered.”
I glance at Reaper leaning against the far wall by the door. My skin pricks when I find his black eyes on me. I never know what to think of him. He’s so quiet and reserved, always watching, taking in every detail with those dark eyes. Like he’s able to pry your bones open, see into your soul.
I swear he knows. Everything.
Not taking his eyes off me, he lifts a shoulder in that arrogant way he does everything. “At least I’ll know it’s done correctly. None of you dirty rats knows the meaning of clean.”
“Rude,” Hunter says as he yanks the kitchen door open. “I’m the same as you. A clean, mean, sexy machine.”
Reaper rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but smile.
It’s rare to see him react to anything. Even rarer to see him smile, but Hunter does that.
Pulls smiles and happiness out of a person.
Pulls the humanity. What it’s supposed to be.
Kindness. Care. Gentleness toward one another.
Everything that our father has tried to rip from us.
Everything that half of the population is not.
Makes me wonder which half is our true nature. Cruel, cunning. Murderous. Or soft, gentle, and giving. Forgiving. Maybe it’s both, and that’s why I feel so cut up inside.
“Viper is better at scrubbing everything clean,” Cook says, eyeing me over his shoulder.
I shoot him my middle finger, my gaze dropping to his ass. It’s flat like a pancake. Like he got kicked so many times, every ounce of fat was shoved forward into his gut.
“Reaper will train Striker today.” Father’s voice snaps through the room like a whip. I jolt at the sound, tearing my eyes from Cook to look at my food, my heart beating frantically. The last thing I want is for Father to catch me looking at him.
“Hunter can train him,” Reaper says. I look up long enough to see him push off the wall and walk towards Cook, snatching the rag from his hand and shouldering him aside. “I’m on dish duty.”
“Hunter isn’t you,” Father snaps, the icy tone making us all freeze. “And I’m not asking.”
Cook smirks, but he swipes it away as he rubs his jaw.
Reaper tosses the rag into the water before he turns and leans back, hands braced behind him on the metal sink. Sometimes I wish I had his arrogance. Then again, maybe I do, and that’s why I’m always in trouble.
“In the yard,” Father snaps, eyes locked on Reaper. “Now.”
Breaker raises his hand, glancing between Reaper and Father. “I’ll do both. I don’t mind.”
“No,” I say a little too quickly, causing every single set of eyes in the room to look my way. Fuck. “I’ll wash the dishes. It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a big deal,” Reaper says, his ink-black eyes locked on mine. “A very big deal.”
My gut twists, and I do my best not to react. There is no way he knows.
Cook points at me. “Let Viper do it. He’s still got to make up for the jars of peanut butter he broke.”
“No.” Father’s tone goes glacier-cold on Reaper before he points at him and Striker. “You two. Training yard.” His gaze shifts to Breaker. “You wash dishes and then join Reaper and Striker in the yard.” He looks at me, and then points to the door. “You follow me to my office.”
My shoulders slump as I sigh. I slide off the stool reluctantly and follow him down the hall, our boots echoing through the nearly empty school.
There’s only a few of us left, and Seeker and Raid keep to themselves, so the four of us are together most of the time.
With the threat of the wilderness trail in two months, everyone is on edge.
Only two come back, and I have a feeling Hunter and Reaper will make damn sure it’s them at all costs. Even if it’s their humanity.
When we reach Fallon’s office, he pulls the large set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the door and then walks through, leaving it open after he enters, expecting me to follow. I do. We all do.
“Sit,” he says, shoving the keys back into the pocket of his sleek charcoal pants before sitting behind his glossy desk.
I do, slouching just to piss him off. At the edge of the desk sits wood frames with photos of people I’ve never met.
Hunter swears they’re Father’s friends, but it seems impossible he has any.
Men like Father don’t have friends. Especially not handsome men with beautiful wives and a pretty little girl with raven-black hair.
Hunter even told us their names. Said that he and Father went way back.
“Son.” Father’s stern tone cuts through my thoughts and rips my eyes from the perfect family, wondering how it would feel to have that. A mom who didn’t get eaten up by cancer and a father who was nice and made us smile like that little girl.
Father adjusts his chair and folds his hands on top of his desk. His cold eyes turn even icier, and I sit upright, my spine stiffening with dread.
We’re going to have this conversation again. I just know it.
“I had hoped the last time we discussed this, we’d not have to talk about it again,” Father says. “Need I remind you that your behavior is unacceptable?”
“I volunteered,” I remind him, even though I know that isn’t what he’s talking about. “You’re the one who refused—”
His pointed look has me shutting my mouth.
“It’s inappropriate,” he says, and my cheeks grow hot. “Do I need to be concerned?”
“No, sir.” Avoiding his disapproving glare, I focus on his mouth. When it turns down into a frown, I know what’s coming. “It’s a sin, my son.” The whispered disappointment makes the embarrassment already flooding me turn up a million degrees.
I swallow, dropping my eyes to his hands.
A sin.
Not mine, but mine because it touches me.
I clear my throat. “It is.”
Father sighs, leaning back in his seat. “I feel like I may have failed you.”
I shake my head, clenching my teeth.
“Is it because of what happ—”
“No,” I snap, a little too loudly. God. Why does he always do this? Bring it up? Like that part of my past means I’m forever fucked up. Maybe I am. I meet his eyes. “Is that what you think of me?”
His shoulders slump, and he looks a little taken aback. Nobody questions him, but this conversation makes me sick every time we have it. “Of course not. But this part of you, this…” He lets his voice trail off, his silence saying what he’s too cowardly to voice.
I don’t know why I let it bother me, or why I crave his approval. He’s a cruel, selfish man who has spent years training us, nearly killing most of us.
He’s our father. Our Commander. Our fucking waking nightmare, and yet I still want to please him. Make him proud even when I know deep down just me being me is a disappointment.
If we’d been raised outside of this dark, hellish place, would I be what Father deemed normal? I don’t think so. Some things just live in us, things we’re born with, and I doubt we’d be created that way if it truly was a sin.
Pushing up from the chair, I adjust my uniform. “I am full of sin. I get it. May I leave?”
“Has he said something to you?” Father searches my face, brows knitting. “Made an advance of some kind?”
That’s why I want his approval. These rare moments when he actually gives a shit make me forget he’s a monster. Like that day all those years ago when I was given my name.
“No, sir,” I say. “As I said before, he’s done nothing wrong.”
“Has he made advances toward you or toward any of your brot—”
“No, sir,” I say, cutting him off.
Father’s jaw grinds, and that kindness, that last shred of humanity that clings to him, disappears. “You are dismissed.” I turn to leave, but stop when he says, “You know that’s not what I meant, Viper. I only mean—”
“I thought I was dismissed?” I say, not looking his way. “Because I’d rather be shoved into isolation than talk with my father about unholy desires.”
He lets out a sigh. I think I’m the only one who exasperates him this much. Besides Reaper and Hunter.
“Or does this sin require a whipping?” I ask, meeting his eyes over my shoulder. “To remove it from me?”
I know I’m pushing him, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“Watch your tongue,” he snaps, pushing up from his seat. I shift slightly, waiting for the command to go to ISO, but he says, “I’ll speak with Cook. It is obvious—”
“Don’t,” I say so quickly Father’s brows raise but I’m not sure if it’s from the fact I’ve cut him off once again or from my vehement response.
He studies me, then nods. My shoulders relax. It’s better he thinks I’m too embarrassed to have him talk to Cook than the alternative.
“Very well,” he says. “I’ll take your word that this… unappetizing feeling is under control.”
I nod, my stomach roiling.
Father waves at the door, and like that, the conversation we have had once every few months for what feels like forever comes to an end.
I leave his office and rush down the hall, my feet moving so fast, they’re almost keeping up with my heartbeat. I reach the kitchen and spot Cook and Breaker at the sink. Cook lets out a gross, garish laugh, and his hand moves to Breaker’s thin shoulder.
“Move,” I bark out, shoving my way between them. Breaker stumbles a little, casting me a frown. I nod toward the door. “I’ll do this. You get the laundry before Maxy has a breakdown over that stain on your shirt.”
He glances down at his gray shirt and swipes at the smudge, muttering a curse.
When he leaves, Cook nudges my shoulder with his. “Another warning?” he asks and winks.
“Fuck you,” I say.
Minutes to drown? I wonder if the incinerator where we burn the trash would be faster. Probably. He deserves to suffer, so maybe drowning is best.
“Better be careful,” he says, his singsong voice, slipping under my skin like maggots. “One day he’s going to figure it out.”