Chapter 15
Striker
Forgiveness doesn’t come easily. It never has. Fallon always told me it was one of my best qualities outside of my aim. Once a person shows me who and what they are, I will remember it. And if they cross me, I’ll keep my anger tucked neatly away, and never, ever let it go.
Father’s betrayal weighs heavily, making my mind spin. I will forever feel the cold pistol pressed against my head as he threatened to kill me.
I’ve spent half my life knowing Fallon murdered the boys at the school he didn’t think were fit, removing them one by one over the years, and somehow even knowing that my life was no more valuable than another’s, I never considered he’d kill me. Any of us. We were his prized soldiers. The best.
The last left standing. As if that somehow made us exempt.
Except now we know we’re not. Fallon’s thirst for control and need to avenge Hunter’s death outweighs any love he may have for us.
I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging it at the roots.
A skittering unease crawls up my spine, my nerve endings like live wires.
I glance out the window at the drive where Reaper and Fallon have been talking in private, while I’m trapped in the house with Father’s new soldiers, pacing and losing my fucking mind.
Like I’m not a part of this nightmare. Like I didn’t lose my brother, and spent years planning and watching alongside them.
Grinding my teeth, I slow my near-manic pace, and square my shoulders, dragging an assessing gaze along the line of ten soldiers Father brought with him.
Other than their eyes and their size, they are all identical.
Same masks, same all-black uniforms, and weapons.
They line the foyer, blocking the front door.
And my exit.
The skin on my arms prick, and it takes everything in me not to scratch my nails down my forearms. I’m trapped in this fucking house, those old fears, winding me up tighter and tighter.
As each minute ticks by, it’s becoming harder and harder to keep my mind from sliding back to the darkness and that cold room.
Cold. Alone.
Terrified.
I glance over my shoulder toward the second floor, where I locked Delilah in her room. My jaw tightens, the image of Father taking the belt to her, cutting through me.
The memory may very well ruin me.
Her pain.
Her refusal to bend.
For us.
“Did you all really fuck her?” His nasally voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to face him, my vision hazing red at the corners. My gaze locks with his brown eyes.
“Excuse me?” I ask, taking a step toward him, and tap the shiny black number on his black shirt. 57. That’s his name. His number. I’ve never seen the full list of the men Fallon has gone through over the years, but I know it’s over a hundred.
We were among his earliest attempts to train soldiers for hire. These are his last, and Fallon’s tactics didn’t change. If anything, these men have endured far worse than us. We at least received a smidgen of Fallon’s good side.
They didn’t, and it’s left them cold and empty of all humanity.
And I really, really don’t fucking like this one.
The fucker held a gun to my head.
I angle my head, staring into his shit-brown eyes. 57 shifts as I tap his number again. “Did you just speak out of turn?”
He lifts his chin toward the stairwell behind me. “She’s a hot piece of ass. I’d fuck her if I we—”
His words cut short as I grip his throat. The blurred halo around my eyes pulses scarlet, rage searing away all logical thoughts. Before I can think, I spin him, taking him down, my fist pulled back and aimed for his nose the second his head hits the wood floor.
“Enough.” Fallon’s sharp voice snaps through the foyer. The deadly tone snatches me out of my anger just enough that I unfurl my fist, but keep my knee to 57’s chest.
The front door slamming closed echoes in the foyer. Damp winter air blasts through the line of soldiers at my back. Cold fingers grip the back of my neck, and I stiffen.
“Mind yourself,” Father says.
My teeth grind. Fuck him. He ordered this piece of shit to shoot me last night. The humiliation still sears through me, a fresh wound, festering and bubbling below the surface of my skin.
“Release him,” Reaper says, tone like ice. My gaze snaps to him, and he gestures to 57. “He’s not worth it.”
Slowly, I unravel my fingers from his throat one by one, my eyes on his, daring him to make a move as I stand. 57 scrambles to his feet and moves back into his position, adjusting his mask around his neck.
“55,” Father barks, and a tall, thin man steps out of formation. “I want two guards posted at her door twenty-four hours a day.” He points to 57 and 55. “You two take the first shift. The rest of you set up in the west wing.”
“Not him,” I growl. “That sack of—”
“Silence,” Father says, cutting me off. His cold eyes bore through me, and I swear he knows. Not just my hatred for the soldier he ordered to restrain me, but how dangerous it is to post him outside her door.
“I don’t trust him,” I say.
“And I do not trust my sons,” Father barks. He points to me and then Reaper. “You two, prepare our meal. We can discuss trust issues over dinner.” When Reap doesn’t move, he gestures toward the back of the house. “Go. Now.”
Reaper tenses, his stormy gaze reminding me that I’m not the only one being humiliated. Put in place for defying our Father. He marches past without a word. I roll my shoulders, loosening my anger, and follow him to the kitchen.
Without a word, Reaper stalks to the fridge and opens it, fingers drumming on the door. The bright white glow highlights his cheekbones, the line of his nose. Turns his black hair nearly blue. My heart aches at the sight, and I tug out a chair, a bit too aggressively, then sit.
Reaper slams the fridge door closed. “We have to keep ourselves in check,” he says. “Not react to him.”
“Are you reminding me or yourself?” I ask, watching as he moves around the kitchen, collecting items, knowing it’s pointless to help him. He won’t let me, or he’ll end up redoing everything I attempt to make.
“Both of us,” he grates, slamming a bag of potatoes on the counter.
I flash back to all the times he would help Cook prepare our meals.
Viper too sometimes. I had always thought that Reaper’s obsession with ensuring our food was prepared well, that we all had enough, sometimes more than him, came from the fact we were always so hungry.
That his deep fear of never having a full belly fueled his need for control, and the only way to have any at all was to make sure we were fed.
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’s impossible 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.
Fallon gestures to Reaper’s untouched plate. “Not hungry, my son?”
Reaper’s lips pull into the same cruel grin as he stabs at the now cold vegetables, his eyes dark and full of malice. “Ravenous.” He takes a bite, eyes locked with Father’s, and chews. Swallows. “Must be all the fucking.”