Chapter 16
Delilah
Striker locked me in this room hours ago, and not knowing what is happening downstairs creates a slithering fear in my belly.
I’ve imagined everything from Striker lying dead in a pool of blood to Reaper being restrained with a belt taken to his back.
Even though I keep telling myself I didn’t hear gunshots and yelling, I can’t settle my mind.
The thought of either of them getting hurt, of them once again being forced to their knees and subjected to the cruelty I witnessed last night, makes my stomach roil.
I pace the room, trying to keep myself centered, refusing to give in to the dark fear coating every thought, but then all thoughts vanish as the slick sound of the lock opening crashes through me.
The door swings open, and my heart plummets to my feet.
Two black-clad soldiers march into the room and stand on either side of the open door.
The black eyewear is gone today, revealing their eyes and a bit of their brows.
One has muddy brown eyes and blonde brows surrounded by fair skin.
The other blue eyes, with dark brows, and pale skin.
Blue Eyes has a few inches on Muddy Eyes, and moves with more ease, like he’s less tense. Or less angry.
There are subtle differences in their uniforms too. Slightly different belts. The knives and guns at their hips, along with black metallic-looking numbers on their chests that almost blend in with the black material. Blue Eyes has the number 55, while Muddy Eyes has the number 57.
Names? Identifiers?
“Go,” the man with 57 on his uniform orders, those flat eyes moving up and down my body as invasive as hands.
My skin crawls under his slithering gaze. I changed into one of my dresses and put my boots on, my little knife tucked between my boot and sock just in case, and it seems from the creepy feeling slicking over my skin, he likes my outfit.
“Downstairs. Now,” the other one, 55, says, but he doesn’t seem too interested in me.
I gather my dress in a fist to settle my shaking hand, and take a step forward, but the creepy one grips my arm and panic seizes my breath. With a violent jerk of my arm, I pull free and glare at him.
“Do not lay a hand on me,” I snarl. 57 makes a move toward me, but I shove past him and step between them into the hall.
“Too much sass,” he mumbles. “I bet I know how to fix that.”
I swallow, keeping my head high, refusing to show fear as I stalk down the hall toward the stairs.
“Shut the fuck up,” 55 whispers to 57. “If Commander were to hear that, he’d remove your head.”
My shoulders ease somewhat. Noted.
Right as my boot brushes the first step, a hand clasps around the back of my neck.
Before I can scream, a large gloved palm clamps over my mouth, and I’m jerked back into a hard chest, pain searing through my bruised ribs.
My hands fly up to grasp the thick glove covering half my face, smashing my nose.
“Come on, bitch,” 57 snarls. “Commander wants to see how they pull your strings.”
He uncovers my mouth, but keeps the hand on my neck and shoves me forward. I stumble, catching myself on the railing, grinding my teeth, trying my best not to react.
Do everything I ask. Reaper’s order rings in my head. I take an unsteady step and then another, my thoughts spinning.
If I’m being taken downstairs to Fallon, then that means they must be okay. But god knows what they endured for the last few hours. I shove down the fear rattling my bones with a deep breath, and relax, not fighting, as he shoves me forward again.
“Don’t fight me, bitch,” 57 snarls, and for a millisecond, I debate snatching my knife from my boot and stabbing him in the balls, but know the ramifications wouldn’t be worth it.
We continue down the steps, then through the foyer and down the hall toward the dining room, his hand at my neck guiding my every move.
His fingers dig sharply into my neck, making me wince, and every time he steers me in a new direction, he jerks me violently, and by the time we’ve reached the dining room, my neck is sore and my ribs ache.
We stop behind a wall of soldiers blocking the door.
They part, and 57 shoves me forward. I stumble through the gap between the soldiers, nearly falling to my knees.
My gaze lands immediately on Striker, dressed in uniform and mask, standing to the right of the table.
I catch the way his bare hands flex like it’s taking every ounce of control to remain still.
“57.” Reaper’s dark growl creates goosebumps on my arms. My eyes dart to where he stands on the other side of the long wooden table with the familiar tray of food. His black eyes swirl with violence. “If you touch her again, I will remove your hand.”
“Yes, sir,” 57 says.
I’m a little surprised that he called Reaper sir, and it makes me wonder about the dynamics between these soldiers and my men. Did they train together? Fallon implied he doesn’t treat these soldiers like he does his sons, so maybe that means they take orders from Reaper as well?
“You are dismissed.”
I stiffen at the sound of Fallon’s voice. Instinctively, I shrink away as I turn and find him at the end of the line of five soldiers. The line breaks, and they file out one by one, leaving just the four of us.
The urge to ask about Cora, to scream at him for taking her back, taking her away from me, burns my throat, but I swallow it down.
Reaper snaps his fingers. The sound ricochets through my head like a whip, forcing my focus to him. Reaper gestures to the chair he had just occupied. “It’s time to eat.”
I swallow, glancing at Striker, who pulls out the chair at the head of the table and gives me a lethal glare before sitting.
Sit.
Eat.
With another look Fallon’s way, I inch forward, my dress clutched tightly to keep my hands from shaking, and ease myself down into the chair.
Another quick look at Striker and I catch his eyes widen slightly as he glances at the table before me.
With my heart thundering so hard, I’m sure they can hear it, I place my hands flat on the table, palms down, fingers splayed. Striker visibly relaxes.
Pull your strings.
My teeth gnash together as it dawns on me. Fallon wants to see my compliance. My submission. He is here to witness how they got my cooperation. I’m about to get fucking fed again, and this time it isn’t sensual, woven tightly with lusty seduction; it’s wrought with demands.
Reaper tears off a piece of bread, moving in close enough that his hip brushes my shoulder, and leans against the edge of the table.
I stare at his belt, thinking of the first time we did this.
How he was so hard, his cock strained against his black pants.
He’s not hard now. I glance at his bare hands, one thumb hooked into his waistband, the other in front of my face offering bread.
So casual, so calm. I want to look up to see his eyes, see if they are as dark with dread as I feel, but keep still.
“Open,” Reaper orders.
Do everything I say.
I guess we’re doing this.
Trying not to glare in Fallon’s direction, I open my mouth and let him place food on my tongue.
He makes sure his fingers don’t touch my lips, and I make sure to chew and swallow and reopen without being asked.
My heart races, the tension in the room so thick, I can taste it with each bite.
I’ve seen what happens when Fallon’s demands aren’t met, and I never want to experience that again.
Even if it means I’m humiliated in front of him.
“Good girl,” Striker says, trailing a finger along my cheek.
My face heats, hating Fallon seeing him touch me, but know he’s putting on a show. Because that’s what this is. I’m not stupid. They are trying to appease him. Keep him from lashing out in that rage-fueled violent display once again.
How did they survive this? How is Striker so sweet?
But then I remember the sting of the belt he took to my ass, the slightly cruel hint of the chase through the woods, the edge of pain to their teasing me on this very table, and know none of them are exactly sweet.
They’re just as capable of cruelty as Fallon, but are maybe saved by their love for each other.
And their affection for me.
Fallon says nothing as I continue to eat, the room completely silent, except for the crunch of crackers, and Striker’s occasional praise.
Tension spirals like a live wire, crackling and popping along my spine as each silent minute stretches into another.
I keep expecting Fallon to order them to do something, but he remains still, just off to the side, watching our every move.
Reaper seems to grow tenser with each passing second, like he’s waiting too, and my whole body aches with how rigid I am. When he places the last bit of food in my mouth, Striker hands me a glass of water, and I take it, my hands slick with sweat, and say, “Thank you.”
He seems to relax, but I can still feel Reaper’s unease like it’s my own.
“Interesting,” Fallon says, and my focus shifts to him as he takes the chair across the table from me. He glances up at Reaper. “She’s a quick study.”
I’m about to tell him he can address me since I’m right here, but he’s right. I am a fast learner. He doesn’t need to remind me what happens when we don’t obey, or how quickly the men are put in place if one of them falls out of line.
And I’m now one of them.
“She’s highly motivated,” Reaper says, and he’s not wrong either. “What she lacks in skill, she makes up for in agility and intelligence.”
“Intelligence,” Fallon repeats, those eerily icy eyes assessing me. “I see you’ve all learned a valuable lesson. Do you now understand the consequences of disobeying an order?”
Fucking psychopath, I want to scream, but tuck it behind my teeth and smile at him.
“Answer me, girl,” Fallon says. “You’re allowed to speak when you’re asked a question, as long as you are respectful.”
I swallow all the disrespectful things I’d like to say and smile again. “You’ve taught me a valuable lesson,” I say, each word laced with just enough sweetness that it’s barely respectful. “I now know exactly what you are.”
He seems to like that answer because his hard, stern features fracture, and he smiles.
It’s so breathtaking and such a contrast to everything I’ve seen from him so far that I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
I’m reminded that Fallon was, still is, a breathtakingly handsome man, and just like every other psychopath in history, he’s more than capable of being charming.
Probably drips with it when he wants to.
“You remind me so much of her,” he says, gaze dragging all over my face. “You have your father’s eyes, so blue and cunning. His black hair. His intelligence.” Fallon leans forward, placing his forearms on the table. “But you have her drive and her spark.”
My heart skips around in my chest as his words sink in. Her. My mother.
“You knew her?” The question slips out. I glance at Striker, who’s not looking my way, then up at Reaper beside me. I feel him tense even more than before, so I clamp my mouth shut, trapping the many questions before they tumble from my lips.
Fallon smiles again, but this time it’s colder. Darker. “Indeed.”
I sit upright, my heart no longer skipping but thundering. My mother was killed fifteen years ago. How far back he goes with my father is unsettling, yet I never saw him. I would have remembered seeing this man.
“I knew Sophia well,” Fallon says, and the way he says her name, how it slips out of his mouth, warm and smooth, creates little goosebumps along my arms. Like he can sense how I’m suddenly bursting with questions, Fallon smiles again, and it looks genuine this time, but still laced with a faint hint of cruelty.
“She was beautiful. Even more so than you.” An almost apologetic smile flashes across his face.
“Your father was madly in love with her. He lost his mind after her death. Failed to see reality or listen to reason. I was forced to cut ties.”
Her death. As if she slipped gracefully into the afterlife. Like she hadn’t been shot on a sidewalk on my birthday.
“Murdered, you mean,” I say.
Fallon quirks one perfect brow and dips his head, agreeing.
I remember how my father changed after she died. He was harder, but then Cora came to live with us shortly after, and she was all I needed. She became my entire world.
She still is.
And this motherfucker sent her back to marry Zane. This cruel, cunning man, who hurts his sons to keep control, who took a belt to my back to punish them.
“It’s a shame Clyde chose to stay with Rune after he went mad.” Fallon keeps his focus on me, gauging my reaction, but I do my best to give him nothing. “He chose the wrong side for a long time, but I understand why he stayed.”
I bite my lip, taking a deep breath. Reaper not-so-subtly let me know Clyde is their source, so this doesn’t come as a surprise. What does is that Fallon’s so openly speaking to me.
“May I ask you a question?” I say.
“You may,” he says, smiling again, almost fatherly. It sends a weird shiver through me with how genuine it feels. “Whether I choose to answer will be determined.”
“Fair enough,” I say, noting his relaxed demeanor.
It’s easy to see how he could charm someone into believing he’s nice and kind, covering up his cutting brutality with layers of charm and honey.
Like he is now. Smiling reassuringly as if his violent outburst and death threats were merely caused by our actions, not his demented cruelty.
“What did you do to my father that he murdered your son?”
Fallon’s eyes narrow slightly, his shoulders stiffening. Appears he doesn’t like this question, and just when I think he’s not going to answer, he says, “The real question isn’t what did I do to anger Rune. The real question is, what didn’t he do?”
The screech of his chair moving back as he stands screams through my mind almost as loudly as his words. I attempt to stand, ready to ask him what he means, but Reaper’s hand slams down on my shoulder, keeping me in my seat.
“Tomorrow,” Fallon says, gesturing to me, but looking between Reaper and Striker. “Her training begins.”