Chapter 28
Delilah
The morning after my grueling training session with the men, two soldiers I don’t recognize guide me toward the west wing.
Their heavy boots thud on the worn wood floors, echoing down the halls and through large, empty rooms as we silently wind our way through the house.
A heaviness sits in my belly, unsure where they are taking me and why we’re breaking routine.
This part of the house is older and more worn down, but there are obvious signs of restoration.
Some halls have fresh paint. A few have sanded wood floors ready for fresh varnish.
We pass through an enormous sitting room overlooking the woods, with ornate double doors at the far end.
In this room, the faded and cracked wallpaper that covers most of the mansion was removed, and large portions of the plaster underneath have been repaired.
A cold draft slips up my sweater as I take a step into the room, and I notice several panes of glass in the windows are broken or missing, making the room just as cold as outside.
“Exquisite, is it not?” Fallon’s voice echoes around the room, and my heart drops to my feet.
I turn, expecting to find him with the men, but freeze when I see him standing alone behind a long wooden table placed at the far end of the room.
The daylight spilling through the massive window at his back casts him in a golden glow.
With his three-piece suit and lithe frame, he could pass as distinguished instead of the devil he truly is.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, taking a cautious step toward him. I glance around, looking for Striker and Reaper, my heart skipping when I realize neither man is here.
Their absence creates a heavy darkness in my chest that feels a little too close to fear. But I refuse to show Fallon fear. He’s proven repeatedly that he feeds off it, so I square my shoulders and take a step toward him.
Like he can sense my apprehension, Fallon says, “My sons will not be joining us today.”
“Where are they?” I ask, my pulse jumping when I spot several guns laid out in neat rows, along with what looks like a few suppressors.
“Not here,” he says, then sweeps his hand over the table. “Today I will show you how to assemble your weapon.”
Twisted vines weave through my belly at the thought of being alone with Fallon. Biting back more questions about where my men are, I make my way toward him.
“Respecting a weapon’s power means learning how it works,” Fallon says, circling the long table to meet me. He points to the spot where he had been standing, indicating I should move to the other side. “Let’s begin.”
With a glance back at the open doors, I walk around the glossy wood table and stand where Fallon had been.
I note the soldiers didn’t enter with me, and wonder if they left or if they are stationed outside the doorway.
The thought they left and I’m truly alone in a remote part of the house with Fallon sends a slippery unease creeping along my limbs.
When I pull my eyes up from the guns to meet his, I catch something pass over his features.
Some dark look that resembles the cruel man I witnessed a week ago.
He smiles, covering it up, and my nerves ratchet up higher.
He’s up to something.
Clasping his hands behind his back, that smile breaks and his face turns cold. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, silence is a virtue.”
My heart stutters, and I take a step back, my hands fisting. Is he threatening me? An acidic fear swirls with anger, making my head spin.
Fallon unclasps his hands and adjusts his tie.
Winter eyes lock with mine. “‘He who guards his mouth preserves his life, but he who opens wide his lips shall have destruction.’” Fallon smiles.
Cruel to the point of cutting. “Proverbs 13:3. I’m sure you’re familiar with the verse, Ms. Gavin, are you not? ”
I unfurl my fists, splaying my fingers, letting the anger slip away. Oily darkness slips over me, but I refuse to flinch at his blatant threat.
“I’m familiar with the verse,” I say, my tone even. Unwavering even as my insides crawl.
“I’m glad we understand one another.” That slick smile returns, and Fallon gestures to the weapons. “Now let’s begin.”
Ripping my eyes off him, I step forward, aware of his presence just as sharply as I was the night in the study.
He’s not above threats, I’m well aware, but this threat not to tell the men about today means he’s up to something like I suspected, and that something will no doubt anger them.
With a deep breath, I focus on the guns and nod.
Fallon steps closer to the table and my heart skips, but settles when his tone turns casual. Almost friendly. “My sons learned to respect a weapon and its capabilities at an early age. Something they should have done with you.”
“How early?” I ask. In some remote part of my brain, I must have known Fallon took part in their training.
They lived in a school, grew up there, and learned to be his soldiers.
His militant demeanor should have told me he was a huge part of not just their upbringing but turning them into his soldiers.
“Weapons training began at different times depending on the boy,” Fallon says. “Usually between seven and ten.”
His answer takes the breath from my lungs. “How old were they when you adopted them?”
His jaw pops. It appears he doesn’t like all my questions, so I’m surprised when he answers. “They came into my life at different ages. Striker was five when he came to the school. Viper six, and Breaker was three.”
“Three?” My voice cracks trying to suppress my scream, and I inhale, trapping air in my lungs before saying, “You took a three-year-old to a military school?”
Fallon props his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward to pin me with those icy eyes. “I saved those boys from a 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, have them, but I can’t, I won’t examine 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.