Chapter 34
Viper
Winters here eat away at your soul. The barren landscape and bitter cold whittle you down day by day until you’re just as empty and hopeless.
During the day the sun barely helps combat the chill and on the really cold days, there’s frost on the walls of our rooms. At night, the boiler groans and creaks, making the metal radiators lining the walls rattle.
It’s so cold, even the little rats creeping around the kitchen at night disappear, no doubt huddled together behind the radiator in the cafeteria for warmth.
Tonight is no exception.
It’s not an exception for other things too, though all I wish is to be left alone. In peace. But he’s summoned me, and as I sneak down the hall, taking slow, careful steps, I can’t help but wonder when this will end.
How it started sits vividly in my mind. The beginning of the death of my soul.
Sometimes I wonder if my fate was sealed the second I was born.
If the planets aligned in just such a way that even Fate couldn’t stop the curse bestowed upon me.
To carry something inside that just pulled sickness in my direction.
Make it latch on with thick talons, and gnaw at me until all that I am now is flesh to be had.
Fed from to appease the dark things that live in the minds of the wicked and cruel.
Marked. I feel marked.
When I reach the heavy door leading to the kitchen, I lean on the metal latch to open it but pause. My gut roils, and my heart skips. I glance around to be sure no one can see me, and push through before I can think further.
Before I can feel anything.
Emotions aren’t an option.
This isn’t an option.
The sound of canned laughter echoes from the back of the long galley-style kitchen, where he sits and drinks every night.
How he manages to consume so much and not be rotting from the inside out, I don’t know.
Maybe it’s because he’s never had anything good inside him to begin with.
When he sees me, he smiles and pulls out a stool.
“Join me,” Cook says, raising a bottle of vodka.
Like I have a choice.
I sit, sliding the bottle my way and fixing my eyes on the TV resting on the metal countertop.
The blue glow of the TV flashes in the room, highlighting the pots and pans hanging overhead like a strobe light.
Keeping my focus on the bottle of vodka, I raise it to my mouth and take a long pull, then set it back down with a quiet clink.
The only way to get through this is drunk.
“You looked good today at practice,” Cook says. “You’re improving every day.”
I note the appreciative, proud tone. Like he’s somehow contributed to the years of hard training and harsh lessons that are slowly turning me into a weapon.
“Thanks,” I mumble, wishing this was over already. I’m tired. We trained hard today.
Cook shifts slightly on the stool so our knees brush and says, “Breaker did well too.”
“You’d be wise to keep his name out of your mouth,” I say with just enough of a threat behind each word that he is reminded of our deal.
“Ah, yes,” he says, a slick grin cutting across his plain face. “I forgot you don’t like me talking about your little brother.”
Barely thinking, I grip his throat and pull him up from the stool, leaning over him. “That’s enough,” I snarl.
He chokes out a laugh, and I’m bathed in the scent of cheap vodka and sour breath smelling of canned peas. “You’re so protective of the little mite. I think that’s because you like him.”
Rage blurs my vision. I hiss, squeezing his throat harder. “I’m nothing like you.”
He chokes out another laugh. “You’re just like me. At least I can admit it.”
“I should snap your fucking neck right now,” I snarl.
“But you won’t, because you can’t,” Cook says, choking on the last word. The truth of his statement makes me release him. He stumbles backward, chuckling as he rubs his neck. “Besides, you’re too chickenshit. Too worried about that boy.”
I fucking hate this man.
Grinding my teeth, I pick up the bottle and slam back another gulp, wincing at the burn in my throat. With a few more drinks, this itchy feeling under my skin will fade, and I can sink into glorious nothingness.
“I’ll tell Father,” I say, tossing around another idle threat.
Cook leans in, moving closer so his chest brushes mine. “Tell him what?” The words come out in singsong, and I grit my teeth. “He would never believe you. You’re his least favorite. You’re volatile, and you lie. We all know Fallon hates liars.”
I clamp my mouth shut, trapping all my threats, because he’s right. I’m a troublemaker. Growing up, I caused fights. I rarely listened. Grew bored during studies and talked in class. I was terrible at math and languages, barely able to sit still long enough to learn.
Once, when Father put me in solitary after lying, yet again, to cover Breaker’s ass, he told me the only reason he hadn’t removed me from the school was because my vile temper meant I was mean as a snake and didn’t hesitate to retaliate.
I now know, after seeing those files, he was telling me he didn’t kill me because I was an asset as a soldier. Not as a son.
“See?” Cook asks, watching my face as he takes another step closer.
His hard cock hits my thigh. He presses it into me, and I feel it grow thicker.
My gut churns. “I think the only thing Fallon hates more than liars are men like us. I bet he’d have you removed from the school, and who would protect that sweet little boy? ”
My eyes fall closed, nostrils flaring, as I try to control my breathing.
Threats. It’s always been threats, and I’m too scared to find out if any of them are true.
Too scared because what if he’s right? Who would believe me?
I do lie. Constantly. Right to Father’s face.
I lie over and over to protect my brothers from their own stupid behavior, and look what it’s done?
Left Reaper fucked in the head and laced with scars.
And me trapped in a sick, twisted deal.
“Besides, Viper,” Cook says, snapping me from my thoughts. I feel him shift closer. Press himself harder to me. “We both know that some deep, dark part of you likes this. Maybe even likes me.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. Little does he know I fucking detest him.
His fingers weave into my hair, and he tugs my head back. He’s shorter than I am, and made of more fat than anything, but the power he has over me makes me reach for him.
“Good boy,” he praises. “On your knees.”
I fall, my knees hitting the cold vinyl floor as I undo his belt.
He brushes my hands aside and pulls himself free.
The alcohol roils in my stomach and burns my throat.
Even though it threatens to come back up, I slide the vodka off the counter, and take another gulp, hissing at the burn.
Cook takes the bottle from me, leaning back to guzzle, his small, fat dick bobbing up and down in my face.
He sets it down on the metal island and looks down at me, swiping the dribbles of alcohol from his chin as he grips himself.
“Come on,” he says. “Kiss it with that filthy mouth.”
My brain fizzles out. That part of me, that automatic part, takes over, and I do everything he says.
Maybe he’s right. I think that’s what I really detest most, maybe even more than him.
Because despite the sick feeling inside me, despite the dark layer that feels like evil serpents slithering under my skin, almost like they’re controlling me, my cock gets hard.
I take it out when he tells me to, and stroke myself until he’s done.
I don’t finish. I’m glad I don’t. The times I do, I’m left feeling sticky and unclean.
Cook groans and weaves his fingers through my hair, petting my head delicately. Like I’m on my knees because I enjoy this as much as he does.
Maybe I do, and that’s why I keep quiet, and I never protest. Maybe I’m as sick and twisted as he is.
I do as asked and tell no one. He slips a piece of paper under my tray when he wants me to visit, and I always arrive right on time.
I let him have what he wants. I don’t fight him when he wants to take me in the way that feels most shameful.
When he bends me over, when he hurts me, sometimes I swear on purpose, I don’t complain.
Sometimes I come even though I feel nothing inside.
There’s never any relief. Ever. Just a numbness that rivals the alcohol, but that never lasts. And then instead of emptiness there’s too much.
Of everything.
When he’s finished, I stand up, gagging, and pull the bottle toward me. I take a big swig to cleanse the taste of him from my mouth.
“Fuck, you’ve gotten good,” he says, tucking himself away. He watches as I shove my still-hard cock back into my pants, pulling the fabric away from my body to zip them up. “Give me that enormous cock so I can suck you off. It’ll be your birthday present.”
I shake my head, my cheeks heating. The handful of times he’s demanded that I remain still so he could, I’ve regretted not punching him in the throat.
“I got lube,” he says with a wink, gesturing to the storeroom off the side of the kitchen.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing I was in bed. “I’m tired.”
“Okay,” he says, pulling the stool back toward the metal counter and plopping down. “Next time I’m not letting you off that easily.”
Not bothering to answer, I make my way through the kitchen, tucking my shirt back in as I go, but freeze at the door when he calls after me.
“By the way, happy birthday,” he says, then hums the happy birthday song as I open the door.
I glance to the right, then move to the left toward our rooms but stop short when I see the tall figure leaning against the wall across the hall, arms folded over his chest, boots crossed at the ankle.
At first I think it’s Hunter, but then Reaper says, “How long has this been going on?”
Panic slams into my chest like a freight train.