Chapter 37
Delilah
My head aches. I rub my eyes, willing the tears to stop. I’ve never cried this much. Not even after I watched my mother’s casket lower into the ground and I was forced to toss dirt in her grave. Tears meant weakness, and there was no room for that. Not even for a little girl in mourning.
Since coming here, I’ve cried so many tears over all the loss. But now the tears stem from the reality that this is all true. And with the tears, anger sprouts like poisonous weeds in my chest.
Fallon answered my questions, outlining the plan before telling me I could walk freely around, but to keep close to the house if I went outside, and never, never wander past the gardens alone.
Of course, I came out here, to Cora’s little garden with the herbs and half-dead plants, to digest what he told me.
While their plan seems complex, it’s quite simple. I return and do what I’ve always done. Set up sales, hide money, and meet with clients. Give Rune advice. Be the daughter he taught how to be just as ruthless as him.
Be ready to do whatever he asks.
Including joining him at his lodge, along with the Snyder Group.
The men spent years—the same years they watched Cora and me—infiltrating Rune’s inner circle.
Now that they have gained an invitation to Rune’s lodge, it’s my job to ensure they are accepted and have Rune’s full trust. Then get us all into that lodge and access to the weapons, by any means necessary.
How?
That one is up to me.
“You’re not supposed to be out here,” a deep voice says from behind me. I start, my hands gripping my jacket as I spin. 57 stands in the doorway to the kitchen, hands in his pockets, mask removed.
I was right. He’s blonde. But I wasn’t expecting the weak chin or the thin lips that pull down at the corner like he has a permanent frown.
Then again, if I was raised by Fallon, I’d be mad too.
“Fallon said I can walk around freely,” I tell him. “Go ask him.”
My heart kicks when a smile curls his lip. The dim glow of the little light hanging by the back door turns his features harsh, bringing out the dark black bruising under his eyes. Sinister in a way that creates a crawling feeling under my skin.
“Is that so?” he asks, taking a step forward.
Every single instinct in me screams to move away, but I dig my boots into the marble chips lining the path of the back garden and stand up straighter. I came out here to be alone. To be closer to Cora. She loved it out here, tending the little garden beds.
I’m going to see her soon. My heart both swells at the thought and desperately aches.
“You can leave,” I say. “Go find Fallon, and he’ll confirm what I said.”
He makes a sound in his throat as his boot slides forward, and he takes the first step down. “I should bring you with me.” He winks as another smile cuts across his face. “Just in case.”
“I’ll just return to my room,” I say, not liking how his gaze drags over my body. Like he’s just waiting for this exact moment to have me alone.
He takes another step down, and his boots crunch on the gravel as he ambles forward, hands in the pockets of his black fatigues.
This time I take a step back.
“I’ll escort you,” he says. “Make sure you get there safely.”
My senses scream to run with how the words slip past his lips. Darkly lined with something worse than sinister. With a layer of hatred that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Unnecessary,” I tell him, doing my best to keep my voice even. I’ve been leered at, catcalled many times in my life, but my father’s name kept me safe.
Right now I know I’m not.
“Heard you like spreading your legs,” he says, and my heart-rate spikes. “Heard you take it with no complaints.”
My skin ices over. I take another step back, keeping my focus on him, suddenly all too aware of my lack of underwear. Not that the flimsy fabric would keep me safe, but the vulnerability that moves through me makes me press my legs together.
“Stay away from me,” I say, moving to the left.
He darts in my path, and my throat squeezes. I chance a quick glance at the back door, wishing someone, anyone, would come out here. The only exits from the little walled garden are the back door and the iron gate behind me.
“Get out of my way,” I say, taking a step to the side, debating if I should run past him or make a run for the gate.
Don’t turn your back on an enemy. Reaper has spent the last week instilling that into my head. I cross off the idea and focus on the man blocking my escape.
“Be careful,” I warn. “Fallon and his sons won’t like hearing you kept me from returning to my room.”
He lets out a cruel laugh, the sound cutting through me. “Fallon’s sons can’t touch me,” he snarls, and takes another step toward me. I widen my stance, feet shoulder-width apart, and angle my body like I’ve been taught.
There is less to hit. Think of a boxer, light on their feet, always ready to move. Keep them in your sights at all times. Watch how they move. Their arrogance is what takes them down. Find their weakness and exploit it.
He shifts toward me, and I move away. My little knife digs into my ankle. Relief floods me. I was so scared that I forgot I had it.
So much for all the training.
“Come on,” he says with a slick wink as he grabs his crotch. “We can make this easy, and I won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll fucking hurt you,” I spit out, my stomach souring. “Lay a fucking hand on me and I’ll take your left nut.”
He laughs. Actually laughs and then he lunges forward.
Every single ounce of training, all the moves they taught me, all the sweat and bruises, flees as terror floods my system.
He grips my hair, and I instinctively fall to my knees, punching out wildly.
He wails as I land a hit near his groin, then I jerk back as a fist lands on my lips.
The shock of pain explodes across my face, and my mouth fills with wet copper.
The hit stuns me for a heartbeat, but as he grips my arm and twists, I reach for my boot.
My fingers slip around the handle of the knife.
Before I can pull it free, another hit snaps my head back and I fall to the gravel.
Then he’s on me. A hand clamps around my throat, squeezing. He moves between my thighs even as I try to kick him away. Another strike to my face makes my nose burn. My vision blurs. His other hand grips my dress and moves it up. Cold night air blasts over my exposed skin.
“I knew you were a little whore,” he rasps, rank breaths fanning over my face. His hand delves between my legs, and when his fingers thrust into me, a scream rips free of my throat.
“Fuck yeah, scream for me, nasty bitch,” he grates. His hand presses down harder on my throat, and I grip his fingers, trying to pry him off as my air gets cut off. His other hand withdraws from between my legs, but then I hear his belt buckle clink, then feel his hardness hit my center.
The realization of what is about to happen makes me freeze.
Stay calm. Even if they are bigger than you, you can get away.
I stiffen my legs.
Stay calm.
His dick slips over my core, and I bring my knee up, which just gives him better access, but I reach down, my fingers slipping along my calf until I reach my boot. He reaches between our bodies, easing his grip on my throat as he aligns his dick to my entrance.
Tears prick my eyes, and I will myself to stay calm as I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the blade. He pushes forward as the little knife pulls free and with a flick of my wrist, the blade springs open, and I drive it down.
His scream cuts through the garden as the knife plunges into his shoulder blade.
He releases my neck, his back arching as he reaches for the knife in his back.
Keeping my death grip on the hilt, I use every ounce of strength and roll to the side, flipping him off me.
The knife pulls from his back as we roll, and I twist it in my palm, and angle it downward.
It plunges into the side of his neck, and his eyes widen. Blood splatters my face. I shove him off, my grip on the knife loosening, and he drops to his back, one hand over his neck, gurgling sounds escaping.
I fall to my ass, gulping down air, watching as he gasps, eyes wide and pinned on me.
Hands clasp my arms, and I scream, kicking and punching, but his deep voice grates across my skin, centering me.
“It’s okay,” Striker says, pulling me back. I turn and bury my face in his chest, gripping his shirt.
“I fucking warned you.” Reaper’s dark growl draws my attention. I turn to find him standing over 57. “You have roughly sixty-seconds before you die, and I’m going to make sure you suffer each and every one of them right before I send you to hell.”
He pulls the little knife free of his neck, and grips 57’s hand and pins it to the ground. Reaper presses the blade against the skin. 57’s gurgling scream cuts like broken glass through the garden.
“What do we do to vile creatures who take what isn’t theirs?” Reaper growls, voice nothing but violence.
“We cut off their hands,” Striker says, letting me go and stalking forward. He grips 57’s other arm and slams it to the ground, using his boot to keep it pinned to the gravel. Another scream rips from the soldier’s throat as Striker leans down, pulling the large serrated knife from his belt.
My hand flies to my mouth as he slams the blade down onto the soft skin at the wrist. Blood coats the blade.
Pours onto the grass. A strangled scream fills the garden.
Reaper draws his hand back and slams my little knife down into 57’s wrist, then yanks it free.
With a chopping motion, Reaper hacks, over and over, slick wet sounds making my stomach roil.
I stare in horror, unable to look away until Striker kicks the severed hand away. I draw my knees to my chest, numbness creeping into my veins as Reaper slowly hacks at the wrist. Methodically. Sawing ruthlessly through layers of flesh with the small blade.
It’s not until he’s sawed the hand off that Reaper stops, tossing the mess aside, that I realize 57 isn’t moving.
Reaper stands, glimmering blood staining his arms. Splattered up on his mask.
“Go tell Father what his soldier did,” he tells Striker, his eyes never leaving mine. “His fucking soldiers can deal with this mess.”
My gaze shifts to Striker. He swipes the blade clean on 57’s pants, then sheaths his knife, his chest heaving, and casts me a look before walking inside.
Reaper moves toward me. I scramble backward, and he freezes.
I gather my dress and press it between my legs, an oily feeling moving through me from the memory of the soldier’s vile hands. From the feel of his dick slipping over me, so close to violating me. An anguished cry slips free of my throat.
Reaper snarls and takes another step toward me.
“He didn’t,” I say, barely able to breathe around the adrenaline coursing through my system. “I stabbed him before he could.”
“Good.” Reaper holds out his bloody hand, and this time I lean forward, and take it. I stand on wobbly legs with his help. My gaze falls to the dead man, the one I helped kill, sprawled out on the blood-soaked gravel, his cut-off hands lying nearby.
“I killed him.” My knees grow weak.
“He deserved it.” Reaper’s low rumbling growl moves through me as he dips and gathers me in his arms. I press my face to his chest, blood smearing over my cheek as I wrap my arms around his neck.
A choked sob escapes, and he grips me harder, pressing me to him like if he holds me tight enough, he can tuck me away under his skin.
“You just cut off his hands,” I whisper. “You…”
“That will teach anyone who dares touch you what happens when they try to take what’s mine.”