Page 33 of Striker

When she whimpers again, I grab my mask and stand. If she screams again, Breaker and Viper are too far away to hear her, and Reaper is gone to walk off his rage or to the carriage house to work out. I’m the only one in the house, but from the look of things, Delilah won’t be a problem anymore tonight. After Reaper, I highly doubt she’ll leave her room, even though he left it unlocked. Something we decided she was ready for.

We need to earn her trust and she knows now that we will not hurt her, even if she acts out. Now she needs to learn to follow rules and the only way to do that is to give her a choice to break them.

Shutting the door behind me, I take the cellar stairs two at a time and unlock the door leading to the kitchen. Locking it behind me, I walk through the series of rooms to the foyer, double checking that the adjoining rooms are locked as I pass each one in case she ventures out. Viper is terrible at locking doors behind him, so I always check. When I reach the foyer, I shut the front door, cursing under my breath, and continue on to the west wing of the house, the furthest away.

When we bought the mansion, we only ever planned to use it as a base. It’s in a perfect location, secluded, sitting on hundreds of acres overlooking the ocean. A person can scream for hours and no one will ever hear them. Perfect for what we needed, but we never used it. It’s just sat, for years, untouched.

Until now.

It takes a few minutes, but when I reach the stairwell leading up to her room, her desperate scream tears through me like a knife.

“Shit,” I snap and break into a run.

Chapter 14

Cora

Ibolt upright asa scream tears from my throat, throwing my arms out to catch myself. A sharp pang of pain cuts through my hands. I bring them up expecting to find the nails cracked, half gone, the fingertips bleeding like they were when I scratched at the door, but it’s just another phantom pain.

I’m not there. I’m here. Trapped inthisroom.

Panic bubbles up, sticking in my throat. Just as I suck in air, reminding myself that even though I’m locked in this room, I’m safe, the door bursts open and Striker stalks in. When he sees me sitting upright, he pauses, eyes scanning my body like he’s looking for damage.

He won’t find any on my skin. It’s all in my head.

“Nightmare?” he asks when he sees I’m unharmed, reaching behind him to shut the door. I notice he doesn’t lock it. None of them do when they come in. I guess they know there’s no escaping them. It’s pointless for me to even try.

I swallow the unease gumming up my mouth, glad to see one of them because it means I’m no longer locked in. “Yes,” Isay, surprising myself at my honesty. I must be so relieved not to be alone that I don’t care who’s keeping me company.

Striker leans against the door, his mask slightly skewed like he put it on in a hurry. “Reoccurring nightmare?”

I gesture around the room with a sweep of my arm. “Every fucking day is a nightmare.”

If I could see his mouth, I’d bet he frowns.

“The dream, Little Flower,” Striker says. “Is it the same dream?”

I nod, warmth blooming in my chest at the sweet name, watching as he walks across the room and stands at the end of the bed. He’s wearing the same uniform they always wear, but this one’s a little different. His long-sleeved black shirt is looser and his fatigues a tad tighter on his thighs. He’s got an amazing body like the rest of them, just not quite as largely built as Viper or Reaper. He grips the metal bedrail and and I notice he’s not wearing his gloves. The knuckles under his warmly tanned skin turn white as he grips the bar with his large hands. I wonder what those long, delicate fingers would feel like sliding between my thighs as he called me a little flower again.

“About Prissy?”

My eyes dart up to meet his, my curiosity dying at the mention of her name. “How do you know my mother’s name?”

The skin around his golden eyes creases like he’s confused. “Was Prissy your mother’s nickname?”

“It’s what they called her,” I say, not sure why I’m telling him. Maybe it’s because his eyes look so warm. Like firelight on a summer night. “When they came to visit.”

“Who?” Striker asks, moving around to the end of the bed to sit

“The men,” I say before I can think. I shake my head.Stupid.He isn’t a fucking therapist. He’s my captor. “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you keep having nightmares, it’s something I’m going to worry about.”

“I’ll try to keep it down,” I snark, red flooding my cheeks, fully aware, a littletooaware ofhim. “So I don’t inconvenience my kidnappers.”

His eyes dart away, and when he looks back, his eyes seem harder. “Your mother’s name was Caroline. You’re named after her grandmother Cora. Your father was Drake. They both died in a car accident when you were ten. Who is Prissy?”

I swallow my shock at the level of details he knows about me, but then again, the shampoo and soap I use at home are sitting in the bathroom along with the brand of tampons I buy, so maybe I shouldn’t be. They’ve done their research.

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