Page 34 of Striker

“My parents didn’t die in a car accident,” I say. “Rune killed them.”

His head cocks to the side, making it look like his skull mask is mocking me. “How do you know?”

“He told me.”

Striker takes a deep breath, blinks a few times. “Why?”

“Why did he tell me, or why did he kill them?”

His hands squeeze his thick thighs. “Both.”

“If there’s one thing you need to know about Rune Gavin, it’s that he’s cruel,” I say. “Why else would a grown man tell a ten-year-old girl he killed her parents? To keep me in line.”

“And why did he kill them?”

“They betrayed him.”

“How?”

I shrug, the lie slipping out easily, “I honestly don’t know. Does it matter?”

“I guess not,” Striker says. “They’re still dead, whether or not you know why they were killed.”

I nod, leaning on the headboard, smoothing the sheets at my sides. “Did you watch me earlier?”

Striker tenses, then says, “You like being watched.”

“And you enjoy watching.”

His gaze flickers away for a moment, then lands on the hollow of my neck, moves lower, then up to my eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about that night in the club or maybe me touching myself earlier.

“Do you want to watch me again?” I say with a smirk as I spread my legs, my sleep dress falling open, and pull my underwear aside, revealing my pussy. “Or maybe you want to jerk off on me like Viper did.”

Striker’s eyes drop to between my legs, not looking away like a decent man would, uncomfortable with the way I’m taunting him, showing myself to him. But then, he’s not a decent man, is he? Decent men don’t kill guards and kidnap people. I open my mouth to ask him why he thinks he’s better than Rune, but I shut it because I already know the answer. He has yet to touch me without my consent.

“Who is Prissy?” he asks again.

“Not one to be derailed, I see.” I close my thighs, stretching my legs out, a strange oily feeling in my gut at his attention, but lack of action. It feels like disappointment, but that would be demented, so I leave the feeling unnamed. “Where’s Delly?”

Those golden eyes flicker up to my face. “Somewhere safe.”

My shoulders relax. “Can I see her soon?”

“Not yet.” His eyes darken, like irritation singes the edges. “Who is Prissy?”

“My mother’s men called her Prissy,” I say with a sigh. “When they came to visit. I heard all of them call her that. Even Daddy did when they came. They’d say, ‘Hello, Ms. Prissy, I’m your bull for tonight.’”

If I could see his face under his mask, I’d bet he blanches.

“And you…” He rocks his head side to side like he’s searching for words, or maybe debating, then says, “You witnessed this? Interaction? As a little girl?”

“No,” I say, slightly pleased I managed to rattle him. I’ve not told anyone about the games my parents played before, and I don’t know why I’m telling Striker of all people. But he seems upset for me. For that little girl. Maybe that’s why I continue. “Prissy put me in the closet and my mother would let me out.”

Striker’s entire body recoils like I kicked him in the chest and he bolts upright. He moves his hand up, like he’s going to run his hand through his hair, but drops it when it slides over his balaclava. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he’s about to hyperventilate, but then he looks up at the ceiling and seems to calm down.

Seems he’s not made of stone after all.

“Sick, right?” I say. “She’d shut me in the hall closet whenever they came over. She started it after I came out of my room one night and caught Daddy watching her get fucked on the couch.”

---