Page 64 of Breaker

Delilah

Day six without Coraand desperation floods my veins. The training and target practice they say will get me back to her isn’t going well.

And I’m getting really sick of not hitting the target. I’m also sick of Striker waking me up at the ass crack of dawn, handing me my freshly washed black leggings and TEAMPLAYER hoodie, then telling me to get dressed so we can do warmups. Warmups consist of stretching our legs before he takes off, leaving me in the drive wondering why this is necessary so early in the morning.

We then run from the drive to the end of the road that snakes along the little cliffs, shivering at first from the icy wind blowing in off the ocean, then wiping sweat off my brow when we make it back to the driveway. Striker’s tight ass as he runs ahead isn’t a bad tradeoff, so I focus on that as I suck chilly morning air into my lungs and ignore the burn in my legs. But after days of this, even his perfect body isn’t a good enough distraction.

I hurt. Everything hurts. Muscles in my feet ache from running in these stupid boots. My arms are sore from lifting weights, which they had me do exactly two times. And talk about awkward. Having three large muscled men, who’ve all been inside me, watch me struggle with thirty pounds is humiliating.

I’m also sick of being given just long enough to stuff food in my mouth after our run before Striker takes me to the makeshift range and has me shoot various weapons, his handsome face growing tense as he becomes more and more frustrated because I’m a terrible shot. I mean bad. My bullets land everywhere but the target. It must have been beginner’s luck because I’m awful and barely improving. Striker says I just need time, but I’m doubtful.

After I’m nearly in tears, frustrated by my obvious lack of skill, Viper leads me to the large empty room with the faded oriental rug and chipped plaster walls to teach me how to hold a knife. I laughed the first day I was told he was going to show me how to throw it, but he didn’t, so I quickly shut my mouth. Then he handed me the one I picked out, showed me how to hold it, pointed to the target I failed at shooting that morning and told me to throw.

I did. Then screamed with excitement when it actually landed in the black rings.

My second attempt failed and skimmed the tree, but my third hit and then my fourth and now we’re focused mostly on training with a knife.

That was four days ago and now I’m spending several hours a day with Viper.

“You’re doing well, Sweetheart,” he says, not out of breath at all, which is really annoying considering I’m panting, already sweating, and have stripped down to just my sports bra and my leggings.

Even though the room we’re in isn’t heated, my skin is still flushed, but I’m starting to think it’s not from the exercise, it’s from being manhandled by Viper. The fact he chose this room, the room where he first gave me the little knife, doesn’t help. The memory of that day flames through me each time our eyes meet. As does the tension pulling between us, stretching, thinning, until I feel like I’m about to snap and drop to my knees, tongue out and ready for him.

That heat I felt with him hasn’t left. It’s grown to an unbearable size.

He taps the side of his throat. The mask he’s wearing differs slightly from the ones he usually wears. It’s still black with the skull and fangs, but it stops halfway down his neck, revealing a fair slip of skin with stubble. “Remember to always go after the arteries.”

Sucking in air, I take the same stance as him, knees loose, arms up and ready but tucked close to my body. I circle to his left, my training knife up and at the ready, like he showed me during our first session. We’re currently practicing a move that requires me to grapple him by wrapping my arm around his chest, then moving up behind him so I can either stab him in his neck or under his shoulder blade. When I asked why we weren’t using the real knife Viper said he was only thirty-two and wasn’t ready to die just yet.

I didn’t realize he was six years older than me. After that little confession, I’ve spent too much time wondering how old Reaper is. Striker, I think, is in his thirties too, and Breaker looks somewhere around my age, but Reaper remains a mystery.

They all do.

“Focus,” Viper says. “You’re not focused.”

Does he blame me?Desire flows from him like molten lava. I’m not the only one affected. His gaze caresses me, lingering on my exposed skin with a haunting intimacy.

“Come on, Princess, you can take him.”

The room falls silent as Striker enters, and my shoulders slump under the weight of his presence. When our eyes lock, a fire ignites within me.

When Striker wasn’t in here this morning, the relief that washed over me was enough to calm my nerves some. Now that he’s currently leaning against the far wall by the door, crossing his arms over his perfect chest, a grin curling his lush lips, there’s no way I’m going to focus on anything other than them now.

Three days of this.

Three days of absolute torture.

“Keep those steps light and don’t stiffen your body.” Striker pushes off the wall and moves in behind me. He taps my rear. “Limber. Keep everything moving and ready to fight.”

I gesture to Viper before me, huffing out a breath. “I can’t take him. He’s huge.”

A single wink makes my cheeks flush. “I’ve seen you take him just fine, Princess.”

Viper taps his neck again. “Come on, Sweetheart. I know you have it in you.”

Shaking my head, I resume my stance, knowing he’s too strong, too muscular, too everything, and the worst part is my body is too aware of all of this.

Viper is really sexy.

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