Breaker (Unmasked #3)

27. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Delilah

D ay six without Cora and 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.

I’ve spent the last three days being thrown around by him, his large hands on me, touching my body in ways that are instructive, helpful, but leave my skin flaming and my blood singing. Every time he tries to correct my stance with a large hand on my thigh, my belly dips, and our eyes lock. When he repositions my arms, all I can picture is me bent over his bed, him taking me from behind.

Like I begged him to do days ago, and he refused.

It took a good two days before the sting of rejection and humiliation left. It’s helped that he’s not brought it up, and it’s definitely helped they’ve kept everything so structured that every minute of the day is full of training, running, eating, grappling, and knife fighting that I don’t have time to think about the fact they aren’t touching me.

Or talking to me much at all.

And I didn’t realize until this moment how much it grates on me.

I didn’t realize until just now, standing in the middle of this empty room with rough wooden floors, how much I want another night with them. How much I crave their attention as much as their touch. They made me promises, claimed me, told me I was theirs to use as they pleased, yet none of them have come near me. Not even Striker, which hurts.

It hurts and I don’t know what to think of it all. I’m so confused. Naming this ache in my chest as want feels like a betrayal to Cora. I shouldn’t want anything other than her back. In my bed. In my arms.

“Sweetheart,” Viper says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Eyes up here.”

I drag my gaze up from his crotch and focus on his masked face. Next to me, I feel Striker step back and I cast a glance his way. When I see his gold eyes slipping over Viper’s tight shirt appreciatively, a scream threatens to break free.

If he can’t even keep himself in check, how am I supposed to? There’s so much sexual tension in the room, it’s difficult to think, much less breathe.

I spent almost two weeks with Cora in my bed, giving or receiving an orgasm multiple times a day. Then we had an amazing night with the men, and now my body roars with want. And none of them are touching what they’ve claimed. I’ve resorted to reaching between my thighs after every session with Viper and Striker, seeking relief, my pussy greedy for some sort of stimulation to ease this constant craving. I hide in the bathroom for privacy since I don’t know if they’re watching the cameras, and use my fingers to pull a quick, rough orgasm out of me, leaving me feeling somehow overly sexed yet under-stimulated.

I’m so fucking frustrated.

“Ready?”

I blow out a breath, swiping my pony tail over my shoulder as I adjust my stance and my hold on the training knife, feeling the weight of it in my hand.

“Now.”

I dart forward. Viper steps to the side. Instead of wrapping my arm around his chest to trap his bicep that’s entirely too strong and large for me to pin down, I dip low, sliding under his outstretched arm, moving around to his back. I kick the back of his leg, the tip of my boot hitting the back of his knee. Viper grunts, leg giving just as I arch my arm and stab downward. The rubbery blade connects where his shoulder meets his thick neck.

“Aw shit,” he grates, but he grips my wrist, forcing me to drop the knife as he pulls me forward until my chest hits his back. He bends, dragging my body upward. My scream of anger gets cut off as he pulls me, head first, and I tumble over his shoulder, landing hard on my back.

Air bursts from my lungs. My eyes widen in shock, my lungs fighting, screaming as the wind’s knocked at out of me.

“I said neck,” he says, looming over me as I try to suck in air. “Not my collarbone.”

Panic takes hold as my lungs fight.

“Give it a second, mo leannan, “ he says, softly. “If you try to force the air into your lungs, they’ll fight you. Relax.”

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

Fuck everything .

I’m tired. I suck at everything but throwing a knife, which does me no good, according to them, if someone is close enough to grab me.

I gasp as air finally floods my chest and I bolt up, hot, angry tears flooding my eyes.

“Hold on,” he growls, gripping my arms to spin me to face him. “Why the tears?”

“What is the point of this?” I scream, flinging my arms out and kicking the rubber knife with my boot. It’s childish but I’m so fed up, I don’t care.

“So you can defend yourself,” Viper snaps, just as Striker says, “So we know you’ll be safe.”

“I’m a fucking accountant,” I scream. “And an accountant with a knife is useless against a gun.”

Striker’s eyes fall to the floor as Viper takes a gigantic step toward me, but I stumble back, hysteria bubbling in my throat.

“I know what guns do,” I snap. “I know that you never even have to touch someone to kill them. I know because no one laid a finger on my mother, and I watched her die in front of me.”

Viper’s entire body goes rigid.

“You know everything about me, right?” My voice scratches out of my throat, hoarse with too many emotions I can’t face. Ones I’ve refused to deal with are now simmering, boiling inside me, spilling all over. “You know what soap I like, what food I like. You’ve researched me, because you know I’m Rune’s weakness. That means you know I was right there when they shot her. That her blood hit my face and my dress, and no one came near her.”

I suck in air, my throat raw. Tears warm my cheeks, and I swipe them away, irritated at their appearance as I turn and stop dead in my tracks. Reaper’s in the doorway, eyes closed, hands braced on the frame like he’s holding himself up.

I take in deep breaths, trying to hold back the tears, but eventually surrender and let myself cry. For everything. Cora. Me. All the things we’ve lost. Rage churns my gut, hating that they’re seeing me yet again fall apart.

Viper’s hand lands on my arm, but I slap it away, fury making my vision blur. “Don’t touch me.”

He ignores me, fingers clamping around my arm, dragging me forcefully against his chest, as if he intends to comfort me.

An angry snarl rips free, even more tears flowing freely. I struggle against his hold. “I don’t want you to touch me.”

Viper’s grip tightens, arms around my stomach, masked face dipped down to the side of my neck. Something dark tangles up with that rage snaking through me, coiling up tightly with a desperate need to ruin . Like I’ve been.

They’ve ruined me. My father betrayed me and hurt my best friend. He’s a perverse monster who’s, business ties and enemies made him responsible for my mother’s murder and the nightmarish images living in my head. Striker’s gentle affection chiseled me down to nothing. Breaker’s promise to protect Cora hacked away at the walls around my heart, leaving me exposed. Viper’s dangerous heat threatens to destroy me, and Reaper.

Fucking Reaper.

Striker’s face softens, like he can see the devastation they’ve all caused, and he reaches for me, but a wild, roaring storm crashes through my chest.

“I said, I don’t want you touching me,” I seethe.

The heel of my boot connects with Viper’s shin. His grip loosens and I dip, snatching up the knife, spinning on my heel to face him. With one hand, I jab downward like I’m going to stab his thigh, while I block his other arm. He moves quickly, swiping my hand holding the training knife away. I bolt sideways, repeating the movement we’ve been doing all afternoon and move around his back, but this time I keep moving, coming around his other side and dropping to a crouch just as I shift my hold on the knife, and stab upwards, aiming for his groin.

The rubber end meets its target. Viper hisses out a choked sound, dropping to his knees, holding his crotch. “Aw, fuck, Sweetheart. That was vicious.”

Strikers surprised laugh bursts from him as I stand, chest heaving with years of hurt and anger coursing through me like hot tar, watching as Viper rolls forward, head to the floor.

“How long before he bleeds out?” Reaper asks. My head snaps up to meet his eyes. “You just stabbed him in the nuts with a hunting knife. How long would it take before he bleeds out?”

My gaze darts to Viper. “Too long. But he’s disabled.”

Viper groans.

Striker laughs, offering his hand to Viper.

“Not for long,” Reaper tells me. He motions to Viper, who’s slowly standing, gripping Striker’s shoulder. “Next time, stab the artery in the thigh. Then when he’s down, stab him in the eye, then slice his throat.”

I bite my lip, giving a quick nod in understanding as Reaper walks towards me. When we’re boot to boot, he leans down, whispering in my ear. “Good job, Kitten. But we’re going to have to work on that lying.” I turn my head to catch his eyes. They drop to my mouth. “Because we all know you want us to touch you.”

His thumb lands on my bottom lip, swiping at my smirk before he walks from the room.