Page 105 of Wicked Spite
“Rise and shine, Penn,” the man I nicknamed No Neck would say, his voice as cold as the steel blades I was forced to train with. “The world won’t wait for you to catch up.”
He’d paired me with Viktor, an ex-military brute who seemed to live off adrenaline and cruelty. Viktor’s methods were unorthodox and harsh and always left me battered, bruised, and bloody. I quickly learned that hesitation could be fatal as I worked under Viktor’s relentless watch.
“Focus on your target,” Viktor would hiss when I faltered. “Distraction is the prelude to death.”
I spent hours honing my physical skills all while enduring mental exercises designed to break even the strongest willpower. Deprivation techniques, psychological warfare, simulations that blurred the line between reality and nightmare.
Yet, it wasn’t just about breaking down; it was about rebuilding to my father’s specifications. Viktor taught me control. How to harness rage, how to silence my mind even amidst chaos. Despite his brutality, there was an underlying method designed to craft me into Robert’s weapon.
One night stands out among all others. An assessment designed not only to test every skill I’d acquired but also to push me beyond any conceivable limit.
Hours blurred into each other as I killed them. All of them. My trainers, every single one of them. Because in the words of Robert Blackwood, ‘dead men tell no tales’.
When dawn finally broke and I was covered in blood and brains and barely standing, I heard the slow clap of my father as he looked at me and saw the maniacal grin splitting my face as I had my little menty b.
“Congratulations, son,” Robert had said as if bestowing some perverse blessing. “You’ve survived.” There was no pride in his eyes; only calculation, as if assessing whether his investment had paid off.
That’s the summer that fundamentally changed me and one day my father will die by the very weapon he created, but for now I shut the fuck up and pull up to the hospital.
Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock.
Chapter 40
Reagan
Graham’s cane taps against the floor like a metronome as he slowly walks around the living room, his strength slowly returning. I can see the pride in Penn’s eyes as he watches his brother make progress. He’s been goading him the last few weeks since Graham took his first steps. A grin spreads across my face, and I can’t help but share their excitement. We weren’t sure if he was going to make it and now the biggest issue is who stole his cane, which is usually my husband.
“Look at you, Graham,” I say with genuine admiration. I’m so thankful that he’s going to be okay, even if he’s surlier than he was before the accident.
“Where’s my phone?” he clips out, his voice rough as he ignores me. I don’t take it personally. That’s just his baseline. He hates everyone and everything, but feels responsible for all of us too. “Feels good to be on my feet again,” he finally adds, before glaring at Penn. “If you have my phone, I’m going to skewer you in the eyeball with this cane.”
“I have a few techniques for eyeball skewering if you wantthem,” he chimes in, clapping his brother on the shoulder playfully, and then he takes off down the hall, because he absolutely has Graham’s phone.
As much as I’d love to linger in this moment of triumph, there’s a family dinner to prepare for, and the house is buzzing with activity. I leave Graham to plot my husband’s death and head deeper into the spacious house.
Laughter echoes through the house, mixing with the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen. The rich aroma of roasted garlic wafts through the air, making my stomach rumble in anticipation. It seems everyone is eager for tonight, and I can’t blame them.
“Everything smells amazing,” I comment, looking over at Oakley with a sincere smile. “Think you could teach Penn how to cook?”
“Hey now,” Penn replies, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been practicing my culinary arts just for you.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow, thoroughly amused. “Well, then I can’t wait to taste the fruits of your labor.”
“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed by my fruits,” he says confidently, winking at me.
“Let me know what night that’s gonna be because I’m gonna be busy watching paint dry,” Ramsey blurts out, looking up from what I can only assume is Graham’s phone because he’s holding it up and taking pictures of himself with his tongue sticking out and his middle finger is up.
I can’t help but let out a laugh, shaking my head because if Graham burns the house down while we sleep, and I survive, I’ll have to say he was pushed beyond his limits.
Oakley stands at the stove, laughter shaking her shoulders as she expertly flips a golden-brown chunk of meat.Reese, my sweet sister, hovers nearby, eagerly holding out a plate for Oakley’s pot roast? I really have no idea what she’s making.
“Hey Rae,” Reese greets me with a bright smile. “Oakley’s teaching me how to make her Mississippi pot roast.”
“Is that so?” I reply, flashing a grin at Oakley. “Well, it smells like heaven.”
“Come here, I’ll show you.” Oakley jerks her head in a come-hither motion because her hands are full.
Watching as Reese carefully places the finished meat on a serving platter, I say, “I’ll leave the cooking to the experts for now.”
