Page 95 of The Viper
“I’ll be down in a minute,” I said.
He looked at me, brow creasing. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I want to check on Hannah.”
He hesitated, then kissed my forehead. “Okay. Don’t be long.”
When he disappeared down the stairs, I turned toward the other end of the hall. Hannah’s door was cracked just slightly. Light spilled out in a narrow strip across the floor.
I knocked softly. “Hannah?”
No answer.
I pushed the door open another inch—and froze.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid. The phone was pressed tight to her ear, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m telling you, it’s gone too far,” she said. Her tone was sharp, panicked. “Someone’s going to get hurt.”
My stomach turned to ice.
A pause. The faint, distorted murmur of another voice on the line.
“I don’t care what you say,” she went on, her voice cracking. “It’s over. I can’t do this anymore.”
The silence stretched long enough that I thought the call had ended—until I heard her again, softer now, pleading. “Please. Just stop.”
I stepped back before she could turn, my heartbeat pounding in my throat. My shirt brushed the doorframe as I eased it shut.
In the hallway, the world tilted. I pressed my back to the wall, swallowing hard, trying to piece together what I’d just heard.
Gone too far. Someone’s going to get hurt.
Who was she talking to? And what was it?
I pushed away from the wall and forced myself to walk—slowly, steadily—down the stairs. The smell of coffee and sugar wrapped around me before I reached the bottom, grounding me in something real.
Delphine looked up from the stove when I entered. “Ah, there she is. You missed the first batch of croissants, but I saved you one.”
I managed a smile. “You’re an angel.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she said with a wink.
Several brothers and their women were gathered around the island, half-eaten plates in front of them, voices overlapping in easy rhythm. Lucas caught my eye across the room, and something in me unclenched—until I remembered what I’d just overheard upstairs.
I sat beside him, the warmth of his knee brushing mine, and forced myself to take a sip of coffee. The bitter heat hit my tongue, grounding me for half a second, but it didn’t quiet the noise in my head. Hannah’s voice kept replaying.
My stomach twisted. Should I tell him?
Lucas reached for his mug, his gaze cutting sideways to study me. “You okay?” he asked softly.
I looked up, startled. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’re quiet.” His voice was calm, but his eyes searched mine like he was reading a battlefield for signs of movement. “Something’s off.”
He would know if I lied. That was the problem.
Part of me wanted to blurt it all out—that I’d overheard Hannah on the phone, that someone was pulling her strings, that none of this might be what it seemed. But another part—the one that had learned to smile through interviews, to pretend the whole world wasn’t watching—knew better than to panic without proof.
