Page 39 of The Knucklebone Brothers

My blood ran cold. I stared at the bottle, at the pills inside, and my mind went straight back to that deranged hospital room. The way they'd hold me down, the sharp prick of the needle, the forced swallow of whatever they decided would "calm me down" that day. They gave me crazy dreams, nightmares that bled into the waking world, turning shadows into monsters and whispers into threats. This place was already a nightmare. I wasn't about to pour gasoline on the fire.

"No," I said, my voice flat and hard. "I'm not taking that shit."

Maverick just chuckled, shaking the bottle again. "Now, now, Aurora. Don't be difficult. It'll help you sleep."

"I said no," I repeated, my eyes narrowing. "I'm not taking your damn pills."

Maverick didn't get mad. He just looked at me, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum and he found it absolutely adorable. He let out a low, chuckling sigh, shaking his head.

"Now, Aurora, don't be like that," he cooed, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. "You're gonna need your rest. How about I get you that water you asked for, huh?"

He turned and picked up the clay pitcher, taking a long pour from it, his mouth opening wide. He set it down, then uncapped the pill bottle and tapped one of the little white pills into his palm.

Before I could even process what he was doing, he was on me again. He climbed onto the bed, straddling my hips, his weight pinning me down. He used his legs to press my arms against my sides, leaving me completely helpless. I struggled, my body writhing beneath him, but it was useless. He was too strong.

He grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging into the sides of my face, forcing my mouth open. I tried to fight him, to turn my head, but his grip was like iron. He shoved the pill into my mouth, the small, chalky tablet sitting on my tongue.

Then, he leaned in, his face hovering over mine. He positioned his mouth just above mine, and with a low, guttural groan, he let the water fountain from his lips into my open mouth. My eyes, wide and defiant, were locked on his, and that's when I saw it. In the flickering firelight, I could see the faint dusting of freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, almost invisible unless you were this close. My gaze drifted to the small, white scar that cut through his left eyebrow, a thin, jagged line that he'd probably gotten in some fight long ago.

I couldn't help but notice the way his arm tensed up right next to my head, the muscles in his forearm all corded and tight as he held himself over me. Damn, he was strong. It was a warm, steady stream, and I had no choice but to swallow, taking the pill with the water he'd shared. The act was so aggressive, so possessive, and yet strangely intimate, that my body betrayed me. A soft gasp escaped my throat, and I felt a warmth spread through my core. I could feel the hard, muscular lines of his thighs pressing against my arms, holding me down, and I was suddenly, intensely aware of every inch of him, of the heat radiating from his skin, of the low, guttural sound he made in his throat as he fed me the water. It was a violation, a humiliation, but it was also the most intimate thing I'd ever experienced.

I felt a sudden jolt of heat against my hip, the unmistakable hardness of his erection pressing against me. My breath hitched in my throat, my body responding to the pressure even as I tried to resist. The friction sent a wave of desire washing over me, mixing with the lingering sting of the paddle and the taste of his blood in my mouth.

He finally pulled back, his weight still pinning me, his eyes dark and satisfied. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face as he looked at me.

He ran his tongue over my bottom lip, a slow, deliberate swipe, tasting the blood he'd put there.

"Good night, Aurora," he whispered, his voice a low, teasing murmur.

With that, he climbed off me, his movements fluid and easy. He gave me one last, lingering look, and then walked out of the cage, locking the door behind him with a soft, metallic click.

Chapter 14

The sun was just peeking through the cracks in the roof, casting long, dusty beams across the floor. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my hand resting on a massive, aching erection that refused to quit. Damn thing. I gave it a squeeze. Actin' like a damn dog.

I closed my eyes, letting my mind drift back to the night before. Rory. God, she was a mess. Her lips were all red and puffy, curved into this stubborn little frown. The blood dripped from her mouth. I licked it up, savoring the coppery tang of her mixed with my own blood. Tasted like heaven, if heaven was made of rust and moonshine. I could still feel her spit on my tongue, hot and salty.

I remembered the way her body had felt. When we had her tied up, she screamed as I slapped that sweet pussy with the paddle. She screamed, a raw, throaty sound that had made my balls tighten. Her moans were the sexiest thing I’d ever heard, better than any circus act. She was beautiful. Her perfect pussy, the way her ass curved... I wanted to ruin her. I wanted to make her scream until her voice broke.

I reached over and smacked the side of my lamp. The old human ribcage I’d wired up flickered to life, the single bulb nestled in the middle of the bones casting a yellow glow across the room. It was a damn fine piece of work, if I did say so myself.

I wrapped my hand around my cock, giving it a firm squeeze. The skin was hot and tight, the veins pulsing against my palm. I closed my eyes and let the memories flood back in.

I could see Rory’s face, her eyes wide and defiant, blood dripping from her lip. I could feel her legs kicking as Blythe beat her ass with the belt. I could hear her moans, loud and raw, filling the shack. I could taste her, her juices coating my tongue as I licked her clit. It was the best feeling in the world.

I started to stroke myself, hand moving fast and hard. I imagined Rory beneath me, her body arching, her back bowing. I imagined her tied up and angry, screaming at me, her face twisting in a mixture of pain and pleasure. I could see her skin sliding against mine, her sweat mixing with my blood. I could still taste her, her juices coating my tongue. Her moans, loud and raw, back in the shack. Her legs kicking, her body shaking.

I was getting close, the pressure building in my balls, the rhythm of my hand matching the beat of her heart in my memory. I was going to blow my load all over her face, marking her, claiming her. But just as I was about to reach the peak, a loud knock on the trailer door shattered the moment. "Shit," I muttered, stopping my hand mid-stroke. "Who the hell is it?"

I shoved my half-hard dick back into my boxers, the elastic biting into my skin, and cursed under my breath. Fucking hell. My hand is still tingling from the phantom feel of her skin. I was hotter than a coal furnace, sexually frustrated and pissed off that some idiot was interrupting my morning wank.

I swung my legs out of bed. I stood up and walked through my room, the floorboards creaking under my weight. It was a mess of clutter, but I liked it that way. Posters of old circus freaks lined the walls, peeling and faded, their eyes following you around the room. I had a skeleton of a deer hanging from the ceiling, its antlers catching the light. On the desk, there was a collection of masks—clown masks, skull masks, and a few that looked like they belonged to people who’d gone missing.

The place was a damn masterpiece of chaos. A moth-eaten circus tent was draped over one corner, and my collection of antique clown dolls stared at me from a high shelf, their painted-on grins looking more like sneers in the dim light. I passed the human skull I used as a pencil holder, its empty sockets seeming to judge me for the interruption.

The main part of the trailer was even better. The air was thick with the smell of old woodsmoke and something else, something sweet and rotten, like forgotten candy apples. Strings of bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, casting a yellow glow over everything. My favorite chair, a big, black velvet monstrosity I'd stolen from a funeral parlor years ago, sat in the corner, a half-empty bottle of moonshine on the floor beside it. The walls were a collage of ripped circus posters and old newspaper clippings about sideshow freaks.

I got to the door, my annoyance building with every step. I grabbed the handle, yanking it open with a loud creak. "What?" I snarled, ready to chew whoever it was a new asshole.