“I’ll tell Father,” I say, tossing around another idle threat.
Cook leans in, moving closer so his chest brushes mine. “Tell him what?” The words come out in singsong, and I grit my teeth. “He would never believe you. You’re his least favorite. You’re volatile, and you lie. We all know Fallon hates liars.”
I clamp my mouth shut, trapping all my threats, because he’s right. I’m a troublemaker. Growing up, I caused fights. I rarely listened. Grew bored during studies and talked in class. I was terrible at math and languages, barely able to sit still long enough to learn.
Once, when Father put me in solitary after lying, yet again, to cover Breaker’s ass, he told me the only reason he hadn’t removed me from the school was because my vile temper meant I was mean as a snake and didn’t hesitate to retaliate.
I now know, after seeing those files, he was telling me he didn’t kill me because I was an asset as a soldier. Not as a son.
“See?” Cook asks, watching my face as he takes another step closer. His hard cock hits my thigh. He presses it into me, and I feel it grow thicker. My gut churns. “I think the only thing Fallon hates more than liars are men like us. I bet he’d have you removed from the school, and who would protect that sweet little boy?”
My eyes fall closed, nostrils flaring, as I try to control my breathing. Threats. It’s always been threats, and I’m too scared to find out if any of them are true. Too scared because what if he’s right? Who would believe me? I do lie. Constantly. Right to Father’s face. I lie over and over to protect my brothers from their own stupid behavior, and look what it’s done?
Left Reaper fucked in the head and laced with scars.
And me trapped in a sick, twisted deal.
“Besides, Viper,” Cook says, snapping me from my thoughts. I feel him shift closer. Press himself harder to me. “We both know that some deep, dark part of you likes this. Maybe even likes me.”
I huff out a bitter laugh. Little does he know I fucking detest him.
His fingers weave into my hair, and he tugs my head back. He’s shorter than I am, and made of more fat than anything, but the power he has over me makes me reach for him.
“Good boy,” he praises. “On your knees.”
I fall, my knees hitting the cold vinyl floor as I undo his belt. He brushes my hands aside and pulls himself free. The alcohol roils in my stomach and burns my throat. Even though it threatens to come back up, I slide the vodka off the counter, and take another gulp, hissing at the burn. Cook takes the bottle from me, leaning back to guzzle, his small, fat dick bobbing up and down in my face. He sets it down on the metal island and looks down at me, swiping the dribbles of alcohol from his chin as he grips himself.
“Come on,” he says. “Kiss it with that filthy mouth.”
My brain fizzles out. That part of me, that automatic part, takes over, and I do everything he says. Maybe he’s right. I think that’s what I really detest most, maybe even more than him. Because despite the sick feeling inside me, despite the dark layer that feels like evil serpents slithering under my skin, almost like they’re controlling me, my cock gets hard. I take it out when he tells me to, and stroke myself until he’s done.
I don’t finish. I’m glad I don’t. The times I do, I’m left feeling sticky and unclean.
Cook groans and weaves his fingers through my hair, petting my head delicately. Like I’m on my knees because I enjoy this as much as he does.
Maybe I do, and that’s why I keep quiet, and I never protest. Maybe I’m as sick and twisted as he is. I do as asked and tell no one. He slips a piece of paper under my tray when he wants me to visit, and I always arrive right on time. I let him have what he wants. I don’t fight him when he wants to take me in the way that feels most shameful. When he bends me over, when he hurts me, sometimes I swear on purpose, I don’t complain. Sometimes I come even though I feel nothing inside.
There’s never any relief. Ever. Just a numbness that rivals the alcohol, but that never lasts. And then instead of emptiness there’s too much.
Of everything.
When he’s finished, I stand up, gagging, and pull the bottle toward me. I take a big swig to cleanse the taste of him from my mouth.
“Fuck, you’ve gotten good,” he says, tucking himself away. He watches as I shove my still-hard cock back into my pants, pulling the fabric away from my body to zip them up. “Give me that enormous cock so I can suck you off. It’ll be your birthday present.”
I shake my head, my cheeks heating. The handful of times he’s demanded that I remain still so he could, I’ve regretted not punching him in the throat.
“I got lube,” he says with a wink, gesturing to the storeroom off the side of the kitchen.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, wishing I was in bed. “I’m tired.”
“Okay,” he says, pulling the stool back toward the metal counter and plopping down. “Next time I’m not letting you off that easily.”
Not bothering to answer, I make my way through the kitchen, tucking my shirt back in as I go, but freeze at the door when he calls after me.
“By the way, happy birthday,” he says, then hums the happy birthday song as I open the door.
I glance to the right, then move to the left toward our rooms but stop short when I see the tall figure leaning against the wall across the hall, arms folded over his chest, boots crossed at the ankle.
