Anton ignored him, brushing his thumbs under my eyes.“You’re safe, remember? My brother won’t hurt you.”He cringed, noting the bloody streaks on my cheeks.“I’m sorry,sweetie. We’ll take care of that soon, but I need to patch up Octavius first. Don’t look.”
“Anton,”Octavius tried again.“What the fuck are you doing with her? She looks like you stole her from a fucking play center. Is that what gets you off?”
At first glance, Octavius Grey looked disgusted at my appearance, but behind that disgust lurked something more disturbing. Dark, tentative curiosity. I had a feeling he wondered whether he could twist this, twistme, into a fantasy come true.
I stiffened, dread seeping into every muscle. Anton never touched me sexually. He kissed my head, cheeks, eyes, but nowhere else. He never put his hands on my boobs, ass, or pussy, but something in Octavius’s tone made me pause.
He struck me as a man who’d shape his disgust into desire just to see how it tasted.
“Don’t listen, petal,”Anton whispered, turning to his brother.“She’s not a sex doll.”
“You mean you’ve had her locked up here for two months and haven’t fucked her?”
Anton’s entire body locked up for a split second. And then he lunged across the room, connecting his fist with Octavius’s jaw.“Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t look at her like that. Keep your filth outside my home.”
Octavius laughed low, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.“Have you fucked anyone since the brawl? Or is your dick broken along with everything else they cracked in your skull?”
Anton shuddered as if trying to shake off the whole concept of sex.“I don’t do that anymore. It’s primitive. Nasty. Dirty.”
“That’s the whole point! You used to love a good fuck before.”
He didn’t reply, but the moment his brother looked at me again, he gripped his jaw, snarling in his face.“She’s mine. Don’t look. Don’t fucking touch.”
Octavius smirked, inclining his head in mock surrender.“Fine. Just patch me up, and I’ll leave you to your twisted fantasy.”
And that’s exactly what I was: Anton’s twisted fantasy, living my waking-hours nightmare.
16
Leilani
Ilike telling Koby about my time with Anton. It helps me compartmentalize what happened, identify things that still trip me up, and find a way back when I spiral. It makes dealing with the aftermath of being groomed for years less abstract.
But I also hate telling him. His mood shifts after. He goes quiet, dark, broody. Like everything I tell him sticks under his skin and festers. It takes him days to come back to himself.
This time it’s worse. Four days later, he’s still withdrawn, lost deep in his thoughts whenever he’s home.
And he’s not home often. We have breakfast together because I get up early to cook, set the table, and wake him when the food’s ready. Otherwise, he’d skip it. He eats, drinks his coffee, and then he’s gone until the middle of the night.
He comes back exhausted, the dark shadows under his eyes growing daily. Sometimes he comes back with blood on his shirt. sometimes with his knuckles split. He doesn’t explain much, only that Carter’s running him ragged.
They’re preparing for... whatever it is they’ve got planned for the Grey brothers. Koby doesn’t tell me a lot, just repeats the same old lines about gathering intel.
I don’t push. I trust him, and I don’t want him bringing home more work than follows him here already.
Tonight is one of the rare evenings he’s made it back before ten pm. Probably because of his raw knuckles and blood-spattered shirt.
He showered, changed, and now sits in the living room with a glass of whiskey, eyes distant, head miles away.
I finish my wine, setting the glass down harder than necessary. The sound cuts through the quiet, the clink sharp enough to pull him back. His gaze shifts, and he blinks like he forgot I was here.
“You’ve been zoning out since Saturday,” I say, folding my legs under my butt. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.” He runs a hand down his face, exhaling the stress. “Fine,everything.”
“Is it work?”
He shakes his head, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
