Page 50 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"I've seen you plenty," I said, a smirk playing on my lips. "No need to be shy now."

Her glare intensified. "Do it. Now."

I let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Fine." I turned around, leaning against the cage door, listening to the rustle of fabric as she changed clothes.

I reached over and plugged in the string of hanging lights that were draped along the ceiling. It was perfect. The window, a cheap, scratched-up piece of glass, now acted like a shitty, warped mirror. It was one-way, just like the rest of the trailer.

I watched her through the distorted reflection. She was slipping out of the flannel shirt, letting it pool around her feet. The black tank top slid on next, the single pumpkin printed on the center of her chest standing out against her pale skin. She was smaller, delicate, and the way the fabric clung to her curves was making my mouth water. I stared, my eyes tracing the line of her waist, the swell of her hip, and her nipples were pressing against the cotton.

I was obsessed. I wanted to reach through the glass, to pull her out of the reflection and into my arms. I wanted to feel the heat of her skin against my hands, to trace the lines of her body with my fingers, to mark her up. I watched her struggle with the shorts, her legs shifting, and I felt a familiar throb in my pants, a reminder of how much I wanted her. She was a beautiful mess, and I was going to keep her that way.

"I'm done," she said, her voice tight with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. "What next?"

I turned around, my face a careful mask of indifference. I opened the cage door more and motioned for her to come out. She moved slowly, her body tense, like a cornered animal that was too tired to run. As she stepped past me, I reached out and grabbed the main door, pulling it open. The cool evening air rushed in, smelling of smoke and damp earth.

"I'm being serious," I said, my voice low and firm. "No running off again. I've had a long day, and we have work to do."

She looked concerned for a moment, her brow furrowed, but then she just shook her head. "Okay," she whispered, and stepped out into the evening.

The pumpkins lining the path were all lit again, their jagged grins and hollow eyes casting a flickering, orange glow on the ground. It meant Amos was lurking around somewhere out here. It was his favorite thing, his little ritual, to turn on all the Halloween string lights and light the candles inside the pumpkins as soon as the sun went down.

I motioned with my head towards the main path. "This way." I followed behind her, my steps slow and deliberate, watching her every move. I watched the way her hips swayed as she walked, the way the black shorts hugged her curves, the way her hair bounced with each step. She was a perfect little thing, all fire and defiance. I wanted to bend her over the nearest log, lift up that little pumpkin tank top, and show her what it really meant to be a part of this family. I wanted to hear her scream my name, not in anger, but in pleasure. I wanted to own her, body and soul.

I led her down the path, the flickering pumpkins lined up and made the woods seem alive. "Turn left after the goat skull nailed to the tree," I said, my voice a low, monotone guide. "Then take a right past the burnt-out school bus. The one with the handprints all over the windows."

We walked in silence for a moment, the only sound the crunch of our feet on the path. Then she spoke, her voice small and hesitant. "So... when I first got here, I swore I heard another woman... what was that about? Is there another woman you kidnapped?"

I let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Oh no, pretty thing," I said, my voice dripping with a sweetness. "You're the only one for us."

I noticed it then. A change. When she spoke again, her voice wasn't laced with the usual sharp-edged defiance. It was softer, almost hesitant. "Oh," she said. "Then what was that? Your momma?"

I was confused by that. Her voice... softer. I remembered her screaming, cursing, spitting fire. I didn't know what to make of it. I wondered if she was just trying to mess with my head, or if maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see me as less of a threat. Or maybe she was just getting comfortable. Who knows with women.

"It could've been Emory," I said, shrugging.

She stopped walking, turning to face me, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Who the heck is Emory?"

"Well, our cousin, of course!" I said, a wide grin spreading across my face.

Her eyes widened. "It sounded creepy. How many people are out here?!"

I laughed, a real, genuine laugh this time. "The family," I said, my voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "You'll meet them all soon enough."

Before she could respond, her head snapped to the side, her expression shifting from confusion to alarm. "What is that?"

I knew immediately. It was Maverick, working on some new "art". He had his music blaring, some distorted, screaming that echoed through the trees. I pointed towards a small side door, a single lantern with a dancing flame inside hanging from a hook above it. "Through that door," I said, nudging her forward. "Go on."

I watched her approach the door, her steps slow and deliberate. I could tell she was worried, her shoulders tense, but she was still going. She was braver than most, I'd give her that. I reached past her and pushed the heavy wooden door open, the hinges groaning in protest.

"Ladies first," I said, a wide grin spreading across my face.

She looked at me, her eyes questioning, and then the music hit her. It was super loud now, a wall of distorted guitars and screaming vocals, a chaotic, violent sound that vibrated through the dirt. She hesitated for a second, but then she squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

And then she froze.

The scene was a massacre. It was a slaughterhouse, a temple of gore. The air was thick, heavy with the coppery tang of blood. Maverick was standing there, facing us, wearing that damn pig mask. In his gloved hands, he held a bloody hacksaw.

And on the workbench in front of him... was Duffy.