Page 52 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Blythe reached out and gently took my chin, tilting my head up so I was looking at him. "Now, let's get you out of those clothes," he said, his voice soft. "They're too nice for this kind of work."

I didn't hesitate. I just nodded, my movements slow and curious. I pulled the black tank top over my head, then shimmied out of the shorts, letting them fall to the floor. I stood there in the underwear that was hidden in the shorts, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but also strangely safe.

Blythe walked over to a nearby trunk and pulled out a large, white shirt, the kind a man would wear. He came back and stood in front of me, holding it open. He didn't hand it to me. He just waited. I looked up at him, into his intense blue eyes, and for a moment, I saw something else there, something soft and almost gentle. It was a look that made me forget, for a second, about the blood splattered across his clothes and the carnage all around us.

I lifted my arms, and he pulled the shirt over my head, his fingers brushing against my skin as he guided my arms through the sleeves. He was so close, I could smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, mixed with the tang of blood. It was a strange, intoxicating combination, and it made my head spin.

I looked at the mess on the table—the ribs, the lungs, the heart, all a mess of red and gray—and then I looked at the boys. I didn't know what they were planning, but I knew I could handle this. I nodded. "Okay," I said. "I'll help."

Maverick moved right up behind me, his chest pressing firmly against my back. He was tall, and I was small, and the way he towered over me made me feel tiny, like a doll he could break. He took off his gloves and grabbed my wrists in his large hands, holding them down at my sides, his grip tight and possessive.

He leaned in close, his face right next to my ear, his breath ghosting over my neck. I could feel the rough stubble of his beard coming in against my skin, and I could smell the blood and the musk of him. He smelled like a slaughterhouse, and it was oddly bewitching.

"You're gonna help clean this fucker out," he growled in my ear. "Get all the guts out."

My mind started racing, trying to figure out what they'd make me do next. Maybe they'd have me put all the parts in bags, or dig a hole out back. Or maybe... I'd heard hogs before, faintly, from the other side of the holler. I knew they had them somewhere. A cold dread washed over me as I thought about it. What exactly was I getting myself into?

"Oh shit," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Maverick didn't let go of my wrists. Instead, he pulled them up, forcing me to stand on my tiptoes. He guided my hands right to the split open corpse on the table.

"What are we doing?" I stammered, my voice trembling.

"Just pull," he whispered.

I looked down and saw a mass of red, slick mess. I reached in, my fingers slipping in the blood. It was warm and gross, slick and heavy. I pulled, and a long, wet tube of something came out with a wet plop. It was gross. It felt like a wet, slimy snake. I pulled again, and more came out. It was a mess of organs and guts.

Maverick was right behind me, his chest pressing against my back. He was guiding my hands, his hands over mine. He was helping me pull his insides out. It felt super intimate. I could feel his heart beating against me. I felt myself leaning into him, enjoying the closeness, but then I pulled away.

His voice dropped, going straight to the wet, aching place between my thighs that made my knees weak. "You're getting all messy, Aurora," he whispered, his lips grazing my ear. "Just like you want to be. Imagine if I took you right here on this dirty bench. Imagine me sliding into you, wet and hard, using this blood for lube. I could watch it drip down your legs while I fucked you senseless."

I froze, completely stunned. My mind couldn't process the sheer demented filth of it, yet a throb of desire betrayed me with goosebumps. "Maverick," I breathed, unable to find the words.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through my back. Then, without warning, he bit down on the lobe of my ear, sharp and sudden, a flash of pain that spiked straight through to my core. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling over the sensitive skin, before releasing it. "That's what I thought," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "You like the fucked up shit, don't you?"

He tightened his grip on my wrists, pulling me back against him, his erection hard against my ass. "We'll do it on opening night. I'll put you on display just like this body, and I'll show everyone exactly how much I want you."

I looked at the table. The body was a mess of guts and blood. Blythe was organizing the parts, putting them in bags. He was cleaning the table, wiping it down with a thick, bloody rag.

Maverick’s grip on my wrists loosened just enough to slide his hands to my forearms, his fingers digging in possessively. He pressed his chest firmly against my back again, his hips grinding just a little, a deliberate, rough movement that made me shiver. He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear.

"You're almost done, pretty thing," he rumbled, his voice thick with that strange, dark affection. "And you're doing such a good job."

I froze, my hands still buried in the warm, slick mess of the sheriff's insides. The praise hit me like a physical blow, sudden and sharp. It was so out of place, so gentle, amidst the horror of the scene. I felt a weird flutter in my chest, a warm, fuzzy feeling that I immediately tried to squash down.

"Isn't she doing a good job?" Maverick asked, looking over my shoulder at Blythe.

Blythe, who had been quietly bagging up the lungs and liver, looked up. His eyes were intense, staring at me with that same quiet intensity. He nodded slowly, a small, approving smile touching his lips. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and rough. "She is. She's got a steady hand."

The words hung in the air, heavy and awkward. The praise felt... nice. Too nice. It made me feel small, and weak, and like I was actually part of something, instead of just a bystander. I hated that feeling. I hated that they saw me as good at this. I hated that I was actually doing a good job. I quickly jerked my hands out of the body, shaking the blood off my fingers, and turned to face them both, my face flushing hot.

"I'm done," I snapped, my voice sharp. "I don't need any more praise."

Maverick threw his hands up in a mocking surrender, a wide, wicked grin spreading across his face. "Whoa there, killer," he chuckled, his voice low and teasing. "Don't get your guts in a twist. We're just appreciating your... natural talents."

I just glared at him, my face burning hot, my hands still sticky and wet with blood. Blythe, ever the calm one, wiped his hands on a rag and looked towards the barn door. "Yeah, it's gonna be a storm tonight anyhow," he said, his voice low and serious. "I can smell it."

A wide, wild grin spread across Maverick's face. "Good," he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "The holler always looks best when it's all wet and screaming."