Page 62 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I pulled the covers down. She flinched at my touch, a small, sharp movement, but then she relaxed, sittin' up against the pillows. She knew the routine. I took the chain, the metal links cold and familiar, and wrapped it around her waist. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room.

When I was done, I didn't get up right away. I reached up and grabbed her chin, turnin' her face to mine. "Look at me, Rory," I said, my voice low. "Hey, look at me."

She finally did, her eyes full of defiance, but she looked at me. My grip tightened a little, tryin' to anchor her to me, to make her hear me. "I'm sorry about dinner," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "I'll make it right. Momma will come around. We will fix this, I promise." I leaned in closer, my voice a low whisper. "But don't you forget one bit who you belong to. It's us."

Maverick walked over then, standin' over us, his shadow falling across the bed. "He's right," he said, his voice a low, serious rumble. "You're ours, Rory. Every last bit of you. You might as well get used to it."

She just rolled her eyes, a small, defiant gesture, and laid back down, pullin' the covers up over her head again. I stood there for a moment, looking at the lump under the blankets, my heart a heavy, complicated thing in my chest. Then I walked back to my chair, and picked up my screwdriver.

The only sounds in the trailer were the soft, even breaths comin' from the bed, and the quiet, methodical sound of Maverick cleanin' his gun. Finally, he set it down on the table with a soft click.

I walked over to the small fireplace we'd built into the trailer one fall, a crude thing of brick and mortar that did a decent job of takin' the chill off. The October cool nights were startin' to settle into the holler, a damp, seepin' cold that got right into your bones if you let it. I knelt down, pulling wood from the tin tub we had leanin' against the wall. The logs were dry and split, ready to burn. I started building a small fire, my movements quiet and practiced.

Maverick watched me for a moment, his eyes dark and serious. "I'm gonna go see Amos and Knox," he said, his voice low. "See if they need help with the big top tonight. Gotta get it ready for opening night tomorrow. It's important."

I straightened up, my hand on my knee. "Right," I said. "I forgot it's already opening night." It felt like we'd been livin' a lifetime in this last day alone.

"I'll go with you," I offered.

Maverick held up a hand, shakin' his head. "No," he said, his voice firm. "I'll go. If she needs someone, you should be the one here."

I just nodded. He was right.

I kicked off my boots, the worn leather thuddin' softly against the floor. I stripped down to my boxers, the cool air feelin' good on my skin. Then I slid into bed next to Rory, moving careful so as not to wake her. The mattress dipped under my weight, and I could feel the warmth of her body next to mine, a steady, comforting presence.

Maverick walked to the door, grabbin' his mask from the hook by the frame. He pulled it on, the mask hiding his face, turnin' him into something else, something other. Then he was gone, the door clickin' shut behind him, leavin' me alone with her, and the quiet.

Chapter 23

I woke up slowly, dragged out of a heavy, dreamless sleep by the gentle warmth of a fire. The room was dimly lit, the light dancin' and flickerin' across the walls. My eyes fell on the jack-o'-lantern on the table, its crooked smile a creepy, friendly face in the dark. Then I felt him. A solid, warm presence next to me. I turned my head, my heart jumping into my throat.

It was Blythe. He was asleep, his breathing deep and even, his head turned away from me on the pillow. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the rough shadow of a comin'-in beard makin' him look older, more rugged than before. I just stared at him, my mind a confused, tangled mess. A thought, unwelcome and undeniable, crept in. Fuck. If it were any other situation, they wouldn't have had to kidnap me.

But this wasn't any other situation. This was a nightmare. And it had to end. I could feel it in my bones, a cold, certain dread. Momma was going to do something, or something was going to happen. I felt it, I knew it. This couldn't last.

I slowly sat up, moving as quiet as I could, my eyes scannin' the small room. That's when I saw it. On the table, right next to the pumpkin, was Maverick's gun. It was just layin' there, a dark, heavy promise in the dim light. I wondered if I could do it. If I could move, slow and silent, without wakin' Blythe, and grab the gun. The thought was a spark in the dark, a dangerous, desperate hope. It was a risk, a huge one, but as I sat there, listening to the quiet breathin' of the man next to me, I knew I had to try.

I slipped out of the bed, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. The chain around my waist was a cold, heavy reminder, but I pushed the thought away. I had to focus. I moved slowly, my eyes locked on Blythe's still form, his breathing. My fingers brushed against the cold metal, and I lifted it, the weight of it solid and real in my hand. I held it down at my side, my heart poundin' in my chest.

That's when he moved. Just a small shift, a rustle of the blankets. I froze, my whole body goin' rigid, the gun clutched in my hand. I stared at him, waitin', watchin'. He didn't move again. His breathing stayed deep and even. He was still asleep.

I let out a slow, shaky breath and started toward him, the chain draggin' softly behind me, a whisper on the wood. I lifted the chain, takin' the weight in my hand as I climbed onto the bed, moving as quietly as a cat. I straddled him, my knees on either side of his hips, the chain a loose loop between us. I softly set the chain down on the mattress, tryin' not to make a sound. I leaned forward, my hair fallin' around my face, and brought the gun up, pressin' the cold barrel right against his cheek.

His eyes snapped open.

They were clear, sharp, and completely calm. There was no fear there, no surprise. Just a steady, unnervin' calm, like he'd been waitin' for me. "The keys," I demanded, my voice a low, shaky whisper. "Give me the keys."

He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. "I don't have it," he said, his voice a low, raspy rumble. "Maverick does."

A hot, white rage flashed through me. "Don't lie to me!" I hissed, my voice gettin' louder, more desperate. "Give me the damn key!"

That's when I heard it. A soft, metallic click right behind my ear. And then I felt it. A coldness, a sharp, unmistakable pressure right between my thighs. I froze, my whole body lockin' up, the gun in my hand suddenly feeling like a useless, heavy toy. Maverick's voice was a low, dangerous purr right next to my ear. "Now, now, pretty thing," he said. "Let's not do somethin' we'll both regret."

Blythe didn't move a muscle, not even a twitch. His eyes just flickered over to Maverick, who was standing behind me, the gun still pressed against my thigh, the cold metal seepin' through the thin fabric of my shorts.

"Took you long enough," Blythe said, his voice low and steady, betrayin' nothin'. "You should've been there five minutes ago."

Maverick chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated against my back. "Well," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I watched the show from the shadows."