Page 80 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I didn't need to be told twice. I opened my mouth, my tongue dartin' out to taste the mix of our juices, and I licked him clean, suckin' on the tip, swirlin' my tongue around his piercing, takin' him deep into my mouth. I was being fucked from behind by Maverick, his cock poundin' into me, and I was being throat-fucked by Blythe, his hands tanglin' in my hair, holdin' my head in place as I took him all.

The combination was overwhelming. I could feel Blythe buildin' up, his hands tensin' against my head, his breathing ragged. He sped up, his rhythm matchin' Maverick's intense, brutal thrusts, and I felt my mouth fill up with his come. He held my head in place, and then he pulled out slowly.

Maverick slowed his pace, his hips movin' in a slow grind, his cock deep inside me.

“Do not swallow, keep it there.” Blythe said in a ragged breath. He pulled my mouth open, my tongue lollin' out slightly, showing him the mess.

He tapped the tip of his dick on the come that was on my tongue, a reminder of what he'd just done to me. "Good girl, now swallow me."

He closed my mouth by pushin' up on my chin and tilted my head back, forcing me to swallow his come.

Blythe stood there for a moment longer, his thumb rubbin' gently across my lower lip, his touch almost tender, like he was admiring a rare flower. But then his expression hardened, the mask of admiration slippin' away to reveal the predator beneath. He turned and grabbed a heavy, chipped ceramic pitcher from the table, his movements fluid. He handed it to Maverick, who took it with a grin of acknowledgement.

I felt the warmth spread over my ass, a thick, heavy liquid that smelled coppery and sweet. As Maverick slowly began to slide in and out of me, I could feel the warmth of it, the way it coated my skin, slick and messy. I gasped, a pathetic, broken moan escapin' my throat, as I laid my cheek flat on the rough wood, the friction burnin'. I looked back over my shoulder, my vision swimmin'.

What I saw made my skin crawl. The pitcher was pourin'. And it wasn't red wine. It was blood. Thick, dark blood, pourin' in a steady stream from the pitcher, splashing all over my ass, runnin' down my thighs, and splashin' back onto Maverick. He was covered in it, splattered with the crimson liquid, his eyes intense and lustful. I looked at Blythe, who was kneelin' down next to my face, his eyes locked on mine, a dark, admiration gleam in his depths.

"The sacrifice is now complete," he whispered, his voice a low, grave sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. It was Sue. The blood in the pitcher, the warm, coppery liquid splashing over my ass and Maverick... it was her. They had taken her, they had drained her, and now they were using her to mark me. It made the scene even more grotesque, more intimate, a twisted kind of rebirth where I was washed in the blood of the girl who had been dragged out like a ragdoll.

I looked at Blythe, my eyes wide with a mix of horror and a dark, erotic fascination. He forced my head up, his grip on my chin iron-tight. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice low. "As he claims you. I want to see it in your eyes."

I stared into his abyssal gaze, unable to look away, even as Maverick thrust deep inside me, the blood slickin' our bodies. I could feel him, every inch of him, fillin' me up, claimin' me 'with a brutal, unyielding force. I was a vessel for them now, a creature of the Holler, stained with the blood of the sacrifice and the seed of the brothers.

Maverick was relentless, his hips a blur as he slammed into me, the sound of flesh against flesh loud. The blood, thick and warm, splashed against my skin with every thrust, a wet, crimson slap that echoed the violence of the act. It coated my ass, the warm liquid glistening in the dim light, and as Maverick drove into me, my cheeks jiggled, the blood-slicked flesh bouncing.

Blythe didn't take his eyes off me. His stare was intense, unblinking, a dark, predatory gaze that seemed to burn right into my soul. He was kneelin' next to my face still, his hand gentle as he caressed my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. But then his expression hardened, and he shoved his finger into my mouth, pressing it against my tongue.

I moaned, the sound muffled by Blythe's finger, as Maverick pounded into me from behind. I screamed, my back archin' into him, my body shudderin' with the force of his thrusts.

I could feel him reach around, his hand slick with the blood that coated my ass and back, and his fingers found my clit. He rubbed it, hard and fast, using the warm, sticky fluid as lube, sendin' shockwaves of pleasure through my body that had me screamin'. I came again, my body shudderin' and tremblin', my nails diggin' into the wood of the table as I was wracked with a second, violent orgasm.

Maverick moaned, his body tensin' tight as a bowstring, and he slammed into me one last, brutal time, buryin' his cock deep inside my womb. He came, his come pumpin' deep inside me, fillin' me up, claimin' me as his wife. He leaned forward against my back, his chest pressin' against my spine, his breathin' ragged.

Blythe pulled his finger from my mouth, his eyes still locked on mine, a pleased smile on his wedding night. We were both breathin' heavy, our bodies a tangled mess of blood, sweat, and come, and I was now theirs.

Chapter 31

The next day, sunlight streamed through the thin, dusty curtains of the trailer, but the air was still thick with the scent of last night—the copper tang of blood, the musk of sweat, and the heavy, sweet smell of sex. I woke up on the mattress, tangled in sheets that had seen better days, but I was clean. They’d washed me. They’d scrubbed the blood and the grime away until my skin was pink and raw, and I was left feeling incredibly exposed, yet strangely… protected.

I lay there for a long moment, my body heavy and sated, listenin' to the sounds of the trailer. It was quiet, peaceful, save for the soft clink of mugs and the low hum of conversation. I could hear Maverick and Blythe in the kitchen. They were cooking breakfast, the smell of bacon and coffee driftin' over to me. It was domestic. It was normal. It felt like a trick.

I tried to sit up, but my body ached. My muscles were sore, tender from the night before, and the sensation was foreign. I wasn't chained. I wasn't bound. I could move my arms and legs freely. I looked down at myself, my body bare, my skin pale against the dark sheets. I was naked. I was free.

I got out of bed, my bare feet hitting the floor, and walked to the window. I looked out at the holler. The fog was lifting, revealin' the twisted, skeletal trees that surrounded the place. I felt a strange sense of weightlessness, a freedom I had never known. I am a Knucklebone now. I was their wife.

I stood at the window, the morning light feelin' like a lie, my bare feet planted on the cold floor. The holler was wakin' up. I felt raw, peeled open, everythin' inside me churnin' up. The night before was a fever dream, all blood and teeth and them claimin' every inch of me. Now this. This quiet. It felt wrong.

Blythe came up behind me, silent as a cat, and draped a heavy robe over my shoulders. It was old, the fabric soft as a well-loved ghost. I looked down. It was covered in the damnedest things—grinnin' skeletons in fancy suits, dancin' elephants with too many legs, and a whole carousel of starry-eyed critters that looked like they'd stumbled right out of a bad dream. It was a map of their world, and it smelled like it—like pine needles and a woodstove burnin' low.

"Not that I don't enjoy the view, 'cause I do," he rumbled, his voice a low, intimate sound that vibrated right through the fabric. "But Amos made this for you last night."

I pulled the robe tighter, the strange, beautiful patterns a shield against the sudden, sharp feelin' of bein' exposed. "It's... it's real pretty," I whispered, my voice still hoarse from screamin'.

Then Maverick was there, a plate in his hand, puttin' it down on the table. Bacon. Eggs. A real breakfast. I sat down, my body achin' in ways I didn't know was possible, and started to eat. And that's when the real crazy started. The night before came crashin' back into my head—the chains, the blood, the way they'd held me down and used me up like I was nothin' but a piece of meat, the whole fucked-up, beautiful mess of it. And now... this. Bacon and coffee. A robe with dancin' skeletons.

It fucked with my head somethin' awful. It was like they'd ripped me apart and then tried to stitch me back together with kindness. I looked at them, at their calm, handsome faces, and a hot, sharp thing twisted in my gut. They had ruined me, claimed me, and then they had washed me clean and fed me breakfast like I was some kinda royalty. It was a kindness I didn't know how to take, a gentleness that felt more dangerous than any chain. It was a different kind of violence, one that messed with my head more than anythin' else. And I didn't know how to feel about it. I just knew that I was a little bit broken, a little bit unstable, and a whole lot theirs.