Page 23 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The objects in the room were a bizarre, split personality. On one side, there were shelves lined with dusty bottles of iodine, rolls of gauze, and tarnished metal instruments that looked vaguely medical. On the other side, pure carnival morbid curiosity. Glass pickle jars, cloudy with age, lined another shelf, each filled with amber-colored formaldehyde. Inside, "oddities" floated—a two-headed fetus, what looked like a shriveled human hand, and a few eyeballs. Most of 'em were probably fakes, rubber things meant to scare the city folk, but I couldn’t be too sure.

An old, weathered canvas banner, faded but still legible, was tacked up to the ceiling, serving as a makeshift curtain. It read, "See the Living Skeleton!" and separated the small waiting area from the exam bed.

Blythe tugged my chain, leading me toward the examination table. "Inspection time," he said again, his voice echoing slightly in the small, damp space.

I snapped. My feet were planted firm in the damp dirt of the floor. "I'm not climbing up on that thing," I said, my voice tight with disgust. "It looks like an infection waiting to happen, and there's duct tape on it."

The boys both laughed, a low, rumbling sound that echoed in the small, damp space. "We knew you'd probably say that," Maverick said, a grin in his voice. "But I scrubbed it with bleach and boiled the canvas restraints myself. It smells… not great, but it's sterile."

My blood ran cold. "Why would we need restraints?!" I shot back, my eyes darting between their masked faces.

Blythe took a step closer, his large frame blocking the dim light from the bare bulbs. "Come on, Rory, don't make this difficult. Come here." He gave the chain a gentle but insistent tug, pulling me away from the table and toward a threadbare, faded rug laid out on the ground.

Maverick stood beside him, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Remove your slippers and dress," he commanded, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument.

I hesitated, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. This was different. The bath was one thing, but this... this felt clinical, predatory.

"It's like at a doctor's appointment, Rory," Blythe said, his voice a low, reasonable rumble that was anything but. "We just want to make sure you don't have any weird lumps and are healthy. All the good stuff."

That's when I snapped. "Are you kidding me?!" I yelled, my voice bouncing off the jars. "You've already seen me naked! You literally just helped bathe me! What the hell is this really?!"

Their friendly demeanor vanished. The air grew heavy, charged with a sudden, menacing energy. "We ain't askin' again, Aurora," Maverick said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Don't make us get forceful."

Blythe just stared at me, his silence more terrifying than any threat. I was trapped. I looked from his impassive mask to Maverick's tense posture. I was outmatched.

"Fine. Whatever," I muttered, my voice shaking with a fury I had to swallow down. I kicked off the stupid slippers and reached for the hem of the black dress, my movements stiff and resentful. I pulled it over my head, the lace scratching my skin, and let it drop to the rug.

Maverick swooped in and snatched the dress from the floor before it could get dirty. He walked over to a rusty nail on the wall and carefully hung it up, smoothing out the wrinkles as if it were a priceless gown.

I stood there, naked and vulnerable, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin. The single bare bulb overhead casting shadows, making the jars of oddities seem to watch me with their cloudy, dead eyes.

"See?" Maverick said, his voice returning to that sickeningly sweet, teasing tone. "Was that so hard?"

I didn't answer, just glared at the spot on his mask where his mouth should be. My cooperation was a choice, a tactical retreat, not a surrender.

Blythe moved first, stepping around to stand behind me. Maverick stayed in front. They were so close, a wall of masked muscle and intent. I could feel the heat radiating from their bodies. It was intimate in a way that made my stomach clench with a mixture of fear and something else I refuse to talk about.

"Hands at your sides, Rory," Blythe's low voice rumbled from behind me, a command I felt more than heard. I obeyed, my fists clenching and unclenching.

Maverick reached out first. His fingers, calloused but surprisingly gentle, traced the line of my collarbone. "No strange lumps here," he murmured, his voice a low hum. He moved up, his thumbs brushing over the hollows of my throat, making my pulse hammer against his touch. His fingers then traveled to my jaw, tilting my head up. "Open."

I shot him a look but complied, parting my lips slightly. He leaned in, the painted grin of his mask inches from my face. His thumb gently pulled down my lower lip, his eyes scanning my teeth. "Good and straight," he commented, "No cavities that I can see. You been takin' care of yourself."

Behind me, Blythe's hands settled on my shoulders. His grip was firm but not painful. His thumbs pressed into the tense muscles there, and I had to fight the urge to let my head fall back against him. He ran his fingers down my spine, one vertebra at a time, a slow, methodical exploration. "Strong back," he grunted. "No curves where they ain't supposed to be."

Maverick's hands moved down from my face to my neck. His fingers circled my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a silent threat that made my breath hitch. He tilted my head to the side, exposing the column of my neck. "Hmm," he hummed, his thumb stroking my pulse point. "Nothin' but smooth skin here."

His thumb stilled, pressing against the spot just behind my ear. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of curiosity in their depths. "What's this?" he murmured, leaning in closer. His breath was warm against my skin as he examined the small, simple crescent moon tattoo tucked there.

"A little moon," he whispered, "Hiding in the shadows. Just like you." He traced the curve of the moon with the tip of his finger, a light, almost ticklish touch that sent a shiver down my spine.

His hands moved lower, skimming over my shoulders and down my arms. He took my hands in his, turning them over. He examined my fingers, my nails, even the little scars on my knuckles from past fights. "Hands are small," he noted, "but strong. I like that."

Meanwhile, Blythe's hands had moved to my waist. His large palms spanned the curve of my hips, his thumbs pressing into my lower back. He slid his hands around to my stomach, his touch warm and firm. He flattened his palms against my abdomen, just below my ribs. "Take a deep breath," he ordered.

I did, filling my lungs with the musty air. His fingers pressed gently, feeling the expansion of my diaphragm. "Good," he said.

Maverick's attention moved to my breasts. His gaze was intense, even through the mask. He reached out with one finger, not touching the nipple, just tracing the soft skin underneath. He ran his finger down the valley between them, his thumb brushing over the underside of the curve. "These," he murmured, his voice low, "are perfect. Absolutely perfect."