Page 26 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I lay there, panting, my chest heaving, the air feeling thick and heavy around me. Maverick’s tongue slowed down, his kisses becoming light and feather-soft against my clit as he pulled back. "See?" he whispered, his voice still rough with desire. "All better."

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the boys put their masks back on, hiding their faces again, and the spell broke. I was just Rory, strapped to a table in a creepy backwoods doctor's office, with the lingering ghost of an orgasm I didn't ask for.

The next thing I knew, I was back in the trailer. The walk was a damn blur I didn't bother trying to piece together. Blythe just shoved me inside, the familiar click of the padlock on my chain echoing as he secured it to the heavy ring bolted to the floor. They didn't say a word as they left, just pulled the door shut.

The relentless hum of a window fan fought a losing battle against the oppressive afternoon heat setting in, and the high, ceaseless buzz of cicadas drilled into my skull. It was the soundtrack to my own personal hell.

I was laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I wasn't gonna pace around like some caged animal. No, I was gonna be still, and I was gonna think. And thinking right now felt like my goddamn skull was full of angry hornets.

They'd touched me. My traitorous flesh had lit up like a damn Christmas tree. The thought made my hands clench into fists in the blanket. I wanted to tear something apart. I wanted to scream until my throat was raw. But I just laid there, the only sound was the fan, the cicadas, and the blood rushing in my ears.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn't help. The memory was burned into the backs of my eyelids. That overwhelming, gut-wrenching pleasure that had short-circuited my brain and made me forget I was supposed to be fighting. I hated them for it, but God, I hated myself more for the part of me that still felt the ghost of it, a low hum in my blood that wouldn't quit.

This was a mindfuck. That's all this was. They were trying to break me, to turn me into some whimpering thing they could play with whenever they got a hankering. Well, they picked the wrong bitch. I'd take the pleasure, I'd take the pain, and I'd use it. I'd store it all up, every touch, every sensation, every humiliating moment. And I'd find a way to make them pay. I just had to survive it first.

Chapter 10

I woke up to the sound of the cicadas screaming, a high-pitched, relentless buzz that sounded like a thousand needles in my brain. My body felt heavy, a heavy, sated weight that I hadn't felt in days. I blinked my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, and realized I didn't remember falling asleep. One minute I was lying there, fuming and plotting my revenge, and the next I was out cold.

I groaned, stretching my arms over my head, my joints popping. "Fuck," I muttered. I needed that nap. God, I needed that nap. I’d been sleeping like shit, tossing and turning every time I closed my eyes, terrified they were coming back in to finish what they started. But this sleep? This was deep, dreamless, and restorative. It felt like a luxury I didn't deserve.

I slid off the mattress, the chain rattling against the floor, and padded across the tiny trailer to the bathroom. I did my business and washed my hands, splashing cold water on my face. The water felt good, grounding me back to reality.

My reflection stared back at me from the mirror. My hair was a disaster. The humidity from the trailer, the heat, and the water had turned it into a frizzy, chaotic halo. It was super wavy, big and wild, sticking out in every direction. I ran a hand through it, trying to tame it, but it just bounced right back to its frizzy, curly self.

I stared at my reflection for a long moment, a weird, foreign feeling settling in my chest. It wasn't anger. It wasn't disgust. It was... curiosity. I looked like a mess, but I didn't look like the scared little girl they thought they'd broken. I looked like something else. Something untamed.

I padded back out into the main area, the chain dragging behind me with a soft, metallic whisper. The fan was still whirring, pushing the thick, humid air around, but the cicadas had quieted down some. The nap had helped, clearing my head just enough to make room for a new kind of restlessness. I was tired of just lying there, letting my thoughts eat me alive. It was time to poke around.

I started with the kitchen area. I pulled open a few cupboards, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, it was the usual trailer crap—canned goods, mismatched plates, a jar of pickled eggs that looked older than I was. Nothing interesting. I moved on to the small bookshelf tucked into a corner, surprised to see it was actually full of books. I figured them for the type to just use the pages for toilet paper.

I ran my fingers over the spines. There were a few beat-up paperbacks, some westerns and a horror novel with a cheesy cover. But then my eyes landed on the medical texts. My stomach turned. There, nestled between a copy of "Where the Red Fern Grows" and a car repair manual, was a textbook titled "Practical Gynecology for the Rural Physician." Another one, "Human Anatomy: A Systemic Approach," looked well-worn, the spine broken in a dozen places.

I let out a huff of disbelief, shaking my head. "Fucking sickos," I muttered to the empty trailer. Of course they had medical books. They weren't just backwoods psychos; they were backwoods psychos with a library.

I kept looking, my fingers tracing the dusty covers until I found a few that were different. Tucked away at the very end of the bottom shelf were three huge, leather-bound books. They looked ancient, the covers cracked and faded, the titles embossed in flaking gold leaf. They weren't medical texts or novels. They looked like scrapbooks or family albums.

I pulled the first one out. It was heavy, the leather cool and smooth under my fingertips. I carried it over to the small table and sat down, the chain pooling at my feet. I opened it carefully, the smell of old paper and dust filling my nose.

The first page was filled with black and white photographs. They were old as fuck, the edges yellowed and curling. In the first picture, a group of people stood in front of a circus tent, their faces stern and unsmiling. The men wore dark suits, the women long dresses. But it was the other figures in the photo that caught my attention. Standing beside them were people who were… different. A man with a full beard that reached his waist, a woman with no arms holding a cigarette between her toes, a man whose skin was covered in dark, swirling tattoos.

I wasn't scared, just… curious. I leaned closer, my eyes tracing the details. Who were these people? What was their story?

I turned the page, my heart starting to pound. There were more photos. A close-up of a "living skeleton," his ribs stark against his paper-thin skin. A banner that read "See the Amazing Alligator Man!" with a photo of a man whose skin was scaly and rough. And then, a photo that made me freeze. It was of a young woman, her hair in a long braid, holding a massive python. She was smiling, a wide, genuine smile, but her eyes… her eyes were intense, just like Maverick's.

I turned the page again, my fingers moving slowly. This one was even older. The photos were sepia-toned, the people dressed in clothes from the early 1900s. There was a man with a thick, black beard, his eyes dark and piercing. He was standing next to a woman who was holding a baby. The baby was small, swaddled in a blanket, but I could see its face. It had the same dark, intense eyes as the man. And then I saw it. Tucked into the blanket, next to the baby, was a small, coiled snake. "Well, I'll be damned," I whispered, a slow grin spreading across my face. "This shit runs deep."

I flipped through the years, the photos slowly shifting from stiff, formal portraits to more candid shots. The 50s and 60s were a blur of faded color and smiling faces, but then I hit the 70s, and the album got real interesting. The photos were wild, raw, and unapologetic. There was a picture of a woman with wild, curly hair and a huge, infectious grin, holding a snake that was wrapped around her neck like a scarf. She was wearing a flowing dress, and her eyes were bright and mischievous.

And then there were the boys. Or, I guessed, the boys as kids. There was a picture of two young boys, one with a wild, manic grin and a shock of brown hair, and the other, a little taller, with a serious, stoic expression. They were standing in front of a carnival ride, their bodies smudged with dirt. They looked just like them. I felt a strange, twisted sense of pride, like I'd just uncovered a secret.

I kept turning the pages, my eyes scanning the photos for more clues. I slammed the first album shut, the dust puffing up around me. My heart was hammering, not from fear, but from a sick, thrilling curiosity. This wasn't just some random family of crazies. This was a dynasty. I reached for the second leather-bound book, my fingers trembling with anticipation. This one felt heavier, more sinister.

I opened it, and the smell of old paper hit me again, but this time it was mixed with the faint, metallic tang of old newsprint. The first page wasn't filled with photos. It was filled with headlines. "CARNIVAL FAMILY OF MONSTERS SUSPECTED IN LOCAL DISAPPEARANCES," one screamed, the letters bold and black. Another, "THE KNUCKLEBONE’S CARNIVAL OF CURIOSITIES: A MENACE OR A MISUNDERSTOOD ATTRACTION?" I scanned the articles, my eyes devouring the words. They were accused of everything from theft to murder, but the articles were all the same—no proof, just a lot of hearsay and fear from the local townsfolk. They were outsiders, and they were easy targets.

I turned the page, and my breath caught in my throat. This was different. This was personal. The headline was small, tucked away in the corner of the page, but it was clear as day: "LOCAL CARNIE 'SNAKE WOMAN' MURDERED BY CRAZY LOVER." Below it was a grainy, black and white photo of a crime scene. A woman, the same woman from the 70s photos, was lying on the floor, her body... butchered. The article said she'd been killed with an axe. And next to her, covered in her blood, was a baby boy. Maverick.

My blood ran cold. This wasn't just some family legend. This was real. This was his mom. And he was there. He saw it all.