Page 38 of The Knucklebone Brothers

He leaned in then, so close I could feel the heat from his skin. His lips were just a breath away from mine, close enough that I could almost taste the sharp, corn-sweet smell of moonshine on his breath. "And if you lose," he whispered, his voice a low, intimate rumble, "I get to kiss you."

I scoffed, trying to ignore the way my heart was hammering against my ribs. "Go to hell. I'm not playing your stupid game."

"Aaaahhh, come on, pretty thing," he coaxed, his voice a soft, teasing purr. "Don't tell me you ain't curious. Curious about what surprise Amos has for you. Curious about what it'd feel like to lose." He tapped the fanned cards. "Just one card. What's it gonna hurt?"

He held the fan out to me. "Close your eyes," he whispered, his voice a soft command. "No peekin'."

I did, but I wasn't no fool. I let my eyelids droop, leaving them open just a crack, enough to see. I watched as he expertly maneuvered the deck, his thumb guiding a card from the back of the fan right to where my fingers were waiting. He was good, I'd give him that. Smooth as silk.

I reached out, my fingers hovering for a second before I "randomly" plucked the card he was offering. I pulled it free, keeping my eyes shut for a moment longer. I already knew what it was. I'd seen him do it.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked down at the card in my hand. It was black. The Ace of Spades.

A slow, wide grin spread across Maverick's face. He hadn't even looked at the card I'd drawn. He already knew. I looked down at the fan still in his hand, and my blood ran cold as he flipped them over. Every single card showing was a black Ace of Spades. The whole damn deck. There was never any choice. There was never any chance of winning.

"Looks like you lose, Aurora," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction.

I stared at the Ace of Spades in my hand, then at the identical cards in his. A cold, hard fury washed over me, clean and sharp. He thought he was so damn clever. I looked up at him, a slow, nasty smile spreading across my face.

Before he could say another word, I lashed out. I kicked him hard, right in the wrist, sending the rigged deck of cards flying. They scattered across the floor, a storm of black Aces, a perfect symbol of his bullshit game.

Maverick's eyes widened for a second, a flicker of surprise on his face. Then he moved in, fast and fluid. His hand shot out, not to grab my chin, but to tangle in my hair, his fingers wrapping tight in the strands. He yanked my head back, hard, forcing my neck to arch at an painful angle. I gasped, my hands flying up to his wrist, but his grip was like iron.

He leaned in, his face hovering over mine, his green eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire. He brought his lips down to mine, not to kiss, but to claim. His tongue darted out, forcing its way into my mouth.

That was his mistake.

I didn't hesitate. I clamped my teeth down, hard, sinking them into the soft, wetness of his tongue. I tasted blood, coppery and hot, and I pulled back his tongue, yanking my head away with a sharp, vicious tug. His grip in my hair is the only thing keeping me from falling back completely.

He let out a muffled cry of pain and surprise, his eyes wide with shock. I leaned back as far as his grip would allow. A slow wicked grin forming on my face, a few small, bright red drops of his blood spattering my bottom lip and chin. I looked him dead in the eye and laughed, a low, throaty sound full of triumph and defiance.

Maverick just stared at me, his hand still tangled in my hair, his green eyes wide with shock. He wasn't mad. He wasn't even angry. A slow grin started to spread across his face, and then he started to laugh. It was a low, rumbling sound at first, deep in his chest, but it grew louder and louder, until he was howling with laughter, his head thrown back. The jester tattoo on his neck stretched and contorted with the movement, the painted-on smile seeming to mock me, to laugh right along with him. It was a sound that was both terrifying and strangely exhilarating, a wild, unhinged cackle that echoed in the small, dark space, making my blood run cold and my heart race all at the same time.

He finally let go of my hair, but he didn't pull away. I just sat there, breathing hard, looking at the smear of his blood on his lip. Maverick looked at me, his eyes dark and hungry, and he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared at the red smear on his knuckles, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Damn, you're a messy little thing, ain't you?" he drawled, his voice low.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folding pocket knife, the kind with a worn wooden handle and a blade that had seen better days. He flicked it open with a practiced snap, the steel glinting in the firelight. Without a moment's hesitation, he pressed the sharp edge against his own palm.

He drew the blade across his skin, slow and deliberate. A thin, red line appeared, welling up instantly before blooming into a fat, dark bead of blood. Then another, and another, until a steady trickle was running down his wrist, dripping onto the floorboards with soft, wet plops.

He didn't even flinch. He just stared at the cut, his eyes glazed with a strange, ecstatic light. Then he looked at me, and he reached out with his bleeding hand. He smeared his own blood across my cheek, a sticky, warm trail that felt both violating and strangely intimate. He didn't stop there. He grabbed my jaw, his grip tight, and forced my mouth open, shoving his bloody fingers inside.

I could taste the copper, hot and metallic, coating my tongue and the inside of my cheeks. It was revolting, but my body hummed with a sick, twisted thrill.

"Drink," he growled, his voice low and guttural. "Drink your man's blood."

I swallowed, the taste of him filling my senses. I looked up at him, my eyes wide and wild. "You're sick," I whispered, my voice muffled by his fingers.

He laughed, a low, dark sound. "I know," he said, his eyes burning into mine. "I want to fill you up. I want to be inside you. You will consume me one way or another. I don't care how." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'd wear your skin if that's what I need to do to be closer to you.”

He kissed me then, his lips pressing against mine, tasting of blood and moonshine. His tongue forced its way into my mouth, fighting for dominance. I could feel his hard dick pressing against my leg, and my body betrayed me. My pussy ached, a deep throb that made my knees weak. I wanted to kiss him back.

He finally pulled back, his lips leaving mine, but his eyes stayed locked on me, dark and possessive. He wiped a smear of his own blood from my chin with his thumb, a small, satisfied smile on his face.

"You've had a rough night, Aurora," he said, his voice a low, rumbling murmur. "I want you to get some rest. Maybe tomorrow you'll be in a better mood and stop bein' such a brat."

He reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small, amber-colored pill bottle. He shook it, the little white pills rattling around inside like dried beans. "Momma likes to see ol’ Doc in town every once in a while," he drawled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Brings these goodies back. She gave 'em to me, thinkin' they'd help you sleep."