Page 74 of The Knucklebone Brothers

They both locked eyes with me, and an intense look passed between us, a look that made my blood run cold. In that moment, I felt like I was prey, frozen in the face of my hunters. That's what they were. My hunters.

Then they slowly approached me. Maverick jumped from the stage, his boots landin' in the dirt, sendin' a cloud of dust flyin' up to mix with the creepin' fog. Blythe just walked behind him, his presence a silent, deadly threat. Maverick held out his hand to me, his eyes dark and possessive.

"It's our turn," he said, his voice a low purr.

And I was scared as fuck. What did he mean, "our turn"? I have absolutely no act, didn't plan on participatin' more than I already have. I just sat there, my mind racin', tryin' to figure out what they wanted from me, what they expected me to do.

The boys led me up the side wood steps to the stage, their hands firm on my arms. Maverick disappeared behind the heavy, black velvet curtain, and I turned to look out at the audience, or what was left of it. They were all lookin' at me, their eyes—some livin', some hollow and empty—waitin'. The dead were just mixed in, sittin' there like this was totally normal, like a woman bein' led to the stage by two dangerous men was just another part of the show.

Blythe started circlin' me, his movements like a big cat stalkin' its prey. He was waitin' for something, a response, or maybe just examinin' me, his eyes takin' in every detail. I watched him, scanning him up and down, watchin' the way his form moved, the way his muscles shifted under his shirt, the heavy sound of his boots on the wood.

Then, from the back of the stage, Maverick appeared. He was draggin' a big, wooden circle, its paint faded and peelin', but I could still make out the reds and the stripes. He made a joke about it, his voice a low, drawlin' tease. "Behold, the wheel of death," he said, a wide, wicked grin on his face. "And you, my dear, are gonna be my assistant for the game."

I remembered how I'd seen these before, on TV, in old movies, but never in person, not like this. "Absolutely not," I said, my voice a shaky, defiant whisper. "These are dangerous."

Blythe stood behind me then, his body a solid wall of muscle, blockin' me in. Maverick grabbed me and spun me back towards the wheel, his hands rough. He grabbed my arms and pulled them above my head, his body pressin' against mine. He leaned in and licked the tip of my nose, his tongue a hot, wet shock. "Don't worry," he whispered, his voice a dangerous promise. "After this, we'll make it up to you."

Blythe then grabbed my feet, liftin' me slightly and spread them apart. The boys worked quickly, their movements a blur of leather and bodies. They strapped my ankles to the wheel, the leather tight and cold. Then they strapped my wrists, my body stretched out and exposed, a human sacrifice on their wheel of death.

Blythe stepped back and handed Maverick a worn leather bag. Maverick took it, his eyes never leavin' mine, and pulled out what looked like playin' cards, but the edges were sharp, glintin' in the dim light. They were thin, wicked-lookin' things, made of metal.

"Now hold still, pretty thing," he said, his voice low, demanding. "I promise I won't hurt you. I could do this with my eyes shut."

He took a step back, his body coiled like a snake. He raised his hand, and with a flick of his wrist, he threw the first one. It spun through the air, a flash of silver, and then it slammed into the wood of the wheel, right next to my head. The sound was a sharp, violent thwack, and I gasped, my body jerkin' in its bonds, not expectin' it, not expectin' the raw, brutal force of it.

Then he threw another one, and it landed on the other side of my head, another sharp, sickening thwack that made my ears ring. The audience, the livin' part of it, clapped, their hands a dry, rustlin' sound that seemed to come from a long way off.

Then he threw another one, and it landed right below my pussy, the metal diggin' into the wood, a cold, sharp threat against my most vulnerable place. Maverick had a wicked grin on his face, a look of triumph. He walked to me, and ripped them violently from the wheel, one by one, the wood splinterin' under the force. He got super close to my face, his breath against my skin. "See?" he whispered, his voice a low, possessive sound. "We'd never hurt our bride."

My breathin' was heavy, my chest risin' and fallin' with each ragged gasp. I could feel the adrenaline, a hot, electric current runnin' through my veins, making my skin tingle and my heart pound. I was scared, but I was also alive.

Then the boys removed me from the wheel, their hands quick and efficient. They unstrapped my ankles and my arms, my body slumping against them, my legs shaky and weak. They held me up, their bodies a solid, steady presence.

Chapter 29

I held Rory steady, her body tremblin' slightly as I helped her find her balance. The air between us was thick, electric, and I inhaled deep, catchin' the scent of her. It was sweet, cinnamony, and warm. It was pumpkin spice, radiatin' off her in waves, and mixed with her own musk, it sent a sudden, intense heat straight through my chest, down to my gut. My fingers tightened around her waist, diggin' into the fabric of her shorts, and I had to force myself to let go, to give her space, but the urge to pull her close was almost overwhelming.

I glanced over at Momma. She was sittin' at the edge of the stage, her posture rigid, her eyes cold and disapprovin'. She looked like she wished she was anywhere else, like this whole charade was beneath her dignity. She hated this, she hated what was happening, and she hated me. She just wanted it over with.

Then Amos appeared, a massive shadow in the red light. He didn't say a word. He just nodded at the wheel, and with a grunt of effort, he lifted the heavy wooden structure, and carried it off the stage like it was nothing more than a piece of kindling. He set it down in the shadows with a heavy thud and vanished back into the darkness.

I looked down at Rory, my eyes softening. Then I looked at Maverick. He was standin' near the curtain, his hand deep in his pocket, pullin' out a small, carved pine box. It was old, the wood dark and polished, with intricate carvings of vines and thorns all over the lid. I knew what was inside. I had carved it myself, weeks ago, when the nights were long and the silence was heavy.

Gash walks up slowly, a heavy rhythm that seems to shake the very ground. I see Rory tense up, her body goin' rigid against my side. I get it. I really do. She just watched him kill Sue, then treat her like his personal rag doll, draggin' her body around like it was nothin'. But he won't hurt her. Not her. None of us will. We wouldn't let anything happen to her. Not in this place. We are the only ones allowed to touch her here, unless we say otherwise. After this, after tonight, she will finally be our bride. Our Rory.

I watch Gash's eyes, the dark, empty pools in his painted face, as they land on her. There's a hunger there, a darkness that's always been a part of him, but it's different now. It's a respect, a deference, that I've never seen before. He knows she's ours. He knows she's the one we've been waitin' for. He wouldn't dare cross that line. Not with her.

I can feel her heart like it was beatin' against my own ribs. I want to tell her that it's okay, that she's safe, but the words won't come. So I just hold her a little tighter, a silent promise that I won't let him, or anyone else, hurt her. She's ours. And we take care of what's ours.

Gash didn't speak. He just stood there, a silent, towering shadow in the flickerin' light, his eyes dartin' over Rory's face like he was memorizin' every detail, memorizin' her fear, her beauty, her life. He was the family ghost, the one who kept watch from the edges of the woods, the one who made sure nothin' unwanted crossed our path. He was the silent guardian, the one who made sure those who weren't welcome didn't come back to the holler. And as I looked at him, I knew that most of the time, they never did. They just... didn't come back at all.

Maverick appeared on the other side of Rory, his movements fluid and confident, a predator movin' in for the kill. He looked at her with a pride so thick it was almost a physical thing, a possessive light in his eyes that made my own chest tighten. This was it. This was the moment he'd been waitin' for his entire life. I know it is. I've seen it in his eyes since we were just kids, since the first time we heard the name Rory Vale whispered on the wind. It was the moment we'd both been waitin' for, the moment we knew, with a certainty that was bone-deep, that she would be our bride one day, one way or another. And now, here she was, tremblin' and alive, caught between us, a wild, beautiful thing that we had finally caught.

Then Maverick took a step forward, his movements confident, and handed the small pine box to Gash. Gash, with his large, bloody gloved hands, opened the lid, his movements surprisingly gentle. The look on Rory's face was like a light switch had been flipped. All the fear, all the adrenaline, all the defiance just... settled. It all settled in, how real this all was, and she froze, her body goin' still as a statue. She looked between me and Maverick, her eyes wide and searchin', like she was waitin' for someone to say something, for someone to make a move, to break the spell that had been cast over her.

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on the box, on the ring. It was an ancient, important-lookin' thing, a piece of jewelry that seemed to carry the weight of the entire family with it. It was a generations-old Knucklebone family heirloom, passed down from our great-great-grandparents when they immigrated from overseas, a symbol of the woman who becomes part of, and continues, the legacy of the Holler.

It was an antique gold ring, the metal dark and warm, with a black, coffin-shaped stone set in the center. The stone was covered by dark, glitterin' stones, and the whole band was detailed with tiny, creamy pearls. It was beautiful, but slightly eerie, like an heirloom that had seen generations of Knucklebones come and go, a silent witness to all their dark, twisted secrets. It wasn't just a piece of jewelry. It was a promise. It was a threat. It was a symbol of her place within the Knucklebone legacy, of the continuation of the family line. And as she looked at it, I knew she understood.