No one speaks for a long moment after Story has been dismissed. There’s a tension in the air that’s so palpable, it’s making my leg jitter, knee jumping up and down.
It’s only when I look up and see them both staring at me that I bite out, “She’s obviously bullshitting us.”
Rath lifts an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“Any slut can say they’re a virgin,” I point out. “She probably sold her cherry to some geriatric fuck ages ago.”
Tristian starts, “But what if—”
“Am I the only one here not thinking with my dick?”
“No, you’re the only one here thinking with your grudge,” Tristian answers, tucking his hands behind his head. “I know you think she jilted you or whatever, but let’s face it. Story is the one.”
Thankfully, Rath has some sense. “Sure, let’s just invite her into our lives, give her access to everything she needs to completely fucking destroy us.”
I gesture to Rath. “Exactly. There’s no way she isn’t chomping at the bit to take us down after what we did to her.”
Tristian just shrugs. “What did we do to her? She had choices.”
Rath smirks. “No good choices.”
“When are choices ever good, anyway?” Tristian rolls his eyes, gaze landing on me. “If she wants to take a shot, I say we let her.” His eyes spark with the same malicious glee I’m used to seeing on him. Tristian’s always preferred the struggle over easy pickings.
“It’s a risk,” I point out, hands forming tight fists. “She’ll never be loyal. Take it from someone who knows: you let that girl live under your roof, you’re going to regret thinking she’s yours.”
Seeing her walk through our door was like being confronted with the ghost of disappointments past. My poker face is damn near flawless, but I was still shocked to see her standing there, looking every bit the pretty, innocent little piece of ass she always did.
It reminds me of the first time I saw her; the night at the restaurant when my dad introduced us all. I knew that he’d intended her for me. He had to have. She was just too perfect, too pure, too sweet and cute. The first time I smiled at her, she squirmed in her seat, red blooming over her pale cheeks, ducking her head to hide a grin. I knew then that she’d be mine.
I was wrong.
Only now do I allow myself to really feel the tornado of emotions seeing her brought out in me. There’s anger, like always. Too many layers of fury to really inventory. Anger that my dad made her and that gold-digging slut part of our family. Anger that she was supposed to be mine, but never was. Anger that she chose someone else. Anger that the night in the laundry room should have sealed the deal, but all three of us were too drunk and pissed off to do it properly. Anger that she just up and left.
The worst part of it, though—the part that makes me want to fling this coffee table through the fucking window—is that even through all that rage and resentment, I still want her.
“Think about it. A virgin, Killer,” Tristian says. “None of the other houses have anything close.”
“And neither will we,” I grind out. “She’s lying.”
He seems unbothered by this, lounging back. “So we make it a part of the contract. If we find out she’s lying, we bump her for an alternate.”
Rath asks, “And what about the sign?”
“What sign?”
He gives Tristian a long look. “The one that’s all red and flashing ‘hey, this is clearly a trap’?”
Tristian scoffs. “Like we said. We’re Teflon. Let her try.”
Rath rolls his eyes, but I see the gears turning. “She still does have that air about her.”
“All innocent and nervous. Fuck.” Tristian reaches down to squeeze his boner. “The Counts are going to lose their shit when they see what we’ve got.”
They aren’t getting anything, they’re just too dick-brained to see it. “It’s not happening.”
The two of them look at me, expressions hard.
“This isn’t just your decision, fuckwad. We decide this democratically.” Tristian raises a palm. “All in favor?”
Before Rath can raise a hand, I add, “He’s right, you know. Showing up on our doorstep three years later? That doesn’t sound like Story. Something’s going down here.”
“Maybe she got a taste of my cock and finally came back for more,” Tristian says, shrugging. “She wouldn’t be the first one.”
“You’re deluded.”
“And you’re too wrapped up in your bad blood to see this for what it is.” Tristian leans forward, leveling me with his gaze. “You can finally have her, Killer. We do this, and she’s ours—for real, this time. This isn’t some drunken high school fuck-around in your laundry room. Isn’t that why you’ve always hated her so much?” He shakes his head, looking both sympathetic and annoyed. “You always hate what you can’t have.”
“Who says I want her? I could have any girl in this whole fucking town. She’s nothing special.” I know instantly that they see through my bullshit.
Rath is the only one with balls to say it, though. “Give me a break. Find you a brunette to fuck from behind, and you come in like five minutes flat. I bet you still think of her when you jerk off, too.”
Tristian laughs. “He’s got a point.”
I flip him off. “Maybe I just don’t like blondes.”
Rath leans forward to flick that space on my bicep—the tattoo of the dark-haired girl. “Or maybe you’re just an obsessive psycho.” His words don’t have any bite to them. As if he’s in any position to throw stones here. “But look at it like this, right? If she’s our Lady, she’ll be right down the hall. Every night. Sleeping.”
Tristian immediately catches on, pitching forward to add, “We can take the lock away. Or, even better, we can give you the only key.”
I glower at them, but internally, I’m already imagining it. Sneaking into her room, looking at her there, all tucked into her bed. I remember the way her lips always looked, puckered in concentration as she dreamed. The way they felt around the hard tip of my dick, so soft and wet. The way I’d leave some of my come on them, spreading it around, marking her as my own. Story was always a hard sleeper. Barely anything could wake her. I was careful back then—too careful, moved too slow. But now?
Now, I could do anything to her.
Just like that, my dick is rock hard.
Fuckers. Complete, insufferable fuckers, the both of them.
Rath lifts a hand, saying, “I’m in,” and looks at me expectantly.
I thought she was mine the first time we met. I thought she was mine again that night in our old house, when I finally let myself have a piece of her, however small it might have seemed.
But that’s the thing about Story that these guys don’t realize. She’s like sand slipping through your fingers. Water through a sieve.
You can’t keep what you can never grasp.
