When would this end?
When?
A large hand snagged his ankle, squeezed it painfully and used it to drag him out.
Julian balled himself up tighter, except for his hand that shot out to grab the leg of the bed nearest the wall.
He wasn’t strong enough to hold on for long. Not yet. One day he would be.
One day soon...
But not today.
A sharp yank on his ankle ripped his fingers from the metal, scraping his palm. Causing pain. But that pain was nothing close to what would come next.
His head cracked against the bottom of the bed frame as he was dragged on his belly from his hiding spot.
He hoped he wasn’t only punished this time. He hoped this “daddy” killed him.
He was tired of the pain.
So tired of the torture.
Just... tired.
He wished he could close his eyes and never open them again.
Never see the rage on this daddy’s face or any future daddies when he didn’t want to submit.
He never wanted to submit.
Only, sometimes he was tired and it was just easier.
But he hated it all, every second.
They thought by telling him he was a “good boy,” he’d comply.
They thought by giving him treats and sweets when he’d been a “good boy,” he’d do what they said without a fight.
They thought by promising him gifts, like a new toy or a game, he’d willingly do the things they wanted.
They thought wrong.
As soon as he was out from under the bed, that hand grabbed the back of his waistband and hauled him into the air. His pants dug into his stomach and made it hurt as he hung helplessly, the blood rushing to his head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, trying not to cry. Some daddies liked when he cried, this one didn’t.
Sometimes pretending he was a “good boy” helped.
Sometimes saying he was sorry and promising he wouldn’t do it again, lessened the anger.
Sometimes acting like he didn’t mind what was to come next stopped the lesson on how to be a “good boy.”
But not today.
He squeezed his eyes shut when he saw the blur heading in his direction.
He didn’t try to avoid it. He welcomed it.
He hoped that fist knocked him out so he wouldn’t remember what would happen afterward.
He got his wish...
Shade opened his eyes once he removed the hand covering them and stared up at the dark ceiling, remembering that particular night. The night when Julian woke up and found himself locked in a closet. The closet. Where he ended up when he wasn’t a “good boy.”
He was naked and curled up on a towel so what was leaking from him wouldn’t get on the floor.
Julian reached around and clenched his teeth when he touched himself there. It hurt so badly, he wanted to cry. But if he cried, he might be heard. So, he bit the inside of his cheek instead. That sometimes helped.
The only thing good that came out of hiding under the bed was he’d been knocked out before he got his punishment.
Julian held his hand in front of his face since he couldn’t lift his head. The warm wetness on his fingertips was pink. A mix of this daddy’s “magic juice” and blood.
The last time this happened, he couldn’t use the bucket in the corner for days without it hurting. That meant he’d have to eat as little as possible so he wouldn’t need to use the bucket.
If he stopped eating all together, maybe he’d starve.
And if he starved...
Fucking motherfucker.
Julian had never been allowed to starve. He’d been worth too much.
Shade squeezed his eyes shut again. If that memory haunted him now while he was awake, it would only get worse if he went to sleep. It would suck him in like a whirlpool and drag him under until he was unable to escape.
As long as he was awake, he could free himself.
But that didn’t mean the memory of that night, or even another one, wouldn’t continue to swirl around in his head.
At least, he could do something about it if he remained awake.
He could go back out into The Barn, burn another joint and drink the rest of that bottle of Jack. Finish what he’d started before Red had interrupted him.
Or he could evict that memory from his head by replacing it with something else.
Someone else.
He rolled onto his side, grabbed his phone off the little table next to his bed and flopped onto his back again. He held the phone above his head and when he hit the side button the bright glow from the screen lit up his face and made him squint.
He stared at the phone’s icons, his finger itching to press the one screaming his name.
Do it.
He shouldn’t bug her.
Just do it.
Not when he was in this dark headspace.
Just fuckin’ do it.
She might not understand that headspace and he wouldn’t be able to explain.
Fuck it. She could say no.
He opened his text app and tapped the microphone symbol. He spoke slowly and clearly into it, turning his words into text. Girls asleep?
It was late. She might be asleep herself. Especially since she worked tomorrow.
She might be busy with her girls.
Or had turned off her phone.
He dropped his head back onto his pillow, stared sightlessly up at the ceiling again, dragging his fingers along the raised scar that started at the bottom of his left pec and ended at his waist. A habit when he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Just like when he rubbed his thumb back and forth over the scar on his left wrist. Two unwelcome reminders of his past.
Like the long hair spread over his pillow, the short wiry hairs nestling his dick were still damp from his shower. He brushed his fingers over his dick that had thickened at the thought of meeting up with Chelle. Of being inside her like the other night.
Of her clenching around his dick and soaking it when she came.
His phone binged and he held his phone above his face again, looking at the screen and giving the order, “Read my text messages.”
The computer-like voice read Chelle’s answering text. Yes. You’re not. The voice paused before asking, “Do you want to reply?”
“Yes,” he answered the program. No. Can’t sleep. Can you get out?
The next text message came a lot quicker than the last. And go where?
To meet me, he dictated. His dick was getting harder by the second at the thought of her being willing.
Where? came her next text.
He blew out a breath. He had no fucking clue where. There was no fucking way he was bringing her back to the bunkhouse and he couldn’t go to her house if her girls were home.
This was probably what it was like for teenagers trying to get laid. What the fuck did they do?
Fuck in a vehicle, right?
He had caught Saylor and Ry one night when he’d come back to the farm around three a.m. They’d been in the backseat of Ry’s cage parked in the tree line edging one of the fields.
His sled’s high beam had bounced off the rear reflectors on the vehicle and he investigated, worried it might be the Shirleys staking out the farm.
It wasn’t.
What it was, was trouble.
Trouble for the two eighteen-year-olds with both Judge and Rev.
Not only that, if Rev killed Ry, Judge would kill Rev. Then it would be the Originals all over again.
Shade decided Ry getting his rocks off wasn’t worth the club imploding, so he’d approached. Once he did, he wished he hadn’t and decided right then and there, if the club fell apart because of two horny teenagers, then so fucking be it.