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Jacked, is the answer. I don’t need a mirror to know the hard-packed muscle on my upper body is intimidating. I can bench any one of these assholes under the table. Bounce a quarter off my abs. That’s pretty much the only benefit of prison. The lack of beer or sugar, and an abundance of time to spend in a well-appointed workout room, donated graciously by the Ashby Foundation, kept me on my toes during my stint in the Forsyth Pen.

Now it makes me a sideshow.

“Nice goal,” Turner says, slapping me on the back.

My muscles tense with the instinct to whip around and take him to the floor. I stop myself–just barely. Gruffly, I say, “Thanks,” and try to shake off this relentless vigilance. It’s been two fucking months, and I still can’t stop tracking every sound, every movement, every glance of the people around me. All I want to do is get back to the Palace, lock myself in a room, and fucking relax for five minutes.

I feel Wicker emerging from the showers, always aware of his dark, frantic energy. It buzzes in my mind like a distant cicada and I hone in on it, letting my brother’s presence soothe the wild mistrust roaring through my veins.

No matter where I am, Wicker’s got my wing.

He’s wet as he stalks across the tiles, towel slung low on his waist. Head tipped down, his eyes scan the room as he makes his way to me. I go abruptly still at the increased buzz of awareness, knowing that simmering strain in his eyes anywhere. It’s been two days since Wicker got his dick wet.

“No,” I say quietly, pulling a clean shirt out of my bag.

“No what?” he asks, yanking off the towel and using it to rub down his body. I’m jacked, but Wicker’s body was carved from the same marble those Greek statues came from, and I can spot a flex when I see it. The couple of guys who take the bait, flicking their eyes over Wick’s perfect form, are asking themselves that sly inner question: do they want to fuck him, or do they want to be him?

“Stop causing sexuality crises.” I shake my head. “Just because they don’t have a pussy doesn’t mean you get a pass. Father not only made this crystal clear, but you signed the covenant.”

Wicker is a little something I like to call fuck-sexual. His dick is an equal opportunity lender. Chick, dude, MILF, DILF, barely legal or gender ambiguous, he doesn’t discriminate. Wicker’s libido is Ellis fucking Island. Give him your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.

He’ll fuck their brains out.

He scowls, which somehow does nothing to make him less handsome. “First of all, that covenant is bullshit. Who cares if I waste a little cum on a shower handy? It’s not like I don’t have an infinite supply.” He yanks open his locker and it slams against the one next to it with a bang. “Second of all, this whole thing is a trap. He’s setting us up to fail so he has someone to pin his dead-as-a-doornail legacy on. Me, with the forced sexile. You, having to share a roof with your own fucking narc. And Lex,” he lowers his voice, tipping closer, “because his dick’s still on vacation.” Wicker says this grimly, like he’s referencing someone’s terminal brain cancer.

I’m not worried about Lex, though. It’s why I understand it had to be her. Verity.Rosilocks. For all our brother’s oblivious disinterest, Rosilocks is Lex’s type to a goddamn T, from her blushing cheeks to her curvy hips, heaving bosom and all. Fertile and ripe. She’s just the kind of girl he’d avoid, because he knows he’d want her too much.

It’s not what drew me to her, but I can see the appeal.

“Lex made his deposit,” I point out, remembering the videos I sent him to jerk off to. All of the girls were redheads. From the basement feed–which, admittedly is just the hallway–it took him forty-five minutes, but my boy finally got that nut.

And then he gave it to her.

I hide my expression as I slip on my socks. This means that Wicker and Lex have both been inside her before I have. I’ve done a pretty good job of swallowing down what that’s doing to me, because Wicker is right. Father knows exactly what he’s doing. This is just another punishment for me, watching my brothers get handed the very thing I’ve wanted for so long. It’s always been his second-favorite way of punishing me.

But then I remember that this is a punishment for them, too.

There are dozens of guys in East End who’d give their left nuts for the chance to be his studs, and he chose the only three who wouldn’t. We were two years from being gone, out from under his thumb. Once college was done–once Wicker and I got our degrees–us and Lex were going to finally be free. No more ties. No more obligations. No more Father.

And now he’s doing his damndest to make sure we’re tied to PNZ for life.

Wicker drops down beside me, looking like a hunted man. “I need something to take this edge off.” Elbows on his knees, head bowed, he rakes his fingers through his wet hair. “I need tocome.”

He’s not the only one. All damn day, I haven’t been able to think about anything except the way her hand felt on my cock. Wicker probably thinks I’m drawing it out to make her nervous, but that’s not the real reason.

It’s about knowing who has control.

“Even so,” I thread my feet through my jeans, “the last thing you need to do on your first day with a team is have a quickie with one of these guys and ruin the dynamic. Remember Exeter?”

That, at least, gets me a grunt of agreement. Fucking teammates never works out. He’s been down that bumpy, drama-filled road before.

“Listen up!” Anthony Giles, our captain, shouts over the noise. “Party tonight at the Nu Zoo to welcome the Ashby brothers back on the team.”

Wick grins, snapping the waist of his black boxer briefs. “Like you need us as an excuse to party. I think you’re just using us to lure back all the trim you lost when we left.”

Giles laughs but doesn’t deny it. “You in, Wick?”

“Fuck yes, we’re in,” he answers for both of us.