Page 58 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

T rips doesn’t laugh. Not like this, at least. And while half of me is panicking, the other half cracks in two.

He just killed someone, and that’s what it takes for him to feel free to laugh.

He’s a protector through and through. And his father insists on twisting that, on turning his need to keep the people he loves safe into a weapon, one that he can point at whoever he pleases.

And I’m the goddamn trigger he pulled to set the weapon off.

My arms are around his waist, the water trickling down his body soaking into my slip, as I squeeze him. Tight, like I’m holding all the pieces of Trips that I love inside of him. And even if that thought terrifies me, I do it anyway.

His laughter shakes us both, his hands running through his wet hair, sprinkling droplets over me, his muscles clenched tight under my grasp.

The back of my mind notes that this just makes me a better trigger for his father, that showing this level of care, of intimacy, will come back to fuck us.

But this is more important than my damn plan. He’s more important. So I hold tight as the chuckles morph into a single sob.

Then he’s stone in my arms, the risk of tears too much for him.

The risk of feeling anything is too much in this godforsaken place.

Only anger, violence, and apathy are acceptable for a Westerhouse.

Tilting my chin up, I try to read him, to figure out what he needs from me, how to go about processing the fact that he’s a killer.

Because I sure as shit have never done that before.

And based on his reaction, he hasn’t either.

He’s staring at the ceiling, at the camera, a terrifying blankness in his eyes. “Trips?” I whisper.

Blinking, his chest fills against me, then his breath whooshes out.

His hands come and bracket my face, bending me back farther than is comfortable, farther than is necessary to see me. My heart rate picks up, some base part of me reacting to the implicit danger.

He’s so much bigger than me. He’s struggling to stay present. The last time he lost it, I almost died.

But I stay still, waiting. Wanting, even if I know that’s the worst thing I could do. He has so much to prove to me before I can fully trust him.

Could this be the start, though? He treated me with such care two nights ago. And because we’re stuck in this silent trap, I couldn’t thank him, not with anything besides a pat on the arm.

His lips crash down on mine, less of a kiss than an attack of lips and tongue. And I open to him, needing to take some of his suffering into me, pressing my palms against his back to pull him closer, some foreign urge to literally climb him making me desperate.

The broken parts of me revel in his violence. The coppery taste of blood on my tongue has me wanting more—his, mine, I don’t even care.

He groans, his hands leaving my face and instead gripping my waist and hiking me onto the bathroom counter, and even in his hazy state, he arranges us so his back is to the camera, keeping whoever’s watching from seeing that things aren’t going quite the way they’d have hoped.

My hands scramble behind me to keep me upright as he attacks again, one arm banded around my waist, tipping me back, the other tweaking my nipple through the wet silk. I gasp into his mouth, and he pulls away, silently checking in.

And I want to smile. To celebrate. To scream ‘yes,’ and let the wall between us down completely. Instead, I hold his gaze and give him a nod.

His teeth dig into my neck, re-marking the spot Walker left, and I yelp, pushing against him, fighting him while feeling the strength of his chest under my scrabbling nails.

His arms keep me half reclined on the counter, his mouth savoring my skin, his hardness bobbing against the inside of my thigh.

And my mouth waters with the feel of it.

God, I want so much more from this man than we’re able to give to each other.

I want to savor him, to have him savor me. I want to fight him, fuck him, have every damn barrier between us collapse.

But now’s not the time. Here’s not the place.

Tears gather in my eyes as he laps at my collarbone, one hand releasing me, offsetting my balance.

I flail, a half-hearted slap landing against his cheek by accident, and his eyes light up, more present than they’ve been all night.

Then his lips are on mine, the blood I’m tasting his, and he tugs the slip out from under me, the marble cool against my bare skin.

With one last heavy glance, he gives himself a few solid strokes, then with a grunt, lunges toward me, once again seating himself against me instead of inside of me. I play my part, whimpering, pushing against his shoulders, when all I want is to pull him closer, to shift and catch him inside me.

To hold him together in any way I can.

We continue this dance of push and pull, of subterfuge and desire. And with a shuttered groan he comes against me, my orgasm hovering just out of reach. He stares at me, then drops his head on my shoulder, his wet hair pressed against the side of my cheek. “Sorry. I can’t, fuck I wanted you to—”

I tuck my head down, my forehead on his shoulder. “I know. This isn’t about my pleasure. It’s about our freedom.”

“We’re getting locked in a cage, here, Crash.”

“Then we pick the lock. We build ourselves bolt cutters. We do what we need to do to make it out of here, free and clear.”

Our whispers cease, our panting breaths loud in the small space. And when he pulls back, I can’t tell if he believes my whispered promises.

Or if it’s just the start of another broken dream.

The weeks between Trevor’s wedding and the start of school pass with aching slowness.

Some days I’m locked in the blue room by myself.

Some days, Trips gets locked in there with me and we spend our non-fake-sex time telling stories of our pasts and challenging each other at push-ups or sit-ups.

Safe things that somehow build a closeness I’ve never felt with him.

A few times we’re let out to go for a swim in the pool, or out for a loop of the lake on his father’s yacht. Sunday dinner becomes a necessary torture. And a few other times I’m called to nod along with the wedding planner Trips’ father got for us. New Year’s Eve. The point of no return.

The promised prenup isn’t brought up again. We broke the deal, so we lost the reward. Deals are irrevocable for the Westerhouse family. And I revoked.

Every few days, Trips and I go through the motions of fake fucking, and each time, I mourn the false closeness while I revel in the contact.

My head is such a mess that it’s hard to know what to feel when we’re pressed together, so close, but still separate, fighting even as we work together to keep his father from finding out that we aren’t doing what he asked.

I shudder to think about the consequences of our insubordination.

Trips hasn’t been called out to do any more jobs, but late at night, he whispered to me, telling me that was the first time he’d killed. And he’s worried about the number of deaths he’ll have on his hands by the time we get out of this.

Mattie’s school starts before ours, so she’s out of the house.

I’ve been allowed to hang out with her a few times, and each time, I wonder how she survives here.

Trips told me she hadn’t had the same physical abuse as he had—that his stepmom somehow bought safety for the two of them.

But she still lives under the weight of her father, of a household pregnant with violence and control.

The worst days, though, were after Trevor got back from his honeymoon.

I ran into him one morning when I was allowed out for lunch on the patio, and the way he looked at me, like he could see through the designer sundress I was wearing to my skin underneath, like he knew a secret and he wouldn’t share it until the worst possible moment, had me shivering in the August heat.

“Sister,” he said, his politician’s grin in place.

“Trevor,” I’d said, trying to be polite.

But when his hand barely brushed my hip as I passed him, I knew he was going to be a problem. The kind I couldn’t afford to have right now.

And when it happened again a few days later, it was certain. Trevor was getting added to my list.