Page 61 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

F ireworks sparkle over the lake as the boat turns back toward the mansion.

Trips and I mostly stayed away from his father’s guests, content just to be near each other.

One more day of this farce and I won’t have to worry about an unplanned pregnancy.

Tomorrow I’ll get to see my other guys. We’ll be back at school; I’ll have access to a computer and have a chance to check in and see how things are moving on their end.

One more day.

Trevor has been eyeing me all afternoon, which has Trips gripping the rail like it’s the only thing keeping him from tearing his brother to pieces.

“You know I could take him if I needed to,” I whisper, running my hand over the tight muscles of his arm.

“I know that. It’s just when he looks like that, there’s a reason. He’s planning something, but he’s shit with secrets.”

I glance up at the man in question. He winks. I shudder. “Remind me why your dad made him the golden child?”

“Because my brother can meet with his sketchy-ass business partners without brutally murdering them?”

Falk covers a laugh with a cough.

“Touché,” I mutter.

Apparently, we’re joking about killing people now. Honestly, it’s probably the best coping mechanism, at least while we’re stuck in this mess.

“Ah, here’s the happy couple.” The cheerfulness of Trips’ dad’s voice adds a second shudder to my first, but I turn with a demure smile glued to my face, my hands folded in front of me.

He marches up, wrapping an arm around each of us, and it takes everything I have not to break his fingers like chubby twigs.

“You know, I was just telling your mother that we should do something special for you kids before you’re back at school tomorrow.

And do you know what she said?” He turns to a group of men and women who followed him, their smiles sloppy as they look between us.

Six hours of straight drinking will do that.

“No, sir,” Trips says, answering what might have been a rhetorical question.

“She said young folks like you could use a little privacy, if you know what I mean.”

The leader and the sycophants all chortle, and if Trips’ dad didn’t have such a tight grip on my shoulder, I’d consider throwing myself overboard.

Luckily, Trips’ dad likes to hear his own voice.

“So, I thought that you two could have the boat for the night. Once we dock, it’s all yours.

The stateroom is lovely.” He slaps Trips’ back, hard, knowing that Trips can’t fight back in front of all these people without serious consequences.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he says, his voice teasing, but his eyes hard as he glances at me.

Then he takes his entourage away, leaving Trips and me to exchange a confused look.

Is this a reward? A punishment? Is he drunk and not thinking things through?

Falk steps forward between the two of us. “The room doesn’t lock.”

That statement, said blandly in my ear, is simple, but the look Falk gives me is anything but. He wants me to run. Me. Not Trips.

Trips said that Falk would try to help in whatever way he could, within the constraints of his own leash. This is him helping. I pat him on the arm, trying to convey that I understood the message, but I’m not taking the chance.

I don’t know if he understands.

The boat bumps against the slip, and the guests stumble back to dry land, Trips and I staying on the deck for as long as reasonable.

Then we go below deck, Trips’ head brushing the ceiling, the whole set-up leaving him looking like a giant that crawled into a dollhouse.

Something about the small space brings me back to the RV, and as I step into the bedroom, it feels homey.

Although, Trips never slept in the RV bed with me.

He either passed out in a chair, or later, in his hammock.

The door closes, and then it’s just the two of us.

Glancing around, I don’t see a camera, but I know there must be one. There’s no way we’re not being watched.

Poor Falk is probably stuck in the hallway listening to us.

I debate how we should go about this, without knowing where the camera is. I tap the floor with my shoe, then tug on the skirt of my dress. Trips cracks his knuckles like we’re getting ready to fight. We’re good to go.

I take a second to wonder how much this is fucking up my desire, this chase and tackle that we keep playing. Because as it turns out, I like it. I like fighting and then fucking. Even if the fucking isn’t real.

There’s something freeing about letting out the vicious part of me that wants to dig its nails into flesh and isn’t picky about motivations.

Trips bounds forward, and I scramble back, diving over the bed and ending up where he started, my heart already in my throat. “You’re getting slow,” he says, waiting to see which way I’ll go.

“They’re not letting me out to run.”

He stalks forward, angling himself between me and the bed.

I debate going for the door, but I know Falk is there.

Unless he’s giving me a chance to escape?

Trips lunges, and I take a chance, scrambling to the door.

He tackles me right as I step through it, cushioning my fall with a deft tug, his arm wrapping around my waist and slamming into the deck before me.

Then we go through the motions of our fight, me flailing without doing much damage while he pins me to the ground.

Falk is not in the hallway. I guessed right. He’s an honest man.

Trips strips off my underwear, then pins my ankles with his, my wrists caught in one of his hands.

With the other, he lines himself up under my skirt.

Rage and sadness drip from him, and I tug at my arms, trying to get him to look at me, to show him we’re doing this together.

But he doesn’t look up. And after a pause, we’re sliding together, my faked yelp and his grunt muted by the soft shush of the waves against the hull.

He rocks against me, staring at my stomach, not at me, and I miss the connection.

I need to feel close to him, even as all of this plays out like a well-orchestrated sex scene in a movie. But he doesn’t look at me. He won’t.

It’s like he’s scared of what he’ll see if he does.

He grinds against me, dragging my arms straight but leaving his other hand pressed to my chest, locking me against the floor.

We stay like this, only our breaths and the sloppy sound of my pussy begging for a visitor filling the space.

A footfall has me twisting to see who’s there, terrified of what Falk will think of this. Does he believe Trips is irredeemable?

But instead of Falk, the door to another bunk opens, and Trevor steps through. I tug at my arms, whispering Trips’ name, but he’s caught in some part of his mind where he can’t hear me. Like the guilt is so loud my whispers can’t be heard over it.

And before I can get Trips to notice what’s changed, Trevor is here. He crouches beside me, and with a smirk, he flips up my skirt.

I scream, suddenly not in control of myself, as Trevor’s eyes get big, a delighted grin taking over his face.

Trips jolts out of whatever trance he was in, and tackles Trevor to the floor, but it’s too late.

His brother laughs as Trips punches him, and I scramble back, Falk reappearing and dragging Trips off his brother, his arms zip-tied behind him in a desperate struggle.

Still, he bucks and lunges, trying to get to his brother, and I can’t breathe.

Tears pool in my eyes as Trevor hauls himself to sitting, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve.

“Little sister, you look pretty in pigtails, but you’re going to look even better as a bruised grape when Father finds out what you two are up to.”

The allusion to pigtails leaves me confused, but my stomach swoops, my body somehow knowing Trevor is threatening me, even if I don’t know with what.

Falk slams Trips against the wall, forcing him still with his body, looking at me for an explanation.

“I—”

Trevor stumbles to his feet, his phone in hand. “This is going to be delicious.”

Then I’m moving, sprinting toward Trevor, diving at him, yanking his phone from his hand, then rolling, sprinting up the stairs. He grabs me from behind, and I throw his phone as hard as possible, the soft ‘plop’ telling me it made it overboard.

But he keeps laughing, dragging me back down the stairs. “You think that’s going to change the outcome here, sister? You’ve just pissed me off, not saved your lying ass.”

“Let go,” I shout, knowing no one is going to save me, but trying anyway. I’m slammed against the wall, Trevor’s hand sliding under my skirt as I kick backwards, getting him in the knee.

But he was raised by the same horror as Trips, so the pain doesn’t stop him from slamming two fingers into me as I scream and thrash. “Father said you liked to share. I thought I might offer to help tonight. Now I know I’m the only dick in this pussy, which sounds like quite the treat.”

He’s wrenched back from me, giving me enough space to spin and deck him in the nose, blood spurting, adding to the mess Trips already made of his face.

Trevor gets trussed up with zip-ties too, shoved into one bunk while Trips slams himself against the door of another, Falk quickly wrapping the two handles together with his belt, so that neither can open inward.

I’m panting, blood on my knuckles reminding me of the blood on the sword, and I slump down the wall, my brain unable to keep me both present and upright.

Falk squats down in front of me with a quick glance at the ceiling by the stairs to indicate where there’s a camera.

He says nothing, he just waits for me to explain, the thuds and yells from the two Westerhouse brothers chaotic and overwhelming.

But I can’t speak, the feeling of Trevor’s fingers inside of me like sandpaper, cutting and wrong.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t believe Smith, but he was right. You’ve got some fight in you, don’t you?”

I blink, not trusting my voice. Only I know what I need. “Can I see Trips?” I whisper.

“Not until I know you’re safe.”

“I’m safe with him.”

He doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. I glance at the camera, and then back at him. He leans close, and I duck my chin so my lips can’t be seen. “We’ve been faking. Trevor just caught us. Trips is safe for me. He always has been.”

Tension tightens the guard’s shoulders, and he leans back, his face grim. “That’s not good.”

No. It isn’t.

He looks at the room with Trevor in it, the door no longer shaking with his attempts to get out.

Trips, meanwhile, is still working on his door, and a cracking noise says he’ll be with me soon whether or not Falk brings me to him.

He leans forward. “Representative Westerhouse will go to his father. There’s nothing either of us can do to stop him.”

“I know.”

He closes his eyes. “You should have stayed gone.”

“The guys all have families here that they’re close to. I couldn’t do that to them.”

His face grows stern. “If those boys love you as much as you love them, they shouldn’t have listened to you.

This isn’t safe for you.” He stands nearby, watching me get to my feet, somehow understanding that the last thing I want right now is to be touched by a stranger, and leads me to Trips a second before the wood splinters, a shard cutting my arm.

A stripe of blood wells, and I focus on that as Falk gets me into the room with Trips. His chest becomes my pillow as I lean against him, wishing he could pull me close.

Because this just got a whole lot worse. And a hug, as small as it is, would help.

But he can’t. His arms are locked behind him, his heart thundering against my cheek. So instead, he drops his chin on top of my head, and murmurs apologies and promises that we both know he can’t keep, as we wait for our fate to be decided.