Page 143 of Revenge Saints

Because no means no. It always will, but fuck, it cuts. She didn’t say it to Ryker. To Max or Dante. She said it to me.

I push the thought down, shove it deep where I keep all the other shit I don’t deal with, and force myself to look up.

Ryker’s head snaps back.

“Fuck, Aspen!” he chokes out, his hips slamming forward one last time as he comes hard inside her. His entire body locks, face contorted, muscles jerking. He pulls out slow, cock still twitching.

She gasps, overwhelmed.

Then Max thrusts up hard, hands gripping her thighs.

“Sweetheart,” he groans, “I’m, fuck—”

She moans again, and Max groans louder as he spills into her, his head falling back against the couch, chest rising in jagged, frantic breaths.

She collapses forward, caught between them, trembling, drenched in sweat and cum, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

She’s wrecked, they’re spent, and I’m still fucking hard.

I tuck myself back into my jeans, saying nothing. No one notices. No one sees the way my fingers curl into fists, how my jaw grinds as I walk toward the door without looking back.

The air bites at my skin, colder than I expected. Maybe we’re still in spring. Hell, every day’s the same now, sky like ash, nights too long. I’ve stopped counting the months.

The cold helps, though. It helps mute the edge and numbs the ache in my jaw from clenching too hard, my chest from whatever the fuck is curled up inside it.

The water bucket’s full. Dante must’ve filled it earlier.

I strip and open the tap on the makeshift rig. It’s one of those old camping setups. A rusted tin barrel hanging from a hook, slow-drip nozzle barely wide enough to piss out more than a trickle.

The cold water hits my shoulders, and I suck in a breath.

Fuck.

We had real plumbing. Warm water. Pressure.

We had a home.

Now we’ve got this shit.

I close my eyes and let it pour. Let it freeze me. Let it dull the burn between my legs, the soreness in my balls from holding back all fucking day.

Eventually, my cock stops pulsing, but the ache doesn’t leave, not really.

I shut off the tap, grab the pair of sweatpants I washed yesterday—at least they’re dry—and take another breath.

Then something snaps against my back, and I flinch. Turning, I see a small rock rolling next to my feet; another one hits my leg.

“What the fuck,”

I look, and she’s standing there.

Aspen.

Long shirt hanging off her frame, damp hair sticking to her cheeks, bare legs flashing beneath the hem, she is dripping water again.

She bites her bottom lip.

“Your turn, Reaper,” she grins and then bolts.