Page 30 of Sinful Mafia Santa

There’s a crash, and I realize he must have thrown one of the benches against a wall of lockers. There’s a pounding like someone’s trying to open the gates of hell; a fist on metal, over and over again, hard enough to bruise, to break bones. There’s a clatter I can’t begin to parse and then that bellowing again, half shout, half moan, like a monster is dying.

And then, silence.

My pulse is loud in my ears, and my breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My fingertips tingle, and I realize I’m getting dizzy, so I sink onto the bench.

This is where Logan sat during games. Gage, too. This iswhere they watched their teammates on the ice, where they taunted their enemies. This is where they joked and spit and swore. Where they became brothers.

And then it ended—just likethat.

I close my eyes, and I’m back on Beach Avenue.

Logan left for the rink fifteen minutes ago, giving himself extra time in case the Christmas Eve traffic is bad. Gage is running late because I hid his car keys. I tell him I’ll give them back after he makes me come three times.

He doesn’t throw me over his shoulder and drag me to his room. He doesn’t gag me either. We’re alone in the house. No one can hear.

He just sits on the sagging couch, knees spread wide, and he drags me onto his lap. He flips my skirt over my arse and yanks my knickers down to my knees. His strokes are hard and fast. He promises twenty, but he only gets to twelve before he slips three fingers between my soaked folds.

I scream his name as I come around his hand and he laughs, saying “That’s one.” I’m writhing on his lap, my red arse high in the air as I beg-not-beg him to spare me my last eight strokes, when the front door slams back on its hinges.

Logan’s come back for the phone he forgot on the coffee table.

My brother yanks my arm hard enough to make me yelp, throwing me halfway across the room. Gage is on his feet before I steady myself against the wall. I pull up my knickers and try to straighten my skirt. “Easy, bruh,” Gage says, holding his hands out from his sides.

The room smells like sex.

“What thefuckare you doing to my sister?” Logan hollers.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“Shut up, Aeryn.” Logan circles for an opening, not taking his eyes off Gage.

“Don’t tell her to shut up,” Gage says.

“She’s my sister, gobshite. I can tell her anything I want.”

“Logan,” I say, trying to get the truth out before this gets any worse. “It’s okay. I?—”

Logan cuts me off by snarling at Gage. “She’s not one of your whores, shitehawk. She’s a goddamn Reardon.”

My cheeks flush with anger. All my life, my brothers have treated me like I’m their property. Reardon this. Reardon that. But I’m my own feckin’ person.

I grab Logan’s arm to make him pay attention to me. “I consented, arsehole. I wanted him to do it.”

My brother glares at me with disgust. “Yeah, sure. You wanted him to spank you raw.”

I nod. It’s mortifying to admit the truth, but I’ll do it to keep the two of them from fighting. I send a pleading glance to Gage, praying he’ll let me make this right. “I did.”

“Holy Christ…” Logan whirls back to Gage. “How long have you been beating my sister?”

I shout before Gage can answer. “It isn’tbeating.”

Logan snorts. “Fine.” His tone twists into something mocking, something that sounds insanely polite. “Let’s start with this, then. Excuse me, Mr. Dry Shite. How long have you been fucking my little sister?”

Gage swings first. I scream as Logan blocks his fist with a forearm. Before either of them can throw another punch, I shout, “Since Thanksgiving! We’ve been seeing each other since Thanksgiving! I didn’t want you to find out this way. We were going to tell you before New Year’s, before I head back to school. I promise.”

Logan is staring at me like I just told him we murder babies in the kitchen. “Where the fuck have you been staying?”

I look around wildly. “Here,” I say. Then, like I owe him an explanation: “You were on your road trip for two weeks.”