Page 8 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Dominic

“What can I do for you, Mr. Kael?”

My eyes track Dr. Denton as he steps into the cold, sanitized examination room. His voice is clipped and a little too formal, watching me like I’m a predator crossing his path, and he needs to calculate every careful step during our encounter.

An encounter he isn’t sure he’ll survive.

He’s tense, like my presence in his stark white 24-hour clinic is a bad omen.

I don’t move from where I’m leaning against the wall, arms crossed over my chest, my breath deep and even.

His fear is obvious as his eyes flicker between me and the door, like he’s trying to determine how long it will take him to reach it if I decide to eat him alive, and he needs to run from me.

Why do they always look like they want to run? Don’t people know that predators are hard-wired to chase moving prey?

I don’t say anything in response to his question, merely tilting my head slightly to regard him with subtle amusement etched into my face. It’s a dumb question, considering the blood streaking down the side of my face from a gash above my eye.

"Ah. Got yourself a n-nice little f-facial laceration.” He stammers over his words, his hands fussing with a worn clipboard he’s gripping like it might shield him. A clipboard he quickly sets aside, since we both know he won’t be needing it.

My brothers and I use him for a reason. He accepts cash, asks no questions, makes no records, and keeps his mouth shut about what he sees and hears. Mostly.

He’s a chatty motherfucker, a trait I don’t find endearing.

Although his fear brings with it a sweet little surge of pleasure, unfurling along my spine, I don’t want to waste my time. I want this done as quickly as possible.

Tonight was exhausting for too many reasons to count, and I’m ready to go home and crash.

Reaching behind me, I pull a stack of cash from my pocket and take a step towards him with my arm outstretched. He flinches, taking a step away from me, and a sick fucking grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

“Come on, Doc. You know better than to act like prey in front of men like me.”

He recoils like I struck him. I rarely speak more than a few words whenever I stop by. That may have been the longest sentence I’ve ever spoken to him in all the years I’ve paid him for his services.

He eyes the stack of cash in my hand like it’s a bomb.

I can see his thought process written all over his anxious face: he’s wondering if this is worth all the money I pay in exchange for his medical skills.

If it’s worth the fear for his life he experiences every time I enter his black market clinic in the dead of night.

Money is the greatest motivator for most men. I stare at his throat as he swallows hard, then reaches out to take the cash from me .

I hold onto it for longer than necessary, just to watch as the pulse in his neck skips and races like a terrified rabbit caught in a trap.

Once I release him, he clears his throat and turns away from me. But only half way, like he’s too afraid to actually expose his back to me. He flips through the stack of cash, counting it roughly, before placing it inside the top drawer of his desk.

By the time he faces me again, I'm already sitting on the vinyl-padded examination table.

He takes a deep breath as he walks back over to me, snapping on a pair of sterile, white gloves. “That’s a nasty gash.” He leans in, examining the torn flesh of my eyebrow.

Another rivulet of blood snakes down the side of my face as his fingers poke and prod the laceration with gentle precision. His other hand is quick to grab a thick piece of gauze and press it just below my brow to shield my eye.

“I know you usually decline local anesthetic, but I highly suggest it for today. I will need to layer in the dissolving sutures to make sure this heals faster.”

When I nod, he turns away from me to prep the tray of tools he’ll need to treat me.

Although I don’t care if it scars, or hurts, I do want it to heal properly before the next time I step into Ryker’s illegal fighting cage. I’m not on the roster for the near future, but that can change quickly when everything in Ryker’s notorious club, Blood Siphon, tends to happen last minute .

I close the eye he is working above as he starts flushing the wound with saline solution, a white towel catching the red-tinged liquid.

I pull out my phone and check my messages, having felt it vibrate several times in my pocket since I’ve been here.

GHOST

I'm disowning these two fuckers.

They're in your kitchen arguing about who gets to take Hunter out.

I'm two seconds away from knocking them both the fuck out and taking him out myself.

I’m relieved to hear that Torin is back to his normal self—not that any of us would be considered normal by any stretch of the word.

It’s 4:30 in the morning, and I’m actually surprised they haven’t passed out on my couch, the rerun of tonight’s hockey game playing quietly in the background, considering everything that went down tonight.

A small sound of amusement slips out of me as I read Ghost’s text message, and the noise startles Dr. Denton.

I ignore him, but he’s watching me warily like I might lash out and tear out his throat while he’s standing so close to me .

It’s a tempting idea. I briefly fantasize about the way his blood would fill my mouth, and spill across my face, hot and thick.

Heat settles at the base of my spine, and I shift my one-eyed gaze to his.

He's remembered he’s a doctor and I’m technically a patient, and snapped out of the fear spiral that pulled him under. He steps away and walks over to his desk, drawing up the local anesthetic he needs to continue patching me up.

I take the opportunity to respond to the messages.

ME

Just take him and walk out. They'll follow.

Don't leave Torin alone tonight. Wait until I'm back.

His response is immediate.

GHOST

You're stuck with us, brother. We're crashing on this comfy fucking couch tonight.

I smile at that, because I can see it now. A scene that happens at least twice a week, where I walk in and find the three of them sleeping in a pile just like we used to do when we were kids.

Grown fucking men. Men who kill for money, men who fight for sport—snuggling like a pack of mean little puppies with sharp teeth.

I chuckle at the mental image and tuck my phone back into my pocket just as Dr. Denton returns, syringe in hand. He holds it up in front of me, politely asking for consent. I nod, and it’s enough to set him back to task.

After a few minutes, he taps my brow and asks me if I can feel it. I shake my head, and he gets to work stitching my face.

I let my mind drift again, replaying the argument I know is still happening in my kitchen over who gets to take my German Shepherd for a walk.

Hunter’s been mine for five years now, and other than my foster brothers, he’s my best friend. He’s smart as hell, loyal, and the best running partner I’ve ever had.

I bought him as a puppy from a breeder that specializes in producing working dogs, back when I got interested in protection sports after seeing some competition videos online.

I spent three years training him, bonding with him, and watching him turn into the best fucking dog in the world. Calm, steady, and goofy enough to make my brothers laugh even on their darkest days.

He guards my house, and doubles as a furry therapist for all four of us.

Best investment I’ve ever made .

And my brothers love him just as much as I do. It didn’t matter how much we were neglected and abused; that never stopped us from building this family from the ground up. A family each one of us would die for. Hunter included.

Ryker once threatened to break down my front door just to take Hunter for a walk, because apparently three hours alone is “inhumane” for my well-loved dog.

Giving them all keys to my place made sense. We use my enormous in-home gym and sparring ring like it’s our own personal sanctuary.

Sometimes I come home and find one or three of them working out in the basement. More often than not, I find all three of them on my oversized sectional, binge-watching horror movies like they have nothing better to do with their time than be together.

We love each other, and we learned from an early age that being together means safety. Plus, Hunter loves having them around for company.

“All done,” Dr. Denton announces, snapping me back to the here and now. He wipes away the mess of blood with steady hands, then presses a butterfly bandage across the fresh stitches.

“I’ll grab you a week’s worth of antibiotics,” he adds, voice just a touch too casual. “In case it gets infected while you’re out doing… whatever it is you do.”

Brave motherfucker, talking to me like that.

For a moment, I imagine grabbing the scissors from the suture tray and plunging them into his jugular. If I wanted to kill him, there is nothing he could do to stop me. I’d wear his blood like a second skin—warm and arterial, painting me red.

And I want it. The ache to kill is a constant buzz of hunger that lives under my skin, a monstrosity that derives immense pleasure from fear, from the fight a victim gives me, and from taking someone’s life when they desperately want to live.

He catches his mistake, although far too late, stuttering incoherently. The words tumble from his lips like verbal vomit. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lifts both hands in a placating gesture as my gaze narrows on him. “I’m sorry, Dominic. I’m—I’m sorry, Mr. Kael.”

I stare at him, silent and still, letting him suffer under the pressure of my attention, before I lift a brow in amusement.

He backs away, and I track the movement as he leaves the room and heads into the pharmacy tucked behind the clinic.

There are a lot of people that would miss him if I took his life tonight, but that’s not what stops me. His usefulness is the only thing that does.

Shaking off the red-stained daydream, I glance over at the clock on the wall just as I hear a chime ring out from the front of the clinic.