All Chapters of Deadly Game With My Husband's Brothers : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

~~PEYTON~~I stand here, rigid, rooted to the ground. The sound of the retreating car tires grinding gravel is the only proof that Esme was ever here, but the acid still boils my skin. My hands are curled into fists, white-knuckled.That woman. That bitch just walks away, leaving devastation in her wake—both eighteen years ago and right now.She had always blamed Dad for our money problems. It started when he lost his job and his license because of some stupid accident—I can't even remember.For us, it’s a grenade. His confidence, our meager savings, everything evaporated. Since that day, our life has drained away like dirty water down a sewer grate.Esme doesn’t help. She can’t be supportive; she’s always nagging him, reminding him that he’s failing, that our house is dingy, our clothes are cheap, and our future is nonexistent.The constant drip of her discontent eventually becomes a flood. It goes on for what feels like forever, hitting me over every little thing, pushing me to stea

~~PEYTON~~"But I'm still your mother," Esme says, holding her head high even though her eyes are darting everywhere. "And I don't need to justify myself to anyone.""You have a daughter. Esme, when were you gonna tell me?" Arlo cuts in. I notice the tension in his face, how he's trying hard not to lose his temper.Even Quinn is stunned, scoffing in disbelief, eyes darting between Esme and me as if checking for the resemblance. But, of course, I'm my father's daughter; we don't look too alike, except for the brunette hair, which I've taken care of. Esme takes a sharp breath. "I didn't tell you because… I… I was too ashamed to bring it up."Rage, hot and blinding, slams into me at that word.Ashamed? That's a flat lie. And the way she says it so quietly makes it feel like she really means it, like she has any remorse.I quickly suppress the heat, shrugging off her fake guilt. Esme doesn't feel shame. She is incapable of feeling guilty about anything she has done. This is just damage c

~~RAPHAEL~~The steam is so thick I can barely see the far wall of the bathroom. It clings to my skin, heavy and damp, but the punishing heat of the water is the only thing currently cutting through the ache in my bones.It’s been a hell of a week—back-to-back meetings, crisis management, and the kind of mental gymnastics that make my head throb.I lean my head back against the tub, closing my eyes.Even here, in the silence, her voice is the only thing echoing in my skull.Grumpy. It's a sound that makes me start laughing for no reason.She sounded like she wanted to fight the entire world and then sleep for a century. It’s a mood I know well, but it leaves a tightness in my chest.I hate when I can't be there to actually pull her into my arms and let her—Click.My eyes snap open.I whip my head to the door.There’s the sound of the door handle, then this controlled rhythm of footsteps on the tile.I frown, sitting up slowly as the water ripples around my chest. We have security, an

~~PEYTON~~Shit, I fell asleep.That wasn't the plan. I was supposed to go eight more rounds, get eight more aggressive orgasms until I faint and Raphael goes numb so he doesn't have to go to the office today.But my fucking body quit on me. That was the goal though—to be so physically ruined that I can't think, can't feel, can't remember a single thing about the mess my life has become.But it happens too fast.I’m staring at the ceiling of Raphael’s bedroom, the morning light of dawn filtering through the curtains.My body feels heavy, like it’s made of lead. There’s a dull ache between my thighs and a strange, lingering tightness in my stomach that makes me want to curl into a ball.I’ve never felt this drained after a session, not even with the two of them working in tandem.I try to shift, but I’m pinned. To my left, Raphael is there, his arm draped possessively over my waist even in sleep like he's trying to glue himself to me.This cuteness is becoming something else.And to my

~~PEYTON~~“What's today's date?” I ask, twirling my fork edge deep in my eggs, rubbing my chin, and staring at the ceiling.“Are… you okay, Peyton?” Axel asks, looking at me like I'd just escaped the psychiatric ward.“Does asking today's date make me mad? I'm perfectly fine. Just answer the damn question,” I snap, my heart doing a nervous tap-dance against my ribs.“It’s the 13th,” Raphael answers cautiously. He’s stopped eating, his focus entirely on me. “December 13th. Why?”The 13th.I do the math in my head, my eyes still fixed on the white ceiling.“My period is late,” I drawl, narrowing my eyes. It's not just ‘stress-late,’ but ‘holy-shit-I’m-in-trouble’ late.“Peyton,” Axel mutters, eyeing me cautiously.I drop the fork.“Holy shit.”I slam my hands on the table, shooting up from my seat.“Holy motherfucking Christ. I might be pregnant!”Raphael blinks. “What?”Axel chuckles. “Say that again.”I whip my head around to see their faces. They might think they look surprised, but