บททั้งหมดของ Deadly Game With My Husband's Brothers : บทที่ 71 - บทที่ 80

~~AXEL~~I don't know how long we sat there. An hour? Two? The sound of the life support machines and the murmur of nurses were the only soundtrack to our silence.I wonder what Raphael is thinking. Is he replaying the accident? Or is he just counting his money, already planning his next casino venture, having shed the trauma through violence earlier today?And for the first time in years, I want to apologize. But the words "I'm" can't be formed on my tongue.The silence finally shatters when the door to Room 412 clicks open. A young nurse steps out, quickly scanning the hallway."Mr. Thorne?"We both shift fast."The sedative is wearing off. She's conscious, and she's panicking. The doctor says you need to come in one at a time, just for a moment."Before the nurse finishes the sentence, I'm out of my chair, sprinting toward the door, the adrenaline hitting me like a shot of ice water.I enter and I see her—half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. She’s struggling weakly against the soft

WARNING! INTENTIONAL VIOLENCE AHEAD.~~RAPHAEL~~I’m sitting on my couch, rapidly drumming my fingers against the armrest. It’s the only noise in the apartment. I like my place quiet. It helps me think, helps me control my rage, and helps me calculate the odds of my actions. And right now, the odds of me losing my temper are hovering around ninety-nine percent.The security chime dings, and a second later, the door swings open.In walks Quinn.She’s smiling, of course. She’s always smiling that smile. It’s the one that makes her look like a saint, like the kind of girl who bakes cookies for orphans and rescues kittens from trees. It’s sweet, innocent, and about as authentic as a three-dollar bill. It’s a fabrication, just like the designer label on her knock-off purse.She beelines straight for me, hips swaying, eyes bright. She reaches the couch and moves to sit on my lap, her fingers already reaching out to trace patterns on my chest—her usual "distract and conquer" move.The kind

~~PEYTON~~It's 2:47 PM, and I'm standing in front of Dad's place, a duffel bag in my hand. It’s not really luggage—just the single, heavy bag that holds everything I managed to grab before I vanished. The late afternoon sun makes the ivy crawling up the brick exterior look deceptively peaceful.I risk a glance down the quiet street, half-expecting to see one of their black sedans. My heart is drumming against my ribs as anxiety thrums through me.I knock again. Please be home. Please.I hear footsteps inside—light, measured. Then the door opens, and the light from the foyer spills out, framing her perfectly.It’s Olivia.Her hair is pulled back, her eyes are wide, and she holds a hand to her chest, as if she were expecting a delivery, not a ghost.“You.” She grimaces as if she tastes salt. “What do you want?”“Came to see my dad. Do you have a problem with that?” I spit, my face flat, not giving her the impression that she's in any way my problem. She's just a fly I squash if she mis

~~PEYTON~~So here we are, the place around the corner that "doesn't taste like burnt rubber."It’s actually nice. Not "Thorne Tower penthouse" nice, but real nice. The air smells like roasted beans and rain. It’s cozy. It’s safe. I sit with my back to the wall, facing the door. Old habits don't die just because I moved zip codes.Jason weaves through the crowded room, balancing two oversized mugs and a plate of biscotti. He’s wearing a flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and some cool-looking jeans. He looks like a catalog model for "Hometown Boy Next Door."He sets the mugs down with a clatter, splashing a little foam onto the table."Oops," he grins, sliding into the chair opposite me. "Safety hazard. My bad."If this were Raphael, he would have set the cup down with surgical precision, probably on a coaster he materialized out of thin air. If this were Axel, he would have bought the coffee shop just so we didn't have to wait in line.Jesus. Peyton, what the hell?Stop already.

~~PEYTON~~I almost choke, my hands flying up to grip his thighs, the sheer reality of it overwhelming my senses. I try to breathe, but he fills everything. The pleasure spikes into something sharp and uncontrollable.He humps into me, fisting my hair, pulling me up slightly as he groans.He snaps his hips forward, one, two, three times, stealing the last of my air, making tears prick at the corners of my eyes.I whimper, the sound trapped, my hands fluttering uselessly against his thighs as he takes everything.Then, just as black spots dance in my vision, he pulls back.I gasp, the air rushing into my lungs burning like ice, coughing and sputtering, saliva trailing from my lips. But he doesn't give me a second to recover. He doesn't offer comfort.His large hands clamp onto my waist, and with effortless, terrifying power, he flips me over onto my stomach like I weigh nothing.My face presses into the sheets, my ass high in the air, exposed and vulnerable.I feel the blunt, heavy hea