Page 62 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

“Meet me at the mansion right now.”

The call ends abruptly, leaving me with nothing but the dial tone and a sinking feeling in my gut. Noah’s tone wasn’t what I expected—not agreement, not even curiosity. Something else. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and press down on the accelerator, the campus blurring around me as I head toward the outskirts of town.

The drive passes in a haze of conflicting thoughts. Rhea’s face keeps flashing before my eyes—her defiance as she pushed me away, the fire in her eyes when she declared she’d never be mine. The memory makes my fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

She doesn’t understand yet. She thinks she has a choice in this. She thinks she can just walk away, that she can deny the pull between us, the inevitability of what we are. The thought makes a dry laugh escape my throat, bitter and sharp.

Mine. She is mine. And she’ll learn that one way or another.

The rural roads narrow as I approach the mansion, trees closing in on either side, branches creating a canopy that darkens the interior of my car. The setting sun filters through in patches, creating a strobe-like effect that matches the pulsing in my head.

The mansion appears ahead, a looming structure of stone and dark wood, its windows like watchful eyes as I pull up the long gravel driveway. Already, I can see figures moving in the shadows of the porch—silent, waiting. The sight should be comforting—these are my brothers, after all—but somethingfeels off. The air is charged with a tension that makes my skin prickle.

I park and step out of the car, the crunch of gravel under my shoes seeming overly loud in the silence. No one calls out a greeting. No one moves to meet me. They just... watch.

The first warning sign comes as I mount the steps. Masks. They’re all wearing their masks—the black, featureless coverings that transform them from college students to Reapers. We don’t wear those unless it’s official business, or...

Shit.

The realization hits a second too late. Hands grab me from behind, powerful and unrelenting, yanking me through the doorway with enough force to make my teeth clack together. I struggle instinctively, my body twisting against their grip, but there are too many of them—four, maybe five sets of hands restraining me, dragging me further into the mansion.

“What the fuck?” I spit out, straining against their hold. My heart hammers against my ribs, a mix of rage and confusion flooding my system. “Get the fuck off me!”

No one responds. No one even acknowledges that I’ve spoken. They just keep moving, dragging me down the hallway, past the ornate staircase and toward the hidden door that leads to the basement.

The chambers.

Ice floods my veins at the realization. The chambers are reserved for two things: initiation and punishment. And I’m well past initiation.

The door to the basement creaks open, and they shove me through, my feet stumbling on the first step. The smell hits me first—damp concrete, old sweat, and something metallic that might be blood. The air grows cooler as we descend, the light dimmer, until we reach the bottom where a single bulb casts long shadows across the concrete floor.

They force me into the center of the room, beneath that harsh light, and then the first blow comes—a fist connecting with my stomach, driving the air from my lungs in a painful whoosh. I double over, gasping, but hands wrench me upright again, holding me in place as rope burns against my wrists, binding them behind my back.

“Where the fuck is Noah!” I shout once I’ve caught my breath, my voice echoing off the walls of this concrete prison. The sound bounces back at me, hollow and ineffectual.

A punch to the gut silences me, harder this time, the impact reverberating through my core. Pain explodes across my abdomen, sharp and sickening. I groan, my vision blurring as my knees threaten to buckle. Through the haze of pain, I realize I can barely see—my eyes already swelling from blows I didn’t even register receiving.

Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate, the sound amplified in the stillness of the chamber. Tap, tap, tap. Measured. Unhurried. The footfalls of someone who knows they have all the time in the world.

“Who killed Jack?” Noah’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, cold and precise.

I force my swollen eyes open, squinting against the harsh light to see his silhouette standing before me. He’s not wearing a mask. He wants me to see his face—to see the calculated emptiness in his expression.

“You fucking—” I start, but another punch interrupts me, this one landing with brutal precision in the same spot as before. The pain is immediate and blinding, stealing my words and my breath in one violent extraction.

I hang in my captors’ grip, struggling to inhale against the cramping agony in my gut. My ribs feel like they’re collapsing inward, piercing my lungs with every shallow breath.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Noah says, his voice eerily calm. The lack of emotion is more terrifying than any rage could be.

“Shit,” I murmur, the word barely audible through my gritted teeth. My mind races, trying to process what’s happening. This isn’t just about a phone call. This is something deeper, something I’m missing.

Noah was there that night. He came to the room seconds after I did. He might not have seen Rhea, but he saw Jack lying dead on the ground. And he did nothing. So why is he playing innocent now? Why the interrogation?

“The police have been circling us like fucking sharks, Thatcher,” Noah says, stepping closer. The light catches the edge of his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the flat coldness in his eyes. “Who the fuck did it, and are you hiding her with your daddy’s money?”

The accusation is so absurd, so wildly off-base that a laugh builds in my chest, rising despite the pain, spilling out as a gut-wrenching sound that’s half amusement, half agony. Blood coats my tongue, metallic and warm, as I laugh in his face.

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