Page 38 of Tethered Souls
Like cocks.
Fuck.
My cheeks on fire, I grab a random cup from the second row. My eyes dart to the cock mug in front of it, then quickly away, then back again. Lingering on it, I realize it’s a completely different skin tone to that of this family. It’s full-on Caucasian. And the one beside it is Black. Clearly, they’re not the boys’ dicks at all, and that kind of makes me feel more at ease. More capable of looking them in the eyes later.
I quickly close the door. With an apron now tied around her waist, Sau flits around the kitchen, pulling out mixing bowls and ingredients for the waffles. I pick up the pot of coffee and pour me a black. Gulping half of it despite the heat, I slowly start to feel alive.
“So do the boys actually drink out of them?” I ask as I try to picture serious-looking Varius with a dick mug to his lips but failing.
“When they’re forced to, yes.”
“Forced to?” The disbelief is clear in my tone. This is the house of the infamous Shadow brothers. Who the hel can force them to do anything?
Turning to me with a box of eggs in her hands, Sau smiles. “A woman might serve a man in this family, Micha, but do not ever think we are weak because of it. When they piss you off, and they absolutely will, get creative with their punishments.”
“They don’t just grab a different cup?”
“Not if they want to eat; everyone but Khalid is a shit cook.”
My mouth drops open in awe. “What did they do?”
Her eyes narrow. “Maddox thought it was funny to make cups of the women in this Family a few years ago, and the others didn’t protest. We are to be bred, yes, but they will do it with fucking respect.”
Placing the eggs on the counter, she smiles at me. “Now come. I’ll teach you how Varius likes his waffles.”
Eleven
HIM
I slam my fist into the bag. It rocks back, and I follow it, extending my arm to pound my knuckles into its leather. The bag swings from its hanging point. My feet shift. My body twists. With each blow, I imagine the cut of a blade sliding deep into my back.
One of my brothers tried to kill me.
Keeping my head low, my arms up, I hammer my left fist into the leather. The bag swings, and I dart forward, then back. Dip. Right hook. Three rapid punches from my left. Dip, another punch, then shuffle to the side.
I dance around it like I dance around the questions in my head.
Which brother do I suspect the most?
Whose alibi can I tear apart?
And can I really give the order to treat them the same as every other traitor? An instant death at the hands of Khalid.
My breathing turns heavy as I continue to work the bag. My lungs strain. My naked chest becomes slick with sweat. I don’t stop even when my knuckles begin to bleed. When I can feel the fractures of the bone. The swelling tenderness from deliberately mistiming my swings. So the punches are not correct. So the angle of themhurts.
Grunting, I pound the bag harder. Break my bones more.
But I can’t stop the thoughts from riding my ass just as hard.
The traitor isn’t one of the twins as they would have used their telekinesis to cut me down rather than get close.
It can’t be Khalid because no one would accuse a reaper of treachery; it’s his job to kill anyone who will hurt this Family. He could shoot me in the face in front of all my capos and get off scot-free.
Grunting, I drive my elbow upright into the leather. Then shove the bag sideways as I move in the opposite direction. As it swings back towards me, I aim a sidekick right into its middle.
The chain rattles, the bag careening to a halt.
But I keep moving.
