Chapter 5: The Reckoning
The smell of sandalwood was in her hair, on her skin. And underneath it, something else—the ghost of another man’s cologne, a phantom touch on her thigh. Margot drove too fast, the city blurring into streaks of light, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. The calm Leo had pressed into her with his touch had evaporated, replaced by a jagged, humming static. He’d shared her. He’d orchestrated it. And he’d brought in… him.
Elias’s workshop was a converted garage behind his ranch-style house, light bleeding from its high windows into the damp evening. She didn’t knock. She shoved the side door open, the metallic screech drowning out the hum of a table saw he was just powering down.
Sawdust hung in the air, golden in the light of the pendant lamps. He was wearing a worn grey henley, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a fine layer of wood powder coating his forearms. He turned, saw her, and his expression didn’t change. It was the same infuriating, placid observation she’d known her whole life.
“How long?” The words cracked out of her, sharp as a splinter.
He wiped his hands on a rag, slow and deliberate. “How long what, M?”
“Don’t you fucking ‘M’ me. How long have you and Leo been planning this? What, you just… compare notes on your shared property?” Her voice was rising, shaking.
Elias tossed the rag aside. He leaned back against the sturdy workbench, scarred with decades of cuts and stains. “He came to see me. Two weeks after that gallery shit you pulled. Said you were stuck in your own head. That you kept testing, looking for a wall to hit. He asked me if I’d be willing to help you let go. To be a wall you couldn’t bullshit.” He shrugged, a casual lift of his shoulders. “I said yes.”
The simplicity of it was a slap. “He asked you? And you just agreed to… to fuck me while I was tied up and blindfolded? Jesus Christ, Elias, I’m your sister!”
“I know who you are,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its casual edge. “And I saw you that night at the gallery. Pushing at him with me like a weapon. You weren’t there with me. You were there with him, using my body to send him a message. So don’t pretend this is about some violated line. You drew the fucking map, Margot. We’re just following it.”
She crossed the space between them, shoving him hard in the chest. “You don’t get to decide that!”
He moved faster than she expected. He caught her wrists, his grip firm, calloused, undeniable. He whirled her around, pushing her against the edge of the heavy workbench. The wood dug into her hips. Sawdust puffed into the air around them.
“I’m not deciding anything,” he growled into her ear, his body a solid line of heat against her back. “You’re not mad. You’re scared. There’s a difference. Scared he saw something in you that you didn’t want anyone to see. Something dark and hungry that doesn’t give a shit about lines or brothers or anything except getting fed.”
She struggled, a futile twist of her shoulders. “Fuck you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a low, humorless sound. “That’s the idea.”
He released one wrist, his hand coming up to fist in her hair, not yanking, just holding. He turned her head and his mouth crashed down on hers. It was nothing like Leo’s claiming kisses. This was rough, tasted of cheap coffee and the pine he’d been cutting. It was familiar and utterly foreign. She made a muffled sound against his lips, pushing back, her free hand scrambling against the bench.
Then her body betrayed her. A hot, shameful flush surged through her, melting the resistance in her muscles. A low moan rose in her throat, swallowed by his mouth. He felt it. He always could. He released her hair, his hand sliding down to the button of her jeans.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he muttered, yanking the denim down over her hips in one rough pull. The cool air hit her skin. “To be passed between us? A shared secret?” He didn’t wait, didn’t prepare her. He unfastened his own jeans, shoved the fabric down, and she felt the thick, blunt head of his cock press against her. She was wet. Terribly, unmistakably wet. The realization washed over her with a wave of dizzying degradation.
He pressed forward, entering her in one solid, stretching thrust. She cried out, her head dropping forward, her palms splaying on the rough wood. He was big, different. He filled her with a brutal immediacy that left no room for thought.
“Yeah,” he breathed, his hand clamping on her hip, the other planting flat between her shoulder blades, keeping her down. “That’s it. Take it.”
He fucked her with a steady, punishing rhythm. There was no finesse, no careful build. This was a transaction, an exorcism. Each drive of his hips slammed her into the bench, rattling the tools. The sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet workshop: their ragged breathing, the slick slap of skin on skin, the creak of the heavy bench.
“You like that?” he gritted out, his pace increasing. “Knowing he set this up? Knowing he’s probably thinking about it right now?” His words were gasoline on the fire in her gut. “You’re his. But right now, you’re just a hot, tight cunt on my cock, and we’re both thinking of him.”
It was the filth, the sheer psychological wreckage of it, that did it. The coil snapped. An orgasm tore through her with violent, shocking force, wringing a shattered scream from her lungs. Her knees buckled, but he held her up, pounding into her through the convulsions, his own rhythm fracturing into hard, desperate snaps.
With a grunt that was pure strain, he buried himself to the hilt, shuddering as he came inside her. She felt the warm pulse of it, a final, irrevocable stamp.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing echoing off the high ceiling. He pulled out slowly. The sudden emptiness was a void. He turned her around, her jeans still tangled around her thighs. Her face was wet with tears she hadn’t felt fall. He cupped her jaw, his thumb rough as it wiped a streak from her cheek. His eyes, the same hazel as her own, were unreadable.
“Now go find him,” he said, his voice quiet, final. “Tell him what you did. Every detail. See if he still wants you after.”
The drive to Leo’s was a numb haze. She could still smell the sawdust on her skin, layered over the scent of sex and her brother. Her body felt used, hollowed out, aching. Elias’s challenge rang in her ears. See if he still wants you.
She used her key. The apartment was quiet, lit by the under-cabinet lights in the kitchen. He was there, at the island, chopping vegetables with a precise, calm rhythm. The tap-tap-tap of the knife was the only sound.
He didn’t look up. “Hey.”
She stood in the doorway, feeling like a ghost. “I went to see Elias.”
“I know.” The knife never paused. “He texted me.”
The floor seemed to tilt. “What did he say?”
Finally, Leo set the knife down. He turned, leaning back against the counter, and looked at her. He took in her disheveled hair, her swollen eyes, the tremor in her hands. His gaze was a physical weight. “He said ‘It’s done.’ And that you were on your way.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Aren’t you going to ask? What… what happened?”
“Do you need to tell me?”
She did. She needed to vomit the truth at his feet and see if he would flinch. “He fucked me. Over his workbench. It was rough. I came. He came inside me.” The words, bald and ugly, hung in the space between them.
Leo pushed off the counter. He walked toward her, slow, deliberate. He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat coming off him. He raised a hand and she flinched, but he only tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
“I know,” he said again, his voice so terribly gentle. “You’re still mine.”
The sob broke then, a raw, ragged thing from deep in her chest. He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight as she shook. He didn’t shush her. He just held her, one hand moving in slow circles on her back.
When her cries subsided into hiccupping breaths, he pulled back just enough to look down at her. He kissed her forehead, a soft press of his lips. “Now,” he murmured, his voice shifting, dropping into that tone that brooked no argument. “Get on your knees and show me you mean it.”
Her breath hitched. She looked up into his warm brown eyes, seeing the quiet command there, the absolute certainty. This was the anchor. This was the price and the absolution.
She sank down, the cold hardwood floor biting through her jeans. Her fingers trembled as she reached for his belt. The buckle clinked softly. She pulled down his zipper, freed him. He was already hard, thick and heavy in her hand. She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth.
She heard his sharp intake of breath above her. She worked him, using her tongue, her lips, trying to convey the chaos inside her—the shame, the fear, the terrifying, exhilarating freedom of being known this completely. She took him deep, until he hit the back of her throat, gagging softly, tears springing to her eyes again.
One of his hands fisted in her hair, not guiding, just holding, a point of connection. The other braced on the counter behind him. “That’s it,” he groaned, his control fraying at the edges. “Take it all. Show me who you belong to.”
She redoubled her efforts, her world narrowing to the salt-skin taste of him, the sounds he made, the solid feel of him on her tongue. She was filthy, used, split between two men, and in this act, on her knees, she was more wholly herself—and more wholly his—than she had ever been.
His hips gave a shallow thrust. “I’m gonna come, Margot. You’re going to swallow it. Every drop.”
She hummed her assent, the vibration making him curse. His grip in her hair tightened. With a deep, guttural sound, he pulsed into her mouth, hot and bitter. She took it, swallowing until he was spent, until he gently pulled her back.
He looked down at her, her lips raw, her eyes streaming, her cheeks flushed. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “Good,” he said, the word a benediction. He lifted her up, pulling her shaky body against his. He held her there, in the quiet kitchen light, and she clung to him, the last of her defenses in ashes at their feet.