Chapter 74: The Claiming Circle - Part 2
The scent of them was still on the air in the master bedroom—salt, sex, the faint bourbon sweetness of Bruce’s skin. Susannah lay on her back, Bruce’s heavy arm thrown across her waist, his breathing deep and even against her neck. In the dark, the carved words SOMBRA and ATMAN seemed to glow behind her eyes. Anchors. Promises.
Guilt was a rock. You could build on it. The idea was solid, but the weight of it remained, a dull ache beneath the bone-deep satisfaction of their reconciliation. She thought of Eddie’s laugh, sharp and bright, and felt the old, familiar fissure open in her chest. Then she thought of Jake, just down the hall, a boy carrying a different, sharper rock in his own pocket.
Bruce stirred, nuzzling into her hair. “You’re thinking too loud,” he mumbled, his voice sleep-roughened.
“It’s what I do,” she whispered back.
The door to the bedroom clicked open. A sliver of hall light spilled in, silhouetting two figures. Lena padded in first, her naked form a sleek shadow, followed by Ketut, whose movements were silent as falling silk. They didn’t speak. They simply slipped into the bed, Lena curling against Bruce’s back, Ketut fitting herself against Susannah’s front. The heat of their bodies, the simple comfort of their presence, was a balm. The four of them lay tangled, a single organism drawing breath in the dark. It was enough to finally let sleep pull her under.
She awoke to emptiness. The space beside her was cool. The other side of the king-sized bed, where Lena and Ketut had been, was vacant. The house was quiet, but it was the quiet of suspended activity, not absence. She could feel them nearby.
She rose, pulling on a loose silk robe. The floor was cool under her bare feet as she moved to the door, listening. From downstairs, the faint clatter of pans—Camille, starting breakfast. A murmur of voices from the garden—Julianna and Jasmine, discussing flight patterns. And from the end of the hall, behind the closed door of one of the smaller guest rooms, a soft, rhythmic thumping.
She knew that sound. It was the headboard of the old teak bed, tapping a steady, insistent beat against the wall.
Susannah walked down the hall, drawn by the sound. The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open.
The room was washed in early morning gold. Freya was on her hands and knees in the center of the large bed, her face buried in a pillow, her back arched in a perfect, desperate curve. Her blonde hair was a wild cascade over her shoulders. Bruce knelt behind her, one hand gripping the swell of her hip, the other fisted in her hair. He was sheathed to the hilt inside her, but not in her cunt.
Susannah’s breath caught. He was buried in her ass, his cock—not the magically enhanced thickness, but his own formidable girth—stretching that tight ring of muscle to a shocking, pale circumference around his base. Freya’s body was trembling, a fine, constant vibration of strain and overwhelming sensation.
The other wives formed a loose circle around the bed. Isabella, the doctor, was perched on the edge, her cool blue eyes clinically assessing. “Breathe, Freya,” she said calmly, her Brazilian accent softening the command. “You are accommodating him beautifully. Just relax into the stretch.”
Lena was on the bed beside Freya, stroking her flank. “That’s it, bonita,” she whispered. “Take that big cock. Let it open you up.”
Ketut sat cross-legged on a nearby chair, her dark eyes fixed on Bruce’s face, reading the play of control and concern there. Anya watched from the corner, her violet eyes wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Sophia, the trainer, stood with her arms crossed, a look of fierce appreciation on her face. Jasmine and Julianna leaned against the wall, their arms around each other’s waists, watching with shared, hungry fascination.
Bruce pulled back slowly, the thick length of him slick and glistening, revealing the stretched, flushed pucker of Freya’s asshole before he pushed forward again with a deep, rolling thrust.
“Oh, God… Bruce,” Freya moaned into the pillow, her voice muffled and ragged.
“That’s it,” Bruce growled, his own breath coming in harsh gusts. “Take it. You wanted this. You begged for it.”
“I did… fuck, I did… it’s so much…”
Camille entered the room then, carrying a tray with a small bottle of oil and a cloth. She set it on the nightstand, her eyes warm and knowing. “Little more lube, mija?” she asked softly, but Freya shook her head frantically.
“No… no, I want to feel it… I want to feel all of him…”
Bruce’s pace increased, the thumping of the headboard against the wall growing more urgent. His balls slapped against her dripping cunt with each thrust. Freya’s moans climbed in pitch, losing coherence. Her hands clawed at the sheets.
Isabella reached out, her fingers gently tracing Freya’s swollen clit. “Come for him, querida,” she murmured. “Let your body accept him.”
That was all it took. A sharp, shattered cry tore from Freya’s throat as her body convulsed, her ass clamping rhythmically around Bruce’s driving cock. The intense, pulsing tightness pulled a raw, guttural sound from Bruce. He held himself deep, his own release jetting into her in hot, relentless spurts, his hips jerking with each pulse.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the creak of the bed as Bruce slowly, carefully, withdrew. He collapsed onto his side, pulling Freya with him, cradling her shuddering body against his chest. He kissed her temple, whispering something too low for the others to hear.
Isabella was immediately there, her professional demeanor taking over. She examined Freya gently, nodding in satisfaction. “All is well. A little soreness, but no damage.” She pressed a kiss to Freya’s forehead. “You were very brave.”
Freya let out a weak, watery laugh. “I feel… split open. And fantastic.”
Lena laughed, leaning in to kiss Bruce deeply. “My turn next, papi? I need that inside me. Anywhere. Everywhere.”
Bruce’s hand came up to cup Lena’s cheek, his eyes finding Susannah’s in the doorway. There was a question there, and a soft apology.
Susannah felt no jealousy, only a deep, humming resonance. This was the bedrock. This was what they built on. She walked into the room, the silk robe whispering around her legs. She climbed onto the bed, the sheets still warm and smelling of sex and sweat. She leaned over Bruce and Freya, kissing Freya softly on the lips, tasting the salt and exhaustion.
“Welcome to the family, officially,” Susannah whispered.
Freya smiled, a blissful, sated thing. “Took him rearranging my guts to get the full membership, huh?”
The room erupted in soft laughter. Anya approached then, timidly. She looked at Bruce, her violet eyes huge. “You were… gentle with her. Even when it was rough. You held back.”
Bruce reached out, his hand large and gentle on her small waist, drawing her closer. “Always, solnyshko. The power isn’t for breaking. It’s for… meeting. For filling. Never for hurting.”
Anya’s eyes filled with tears. A memory of a different kind of chamber, of cold metal and pain, flashed behind her gaze before she buried her face against his shoulder. He held her, his other arm around Freya, his wife at his side, his lovers encircling him.
Ketut stood from her chair. “The atonement is complete,” she said quietly, her gaze sweeping the room. “The guilt is acknowledged. The love is reaffirmed. The bonds are sealed.” She looked at Susannah. “In flesh.”
Susannah nodded. The ritual was understood. This was how their strange, beautiful family healed, how it strengthened. Through raw, honest, physical communion.
Camille clapped her hands together softly. “Alright, my darlings. Everyone needs to shower. The bathroom is big, but not that big. We’ll do shifts. Then, breakfast. I’ve made chilaquiles.”
As the women began to stir, laughing and stretching, Susannah slipped from the bed. She paused at the door, looking back at the scene: the tangled limbs, the contented smiles, the undeniable, messy love of it all. Her eyes met Bruce’s across the room. He smiled, a small, private thing meant only for her.
She returned it, then turned and walked down the hall. Her destination wasn’t the shower. She stopped outside another closed door. Jake’s door. She listened. Silence.
She raised her hand and knocked softly. “Jake? You in there?”
A long pause. Then, the sound of bare feet on floorboards. The door opened. Jake stood there, dressed in jeans and a faded t-shirt, his hair mussed. He looked older than he had yesterday, the shadows under his eyes a bit darker.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice flat.
“You hungry?” she asked.
He shrugged, looking past her towards the sounds of life emerging from the other bedroom. “Sure.”
“Come help me set the table,” she said, turning, not waiting for an answer. It wasn’t an invitation to breakfast. It was an invitation back into the world. The guilt was a rock. But you didn’t have to carry it alone. You could set a place for it at the table, too.
He followed her, his footsteps quiet behind hers on the polished wood floor. The day, with all its complications, its ghosts, and its fragile, fiercely held connections, had begun.
The day, with all its complications, its ghosts, and its fragile, fiercely held connections, had begun.
Breakfast was a riot of sound and scent. Camille’s chilaquiles filled the long table, a spicy, cheesy monument to her morning efforts. Plates clattered. Coffee steamed in large mugs. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings as stories were traded—Freya walking stiffly, which earned her knowing grins, and Anya blushing furiously when Jasmine recounted her wide-eyed fascination during the scene. Bruce presided over it all from the head of the table, a quiet, satisfied king surrounded by his queens. His hand rested on Susannah’s thigh, a steady, warm weight beneath the tablecloth.
Jake picked at his food, a spectral presence at the feast. The noise flowed around him, a river he stood beside, not in. He watched them. Camille, refilling his orange juice with a maternal smile. Lena, throwing her head back in a throaty laugh at something Sophia said. Ketut, her dark, knowing eyes meeting his for a brief, piercing moment before she looked away. He saw it all—the easy touches, the finished sentences, the shared history in every glance. It was a language he didn’t speak, a country he had no passport for.
He stood up, the legs of his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. The conversation dipped. “I’m gonna get some air,” he muttered, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
He found Bruce on the veranda overlooking the jungle canopy. Bruce leaned against the railing, a cup of black coffee in his hands, watching the mist burn off the leaves. He didn’t turn as Jake approached, but his posture shifted, an opening.
“You’re thinking of going,” Bruce said, his voice low. It wasn’t a question.
Jake stopped beside him, gripping the warm wood of the railing. The humidity clung to his skin. “I can’t stay, Bruce.”
Bruce took a slow sip of his coffee, then turned his head. His hazel eyes held no judgment, only a deep, patient exhaustion. He just looked at him.
“This place is great,” Jake rushed on, the words tumbling out. “I love you. I love your wives. But I’m outside still.” He gestured back toward the house, toward the sounds of life. “I know Roland is in Gilead, trying to start his world over. For all the things he’s good at, dealing with people isn’t one of them.”
Bruce set his cup down. The quiet between them grew thick, filled with the shriek of distant birds. “Jake,” he said, his voice a rough stone. “You are a part of this family. You are only outside because you exclude yourself. Not for want by us.”
He turned fully now, his large frame blocking the sun. “I love you like a son. And all the wives love you. And Roland didn’t want the life of strife and struggle for you. He wanted you to have something better.” Bruce’s gaze was unflinching. “None of us want you to leave. Join our bond. Be our family, Jake.”
Jake hesitated, seeing the earnest truth in Bruce’s eyes. The truth was, Jake didn’t know what he wanted. He was confused, a compass needle spinning wildly with no true north. The vivid memory of Susannah, his father’s wife, her taste still a ghost on his lips, warred with the sheer, intimidating warmth of the table inside.
Bruce saw the hesitation. “Don’t make the decision now,” he said, his tone softening. “But don’t leave until you’ve thought it all the way through. Talk to the wives. Ask them what they think. Ask them how they feel about you.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “You wouldn’t just be leaving me, Jake. Camille loves you. You gonna stand there and tell me you don’t reciprocate?”
Jake looked at the floor, at the intricate pattern of the terra cotta tiles. He thought of Camille’s hand on his shoulder, her laughter, the way she always saved a plate for him no matter when he came in. He shook his head slowly, a silent admission.
Bruce closed the distance and pulled him into a hug. It was crushing, firm, an anchor in Jake’s swirling sea. “You’re not alone here,” Bruce murmured into his ear. “They hear you thinking. Your thoughts are loud.” He pulled back, holding Jake by the shoulders, a small smile touching his lips. “And if you want to be totally freaked out, go talk to Ketut. She’ll tell you even the things you’re hiding from yourself.”
Bruce laughed, a short, warm sound, but he wasn’t joking about Ketut’s abilities.
The sound of splashing water and shrieks of laughter floated up from the garden pool. Jake looked past Bruce, down to the sparkling turquoise water. The women were there. Isabella and Julianna were stretched on loungers, skin glistening with oil. Anya and Freya were in the shallow end, Anya tentatively demonstrating a floating technique. And in the deep end, Lena and Jasmine were locked in a playful, wrestling grapple, their wet bodies sliding against each other with a slick, intimate friction.
Jasmine had Lena pinned against the pool’s edge, both of them breathless with laughter. “Yield, you fiery little thing!” Jasmine laughed, her Jamaican accent rich and warm.
“Never!” Lena gasped, twisting, but Jasmine’s strength was superior.
Their struggle stilled. Their faces were inches apart, laughter dying in their throats. Jasmine’s eyes, brown with flecks of gold, dropped to Lena’s mouth. Lena’s playful resistance melted, her body going pliant against Jasmine’s. The atmosphere shifted, charged and silent.
Jasmine closed the distance. She kissed Lena, not playfully, but with a deep, hungry possessiveness. Lena moaned into her mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in Jasmine’s tight, wet curls.
On the lounger, Isabella watched, a slow smile spreading across her lips. She uncrossed her legs, letting her towel fall open. Julianna, seeing her movement, rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her bright blue eyes tracked the kiss in the pool, then slid to Isabella’s exposed body.
“Getting inspired, doctor?” Julianna purred.
“Merely observing the natural progression of intimacy,” Isabella replied, her voice a low hum. Her fingers traced idle circles on her own stomach, trailing down through the dark curls between her legs.
Julianna swung her legs off the lounger and knelt on the warm stone between Isabella’s thighs. She didn’t ask. She leaned down, her long black hair curtaining their faces, and pressed her mouth to Isabella’s inner thigh. Isabella let out a soft, shuddering sigh, her head falling back.
Isabella let out a soft, shuddering sigh, her head falling back.
Julianna’s mouth was a hot, wet brand against her thigh, moving closer with deliberate slowness. In the pool, Jasmine had broken the kiss, her hands sliding down to grip Lena’s ass, lifting her. Lena wrapped her legs around Jasmine’s waist, their breasts pressing together, nipples hard against the cool, chlorinated slickness. “Fuck me,” Lena breathed, not a question but a demand, her voice husky. “Right here. Don’t you dare take me to a bed.”
Jake turned away from the veranda railing, the images searing themselves behind his eyes. The laughter, the hunger, the easy belonging—it was a furnace, and he felt like paper held too close to the flame. He walked back through the silent, empty living room, the sounds from the garden fading into a distant, watery melody.
He found Camille and Ketut in the kitchen, surrounded by the warm, spiced mess of breakfast. Camille was at the sink, her hands submerged in soapy water. Ketut dried a plate with a linen towel, her movements economical and silent. They worked in a comfortable, wordless rhythm.
“Need a hand?” Jake’s voice sounded too loud in the tiled space.
Camille glanced over her shoulder, her smile immediate and warm. “Always, mijo. The rack is over there.”
He picked up a damp towel and started drying a heavy skillet. The domestic normality of it was a balm and a torment. This could be his life. This simple act, in this beautiful place, with these people. The weight of Bruce’s words pressed on him. You are only outside because you exclude yourself.
The only sounds were the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the soft scratch of towel on ceramic. Ketut placed a dried glass on the counter and leaned against it, watching him. Her dark, depthless eyes saw too much.
Jake kept his head down, scrubbing at an invisible spot on the pan. He could feel her gaze like a physical touch, a gentle probe at the edges of his mind. His own thoughts were a chaotic storm—Susannah’s taste, Roland’s weary face, the hollow ache of not-belonging, the sharp, unwanted thrill he’d felt watching Lena and Jasmine.
“Tell me,” he said suddenly, the words ripped from him. He looked up, directly into Ketut’s eyes. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Ketut didn’t blink. “Are you sure?” Her voice was a low hum, devoid of judgment.
Jake just nodded, his throat tight.
She placed her towel down slowly. She moved closer, until he could smell the faint, clean scent of her, like rain on dry earth. She didn’t touch him. She just looked into him.
“You carry two pains,” she began, her words measured, precise as a scalpel. “The first is for your father. Not Roland. The other one. The hole he left is shaped like abandonment. You fear creating a new hole here, so you hover at the edges. You think leaving would be cleaner than being left.”
Jake’s breath hitched. The drying towel hung forgotten in his hand.
“The second pain is desire,” Ketut continued, her eyes holding his, unblinking. “It frightens you because it is so vast. You want a home. You want purpose. You want to be looked at not as a boy, but as a man. You want to be seen. And you are, Jake. You are seen.”
Camille had turned off the water. She stood quietly, listening, her hands dripping suds onto the floor.
“Your place here is waiting,” Ketut said. “You are the only one not accepting it. Camille’s love for you is real. It is maternal, yes, but it is also fierce and protective. She would eviscerate anyone who harmed you. Anya looks at you and sees the first kindness in a life of horror. You are her safe harbor. Freya admires your resilience. Lena is drawn to your quiet strength; she whispers to Julianna that you have a gunslinger’s soul, still and deep.”
Jake felt exposed, flayed open. Every secret admiration, every glancing touch he’d cataloged and dismissed, was laid bare.
“Julianna watches you,” Ketut pressed, her voice softening. “She plots ways to make you smile, your real smile, not the shadow you show the world. Isabella has already mentally examined you and finds you beautifully, heartbreakingly whole. Jasmine sees a fellow warrior trying to lay down his arms. Sophia wants to train you, to feel your body grow strong under her hands. They are not pitiful to you, Jacob. They are burgeoning. Each one, in her way, is waiting for you to step forward.”
He shook his head, a feeble denial. “Susannah…” he choked out.
Ketut’s expression shifted, a profound understanding. “Susannah doesn’t see a boy. She sees the man who crossed worlds. She respects you. She admires your courage. The love she holds for you is changing, Jacob. It is no longer just the love of a ka-tet. It is the beginning of a woman’s love for a man. It frightens her, too. But it is there. You felt it. You tasted it.”
The memory was a physical shock—Susannah’s mouth, her surrender, the world narrowing to the heat between them. It hadn’t been pity. It had been recognition.
“You think your want is a betrayal,” Ketut concluded, her final words gentle but absolute. “Of Roland. Of Eddie. Of some abstract code. But your want is the most honest part of you. It is your compass. And it points here.”
Silence descended, thick and complete. The last of the water dripped from the faucet with a soft plink. Jake was trembling, the polished skillet a cold, hard weight in his hand. The storm inside him hadn’t calmed, but its chaos had been named. The paths were clear now, in brutal relief: walk into the furnace, or walk away into a perpetual, self-imposed winter.
Camille moved then. She walked over, her wet hands leaving damp prints on his shirt as she pulled him into a hug. She held him tightly, saying nothing. Her embrace was an answer in itself. A welcome. A claim.
From the garden, a sharp, rising cry pierced the air—Lena’s voice, fracturing into a crescendo of pleasure. It was followed by another, lower, satisfied groan—Jasmine’s. The sounds of life, relentless and hungry.
Ketut picked up her towel again, folding it with calm finality. Her job was done. The truth was given.
Jake stood in Camille’s embrace, the words echoing in his skull. The beginning of a woman’s love for a man. He looked over Camille’s shoulder, through the open kitchen door, down toward the garden, toward the source of those cries. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his gut. But beneath it, for the first time, something else stirred—a terrible, thrilling possibility.