Page 27 of Bruised

“Like… You know. Touching him.”

I roll my eyes. “You say that as if I’m a fucking creep or something.”

“Well, I don’t know what sort of freaks you met in prison. Maybe you got influenced.”

“I’m freaky enough as it is,” I say with a grin.

His cheeks flush, and he turns away. “Just… stay away from Lane.”

“You’ve already told me that, little brother. And I’ve already told you I won’t follow your rules.”

He spins around to face me, aghast. “So you have been touching him?”

“Did I say that?”

His shoulders slump in relief. Christ, you’d think he was asking me if I’d maimed him or something. My brother really needs to learn to be more relaxed about sex. It’s just sex—it doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not the danger he seems to think it is.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

I scowl at Lane’s voice repeating in my mind. Why did he say it like that?

Oliver starts making breakfast. After a while, the thud of footsteps on the top floor tells me Lane is finally awake.

When he comes downstairs, his eyes are heavy-lidded, and he’s wearing the same black T-shirt he wore to my room last night, but paired with skinny jeans and a studded belt. He fiddles with his collar while he waits for Oliver to finish cooking.

“Slept well, puppy?” I ask casually.

Lane turns halfway, gives a little shrug, and keeps fidgeting with the velvet band around his neck.

I keep my eyes fixed on him as a storm rages inside me. So yeah, he doesn’t want Oliver to find out about what we’re doing at night, and that’s fair. But this—pretending like nothing happened between us, like it doesn’t matter to him at all?

It bothers me more than I’d like to admit.

Oliver finishes whipping up their breakfast, and Lane licks his lips at the sight of the pancakes on his plate. I follow him with my gaze as he turns toward the stairs, and still, he doesn’t look at me. A cold feeling creeps into my chest, and after a while, I manage to pinpoint where it stems from.

It feels like rejection.

I should be glad that Lane isn’t getting attached to me, following me around and bothering me like some of my previous hookups, but him ignoring me is somehow worse.

This won’t do. It’s time to show him he’s mine, even if it’s just for the summer.

11. ON YOUR KNEES

Avoiding Mason’s gaze at all costs isn’t just about being bratty—it’s self-preservation. If I acknowledge him when Oliver’s in the same room, I’ll make a mistake, and Oliver will keep pestering me about it until I finally give in and tell him the truth.

That I’m breaking my promise. That I let Mason touch me. That I got off by rubbing myself on his cock. That I let his cum-soaked finger rub my hole, and that I’ve been thinking about that moment nonstop since I woke up.

Waiting until tonight feels like one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Pancakes might fix me, though. Pancakes fix everything.

“When did you get so good at cooking?” I ask, voice muffled from munching on my soft, fluffy pancakes drenched in a hefty serving of maple syrup.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Oliver mumbles. He spins around on his gaming chair while he eats. “Dad used to… I mean, Logan used to teach me.”

“Well, he did an awesome job.”

“He was such a good cook,” Oliver continues, gaze fixed on one of the posters on the wall—a red vintage car. “He was good at everything.”

I follow his gaze to the car on the poster. “I didn’t know you liked cars like that.”