Page 22 of The Knucklebone Brothers

The chain pulled my wrist tight, stretching my arm above my head, exposing my chest more. The water lapped at my breasts, the metal barbell in my nipples jiggling with the movement, a constant, heavy reminder of the sensation still radiating from where Maverick had flicked it.

Maverick leaned in closer, his green eyes boring into mine through the holes of his mask. "Look at that," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "A little barbell in the nipple. You must like pain, don't you, Rory? Or maybe you just like being played with."

He reached out, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin, sending another shockwave through me. "But you have beautiful nipples," he added, his voice softer, almost appreciative. "Perfectly pink. Just like the rest of you. It's a shame to hide them."

Blythe nodded from his spot on the log. "They are perfect," he agreed, his voice low and gravelly.

Maverick pulled a hunting knife from his belt. The blade gleamed in the dim light. He ran the blade along the waterline, sending a shiver down my spine. He guided the knife up my chest, following the curve of my ribs, until he reached the snake tattoo between my breasts.

He traced the scales with the tip of the blade, swirling it around the coil, the metal barely grazing my skin. "You got a snake here," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, eerie tone. "And... I got a snake named Lilly." He gave the tattoo a gentle pinch with the knife tip, pressing hard enough to leave a faint red mark. "It's meant to be, don't you think? This one belongs to the bloodline now. She's gonna coil around my wrist just like Lilly does mine."

Blythe gave a sharp tug on the chain, giving me a little slack. "Alright, pretty thing," he said. "Let's get you washed up. We'll help you with your hair."

Blythe picked up a plastic bottle of soap and moved behind me. Without a word, he tilted my head back and poured a stream of the cool, slimy liquid directly onto the top of my head. It dripped down my scalp, heavy and thick. Then Maverick stepped up beside him, his hands joining in, massaging the soap into my hair with firm, rhythmic strokes. His fingers were strong, working the lather deep into my roots, his thumbs pressing against my temples in a way that was both controlling and strangely relaxing.

I leaned my head back, closing my eyes as the tension drained out of my shoulders. I was technically pouting, a little defeated by their control, but I wasn't complaining. The sensation of his hands in my hair was surprisingly soothing, a difference from the rough handling of my body.

As Maverick worked the suds through my hair, they talked about getting me dried off and dressed. "Amos made her new clothes," Blythe said, his voice low.

"Good," Maverick said, his hands still working the soap into my scalp. "She needs something appropriate for the show. Something that shows off her body but also covers her up a bit."

Once my hair was a thick, foamy mess, Maverick stepped back. Blythe then grabbed a large, dented metal jug from the ground. He moved closer, and without warning, poured a cascade of cold water over my head, washing all the soap out in a rush. The water was icy, a sharp shock against my scalp, and it streamed down my face, my neck, and over my breasts, making my already-hard nipples pebble even tighter in the morning air. I gasped at the sudden chill, sputtering as the water ran into my mouth.

Blythe grabbed a rough towel and began to dry me off, his hands rough and calloused, but surprisingly gentle. He dried my hair first, then moved down to my body, rubbing the towel over my skin, drying off the water. Maverick stood back and watched.

"Alright," Blythe said, "Let's get you dressed."

Maverick walked over, holding up a dress. It was black, with delicate black lace trim, and it looked like it was made for someone else entirely.

"I'm not usually a dress kinda gal," I said, my voice flat.

Maverick chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Don't hurt Amos's feelings," he said, his voice twinkling. "He made it just for you."

I took the dress, the fabric soft against my skin. "When do I get to meet this famous Amos?" I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Soon enough," Maverick said, his voice low and mysterious.

I slid the dress over my head, the fabric clinging to my curves in a way that was both comfortable and revealing. It hung off my shoulders, exposing my collarbones and the tops of my arms. It was a perfect fit, and I hated it. I hated how it made me feel, how it made me look. I felt like a doll, a plaything for their amusement.

Blythe kicked the slippers towards me, and I slid them on, my feet still damp from the bath. "Alright," he said, his voice low. "Now onto the show we go… inspection time."

I stared at him, my mind racing. "What the fuck does an inspection show mean?!" I asked, my voice rising in panic.

Chapter 9

They led me away from the tub and the makeshift enclosure, deeper into the woods than we had gone before. The path grew narrower and more overgrown. The morning sun was higher now, filtering through the thick canopy in patches, but the air grew cooler, damper. The sounds of the waking forest seemed to fade behind us, replaced by the crunch of our own footsteps and the constant, metallic rattle of my chain.

We walked for what felt like ten minutes, the silence broken only by the boys' steady breathing and my own frantic thoughts. Finally, we stopped in front of what looked like a small hill, completely swallowed by nature. Ivy and thick, gnarled kudzu vines covered almost every surface, choking the life out of a structure that was barely visible beneath. A rusted-out pickup truck, its tires long since rotted away, sat half-buried in the undergrowth nearby. It was a forgotten place, a place the world had left behind.

Maverick stepped forward, his movements fluid and sure. He began to pull away thick tangles of vine and years of accumulated fallen branches from a section near the ground. As the debris cleared, I saw it. A weathered, wooden sign, the paint peeled and bleached to a near-gray by decades of sun and rain. I could just make out the faded, elegant lettering: "Dr. Thaddeus Woods." The name was still there, barely, a ghost from another time.

"Dr. Woods," Maverick said, spitting a little to the side. "He was one of them traveling circuit doctors. Sold his own special brews—snake oil, mostly—to the rubes. But he was more than that."

Blythe picked up the story, his voice a gravelly counterpoint to Maverick's. "He was the only one who would... help. See, proper hospitals, they'd look at some folks and say they ain't worth the time or the medicine. Folks like us. Folks who were... different. So the doctor, he just brought his business right on with the show."

Maverick found a door, hidden cleverly behind a false panel of moss-covered wood. He pulled it open with a screech of protesting hinges. A smell hit me instantly, thick and cloying. It was the heavy, sweet scent of clove cigarettes mixed with the bitter aroma of stale coffee, the sharp sting of rubbing alcohol, and an underlying smell of damp earth and decay.

They led me inside. The air was thick enough to taste. The only light came from a few bare bulbs hanging from long, frayed cords, casting a sickly yellow glow. My eyes adjusted slowly, taking in the cramped, chaotic space. In the center of the room was a rusted, vinyl-padded examination table, its surface patched in several places with thick silver duct tape. Next to it was a heavy military-surplus cot, covered by a coarse, old wool blanket that looked like it had been chewed on by moths.