Seducing My Husband's Brother

Outcome

RYAN

•••••••

Witness. That's what my father named the coin that he's clearly attached to, though he'd never admit it aloud.

The backstory of it is a little hazy in my head, but I know my mother gave it to him. She found it in the Arctic of her family's centuries-old mansion on the day her mother was found hanging in the woods. Coincidentally, she handed it over to my father on the same day his own mother died—found hanging in the foyer, her neck attached to the banister by a cable.

He got attached real quick.

"Four is a death sentence." But maybe I should push this up the fun scale a little. "By hanging," I conclude with a smirk.

He swallows, pupils shaking even worse than the rest of his body. With a shaky breath, he goes for the next. "Five means my crimes will be forgiven, and I will be spared."

He's one to learn from his mistakes. Good.

Now we are down to six, the last number.

Without haste, I push off the table and step towards him. He's scared. It shows by the way his nails dig into his hand, by the tremble in his eyes, and by that constant swallowing, but he stands his ground—not backing away as I approach.

Once directly in front of him, I squat to his level, sparing him the effort of looking up. That's when it really hits him.

His breath fractures.

Not a sob. Not a plea. Just air dragging itself in and out like his lungs are reconsidering their job. His eyes won't settle. They dart between my face, my hands, the shaker, you name it, as if he's looking for exits that don't exist.

"Six," I murmur, close enough that he smells my breath, "means I'd skin you alive."

The sound he makes isn't human. It slips out of him—thin, strangled, like something being wrung dry. His shoulders start to shudder, small at first, then violently, teeth knocking against each other with a force that could crack them.

I watch it all. Drink it in.

And then, unexpectedly, my grip tightens on the shaker.

My fingers tremble.

Not with mercy. Never that.

With anticipation.

The fear radiating off him is so thick it crawls under my skin, sets my nerves humming, my hands shaking like they can't wait to be useful.

Having had my fill, I lift my hand in the air, the shaker dangling just at the tip of my fingers.

His jugular works up and down again.

Inhaling deeply, I flex my wrist, the die rattling inside for a second or two before settling back on the floor of the metal container. A second shake, and the routine repeats itself.

Quickly, I drop my hand, turning my wrist so the container connects opening-first with the wooden floor.

My eyes remain on him, observing. But his shaky brown ones are pinned to the tiny cylindrical metal, anticipation swelling in his lungs.

Without looking down—because I can't miss a moment of his reactions—I slowly let my hand loose, sliding the covering away from the die.

For half a second, nothing happens.

He stares at it like he's clueless as to what he's witnessing. Then his eyes widen.

A sound leaves him, sharp and wet, halfway between a laugh and a sob. His shoulders drop, tension draining out of him so fast he nearly slumps to the floor. His hands unclench. His breathing turns erratic but lighter, hopeful, greedy.

Oh, looks like he won. Sad.

With closed eyes, he tilts his head to the ceiling, whispering prayers beneath his breath like a man reprieved by God Himself.

"Thank you," he whispers to no one. "Thank you. Thank you."

Out of necessity, my eyes drop to where the die rests between us, the white-dotted cube sitting against the brown floor like an icy judge in the hot desert.

Seeing the outcome, my brows draw together and my head tilts slightly to the side. "Hm."

I push my neck back to find Kylian standing expressionless in position, not having moved. Then my gaze finds the dead man who's still in jubilation.

I let him have it.

Just a while longer.

When finally he returns to the room from his brief meeting with God, our eyes meet and realization hits, hard. His jolly good mood dies instantly, his eyes returning to the die.

The wash of horror across his face is what connoisseurs would term as 'priceless'. Fear shrouds his being like raging storm clouds, drenching him in his own sweat.

"No," he breathes, horror cracking through the word. "No, no, no..."

Ah-ha. That's what I thought.

"This is cheating!" he squeals, beating his chest with his fist. "This isn't right."

"Hm." I push to my full height, casually fixing my cufflinks. "Take him away."

Kylian nods.

"No one touches him," I warn. "I will handle him later."

"NO!" He shouts, the sound so rasp I wonder if he ruptured his throat with it. "That was my call! You don't have—"

Kylian's hand around his neck strangles him, making the last parts of his sentence come as slurped gibberish.

As he's been dragged away, he kicks and fights, trying all he can to break free, but too late. I didn't decide—the die did.

Pity. I might have spared him under different circumstances... or not.

Just as the door gives way, I see a face that I've been expecting for a while now, standing, waiting outside the doors to be called in.

He bows slightly, and I beckon him in.

Moving back to my table, I take my position on the swivel, relaxing into it, willing the adrenaline to go quiet.

"A game of Yahtzee, I see." Marco's voice invades the calm that I'm putting so much effort into creating.

I breathe, starting over again.

"Two is a rather dull outcome."

Just the outcome I needed, though. f**k calming down. "How's it going?" I shoot my eyes open, staring straight at those green orbs.

He's a little hesitant, almost... scared?

That alarms me. I push forward, brows drawn. "Is all alright?"

"Yes," his response is sharp. Then he adjusts his collar. "Everything is fine. Ms. Purity seems to like the place, never tried to escape. She rarely leaves her room, and whenever she does, she's always just staring through the glass walls. She eats well..." There's a pause. "Fares well, I think."

I study him a while longer, totally uncomfortable with something, but can't quite pin what.

Sighing, I ignore the feeling. "And Ryat?"

He shakes his head once. "He's not returned since he dropped her off five days ago."

My brows draw together again. Where has he been, then? He didn't return from Chelsea.

Right on time, Kylian returns.

Marco bows as he walks past him to take his space opposite me.

"What is it?" he asks immediately.

"Where's Ryat?"

He shrugs, then looks back at Marco. "Aren't you supposed to know that?"

He drops his gaze to the ground, avoiding the question.

"He's not at the Chelsea Skyline," I provide an answer.

His eyes return to me. "He's not been back."

"Really? I never would have guessed."

There's silence.

Marco staring at the floor like it's some woman he's aspiring to f**k, Kylian pretending to look through an old book, trying to avoid what's coming—but he can't.

"Where could he be?" My brother's volatile, but he's never stayed off the radar without at least announcing that he's going ghost.

Kylian shrugs. "I couldn't know."

"Find out?" Might have sounded like a question, but Kylian knows better.

"Ugh!" He groans as the book slaps against the table. "I hate being on Ryat duty."

He pushes his ass off the chair and storms towards the exit. Marco bows one last time and follows suit, but my voice stops him halfway through the door.

"Watch yourself." He turns his neck slightly, but not fully looking back. "With Purity, I mean. She spins a dangerous web."