Fort Brothers

0004 — Edmund

Her eyes were hazel, mostly—greenish grey at a distance, but up close you caught the flecks of gold buried in them.

Defiance sat there too—clear in the subtle purse of her lips. The same defiance that had her insisting she would've left if the rain hadn't started hitting the windows in short, sharp bursts.

“Rain lets up, I’ll drive you home.” I said.

Isa nodded, her eyes drifting around the room for a second before finding mine again.

I held one of the glasses out toward her. “While we wait for the rain to ease up, we could drink. Toast to something. Anything. Or we could just drink and leave it at that.”

She hesitated.

Just when I thought she was going to refuse—maybe mutter that she didn’t drink wine, or that she wasn’t sure she wanted any tonight—her fingers curled around the stem. Then her teeth caught the edge of her lower lip, drawing it in slowly, biting down just enough to make it fuller.

God help me, my mind zeroed in on that mouth again.

I swallowed, my Adam’s apple shifting hard against my throat like it had to force its way down.

Isa was doing things to me she had absolutely no. idea she was doing. Small things. Careless things.

And somehow those were turning out to be the dangerous kind.

“Quiet, huh?” My voice came out low, rough around the edges thick with the lust I was barely containing. "If I’m making you uncomfortable, say it.”

Her head lifted immediately. “No. Not at all, Edmund, I—”

Strangely, I didn’t feel like punishing her anymore. Not even a trace of that earlier edge remained.

It was the way she said my name—Edmund—so soft and unguarded—a gentle caress that soothed every raw nerve in my body, even as it stoked the fire higher.

My filthy mind wasted no time slipping back into darker territory.

I picture her straddling me in those crisp blue scrubs—the same pressed uniform nurses wore every day. A red and blue pen tucked neatly in her left breast pocket. Her hair pinned back tightly, every strand in place. Lips painted a bold, sinful red. No shoes. No panties. Just her warm, bare skin pressing against my digits as I slowly circle her c**t, slide back down, teasing her entrance without pushing inside, feeling her thighs tremble and how soaking wet she already is—

"Not that I talk a lot at first,” Isa said.

I pretend I'm listening. I nod at the right moment, keeping my expression steady.

“I just need to feel safe around people before I actually open up.”

I force a slow nod, trying to look like I’m still present. “Makes sense."

Somehow, we ended up by the fireplace.

We talked—psychology, the human mind. Why some people turned inward while others pushed outward into everything life threw at them.

Isa still hadn’t touched the wine. instead she cradled the stem of her glass like she needed something to hold on to.

Her hair had loosened a little more, a few strands falling softly across her face and neck wherever they pleased. It made her look even more innocent — almost vulnerably so — framed by the warm flicker of the fireplace.

And I hated how sharply aware I was of it.

Because somewhere between her quiet words about the human mind and the way she cradled that untouched glass of wine, I caught myself doing something far worse than simply looking. I was projecting my filthiest desires onto that innocence. Twisting her into something she wasn’t.

“That mark right there,” I said, nodding toward it, my voice steadier than I felt. “The red ones. How’d you get those?”

I hoped the question would anchor me. Force the conversation into something mundane, something safe. A scratch, an allergic reaction, anything that might kill the filthy reel still looping in my head.

Isa’s eyes darkened the instant the question left my mouth. A moody shadow crossed her face, and she looked away from me, staring into the flickering fire instead. You could see the defiance there, the walls she’d built around herself going back up, brick by brick.

“It’s nothing, family stuff” she said quietly, staring down at the wine glass she still hadn’t sipped from.

“You can always talk about family stuff with me.”

I'm no saint... hell, I barely qualify as a therapist. I couldn’t offer advice—not when I’d run my father's company into the ground once because I couldn’t keep my head straight. I knew what it looked like to make a mess of things and sit in it.

But I wanted to listen.

I wanted to be the person she could say it to without measuring every word. I wanted to hear her talk. Family wasn’t ever perfect. It wasn’t supposed to be. There were always conflicts, silent resentments, things you didn’t say at the dinner table. That didn’t make her any less. And I wanted her to know she didn't have to carry it alone—