Set Me Free

Flesh and Blood

Sofia

Brax's hand is bigger than my whole face, and he shoves me down into his groin, hard. I wince and thrash, but he tells me to hush, and in his voice and the demand is all I need to know. Someone—or something—is out there. I tense with a soft whimper that is trapped by the heat of his rough, steady hand.

I'm not stupid; I know there are worse things out there than Brax, and with his murky past, it could be anything. Someone come to collect their debts, to rectify a wrong, to kill him and take me because it feels like we are out in the bloody middle of nowhere.

He shifts, pushing me off him, but gripping my cheeks hard and bending low so his whispered words aren't accidentally caught.

"Stay here, girly, and don't twitch a muscle."

Before I can nod, he is up and moving, more silent than a man of his stature should be able to move. How is it that he's massive, strong—capable of killing someone—and also as stealthy as a wild cat? Why would fate leave me with little to no discernible survival skills, with a body that can't do half the shit a man's can?

As I'm pouting on the couch, I forget the threat in the darkness—whatever it is—and then the springs on the screen door stretch taut with a gentle clang and a fresh, rainy breeze sweeps through the cabin.

"Fuckin' hell, you motherfuckin' bastard!" Brax growls. Without thought, I pop my head over the back of the couch, peering through the darkness to a man standing on the porch, one side of his face a bloody mess. He still manages to grin, his hair tousled and dirty blond, his lanky form slim with hard muscle. He presses a rag to the side of his face that bleeds.

"Sorry to sneak up on ya, old man," he jests, "—but I uh...well...kinda got into it—"

"Can smell the fuckin' booze on your breath, ya prick. What'd I warn ya about?" Brax seethes. It's then I can see he's haphazardly tugged on his jeans, but his belt buckle flaps, still open, with the force of his angry words, framing the v-shape of muscles that lead down to the monster between his thighs. I feel my cheeks singe with shame, knowing my face was so close to that part of him just moments ago.

The young man at the door's eyes snap to mine. Through the darkness, I cannot see what color they are, but they shimmer and reflect the light of the fire back at me. A sure sign he's just as Erathian as the one who stands before him like some great beast, some pagan god of old.

A smirk curls onto his wide mouth, and he flicks his eyes to Brax.

"Nice. Finally makin' use of those fuckin' pits—"

"Get inside before I finish the job and kill ya myself, Logan."

It should calm me that Brax knows this man, and there is something awfully familiar to me about him already—from his build to his gait to the shape of his archangel face. I narrow my eyes, studying him. He tips his chin to me, winking before he strides inside with muddy, chunky black boots just like Brax's.

"Fuck me," Brax rattles off, pulling out the melted ice tray from the freezer. I am in awe of all the old technology in this cabin; even I had newer things in my home growing up. He tosses the tray to the sink as the young man—Logan—seats himself heavily at the table and crosses his booted feet. I pull the blankets tighter about me, shivering now that the door is open and the spring rain has left the landscape cool and chilled.

He rummages around in the thawing freezer again, tossing Logan a thick cut of steak. It slaps against the wooden table top, half thawed. The young man drops the rag, revealing the cut near his brow and the bruising of his sharp jaw. He reaches for the steak, and I tilt forward in shock and horror.

"Don't do that!" I yelp, waving my chained wrists to stop him. Both sets of eyes flash to me through the darkness, quick as the strike of a snake, and I fall back onto my ass, realizing what I've done. Brax's lips curl into a frown.

"Pipe down, girly. My own flesh and blood is allowed to waste my food, 'cause I know he'll be payin' me back."

I blink in surprise. That's Brax's...son?

The young man smirks at me, wagging his fingers in a flirtatious wave. I shake my head, simmering down, but only just. I cross my arms, feeling petulant.

"Fine. Go ahead and get an infection and see if I care," I mumble. Before I know it, Brax is before me, my hair tightly fisted in his hand, my throat prone and exposed to his vicious sneer.

"What're ya mumblin', girly?" he growls. I glare back, feeling righteously pissed off.

"Not my problem if raw fucking meat gives him an infection."

Brax's eyes dance with malice. But the tension soon oozes as we both hear Logan's deep, throaty laughter. His gold-green eyes soften at the noise.

"Got a spitfire, old man. Can ya keep up?"

Brax's face erupts in a grin, and his grip on my hair loosens, leaving my scalp tingling. A resonating chuckle passes between those thick lips, guttural and throaty and all man. I can see Logan lean around the frame of his father, catching my eyes again.

"No worries, little human. Erathians can't catch human bacterial diseases or some shit."

I swallow hard, feeling my throat bob, still stretched out for Brax's viewing pleasure. He gives me a curt nod, releasing me completely before patting my cheek in a patronizing manner. I grit my teeth in annoyance, turning around to stare instead at the fire. I just want to go back to sleep and not remember my moments of weakness, letting that monster hold me while I sobbed for a life not worth living but a life that at least included my brother.

"Gonna give it to me straight, boy, or are ya gonna be an ass about this one, too?"

"Not much to discuss, pops. Shot the shit with some friends, played some pool, chased some tail...wrong tail, I s'pose."

I can hear Brax snort, can hear the chair groan under his weight.

"Always wanted a son, and I got a carbon copy of myself instead," he mutters. As much as I want to hate them—both of them, despite not knowing them—I am intrigued by their banter, by the easy way they speak their truth and move on. It was never like that growing up. We hid things from each other, things what held the capacity to hurt one another if spoken aloud. I know, in my heart, that I harbored the most secrets, the most hatred.

As soon as the uprootings began and we went into hiding, the bubbling hatred toward my perfect family began to blossom like creeping ivy in my heart and through my veins. Forced to be in such close proximity to them for so long, listening to my mother whine about her fine china and her wine cellar, listening to my father grumble and bark orders and make slick deals to save his own ass—it all made that resentment grow.

I only had Josh, in my mind. My parents were worthless, cruel in their abandonment of their children, twisted in the head because they worried more about their material possessions than anyone else who wasn't granted such an opportunity to hide with the level of protection we had.

I often thought of running away, but I was always too chicken to do it. And when the day finally came to flee, I'd cried and refused to leave my bed as Josh ripped me from it and carried me away into the night. The weight of the chains around my wrists feels right, for some reason. A punishment I've long deserved, finally catching up to me. I was complicit. I knew what my family did was wrong, and I played the game with them. The best of us was always Joshua; good to his core. If anyone deserves freedom, it's him.

Because I know, in my heart of hearts, that it isn't me.

A/N: Happy Thursday! It's almost the weekend, y'all!!! Thoughts so far?!