Set Me Free

Her Beast

Sofia

I am clothed in a big t-shirt again, this one grey, with a black skull and bat wings across the front with the words Hellish Designs Inc. I cringed when he tossed it to me, not used to seeing things that are so...dark? The sun is fully up now, the day warm and humid as I sit at the table and quietly eat my eggs and toast. As soon as I'm finished, he slides another heaping plate to me. My stomach grumbles and then churns; I know he's not forgotten about punishing me.

He sits across from me with a groan, dipping into his chair as though he weighs a thousand pounds and carries the weight of the world. Maybe that's why his shoulders are so big. He rubs at his beard, but before he can say anything, heavy boots thud against the porch steps, and the screen door is tugged open. I turn my shoulders, my chains clanking together, but it is just his son Logan. His face looks better, and he always has that devious smirk on his lips.

He sidles over to the coffee pot and pours himself a mug. It smells delicious—like my father's office growing up. Pipe tobacco and black coffee and leather. I've never tried it, though; I was told it wasn't for ladies. I hunch my shoulders at the memory—at all the stupid rules I had to follow because I was born the wrong gender, apparently. Josh got to have coffee, cigars, whisky. Josh was gifted a bicycle, then a motorcycle. I was given a damn debutante dress and highlights in my already naturally highlighted hair.

I can hear their voices grow quiet, and I tense, realizing someone's asked me a question. My eyes flit to Brax. He stares at me, those eyes so penetrating I squirm in my seat, the wood of the chair harsh against my butt. His hair is still damp from showering, hanging around his shoulders like a thick, lustrous curtain woven through with patches of dark and light.

"Sizes, Girly. Makin' Logan pull his weight. You want your own clothes?"

My eyes fly wide and I nod quickly. He rubs at his chin, the sound of his rough hair against his skin a light scratch. His eyes flick to Logan, who's leaned against the sink, boots crossed, casual as can be but with a look in his eye just like his father; don't fuck with me. I can tell he wears that look on his sleeve, proudly displays it for all to see, even if it isn't meant to be directed at me. I clear my throat, the cotton on my tongue.

"I...I...don't know?" I ask, flitting my eyes to Brax. His mouth twists down, his eyes never having left my face. His gaze is severe, always, but it softens now. His eyes flick down to my chest, then back over to his son.

"Probably small shirts, medium size pants to fit that ass—"

"34C bras..." I mumble, feeling my face flush hotly.

"Fuck, I ain't gonna remember all this," Logan grumbles. Brax shifts, arms flexing as he does so, an aura of his dominating power settling over the kitchen.

"Better write it down, then, punk."

Logan huffs, downs his apparently lukewarm coffee, wipes his wide mouth on his sleeve, and stomps out.

Brax shakes his great head in annoyance, palming his eyes before he yawns. I push the scrambled eggs around my plate, my appetite lost. Birds flit past all the open windows, and though the breeze is cool, when it settles the warm, golden sun bathes my bare skin in delicious heat. I can feel my eyes drooping.

My plate disappears, sliding back across the table to Brax, along with my fork that he plucks out of my fingers. I glare at him as he scrapes up the remainder of the food into his mouth greedily, before he stands and takes it to the sink. He's dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, the fabric so stretched across his broad chest, it looks as though it will rip with one wrong move.