You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 145

RALI

They were going to be here tonight.

Sweat slicked my palms, and I wiped them uselessly against my thighs as I walked down the narrow passage. The bass thumped louder with every step, the kind that rattled your ribs and made your heartbeat stumble to its rhythm.

Two girls leaned against the wall, their stares cutting into me. Their eyes crawled over me like I was dragging mud along the floor. I knew it had nothing to do with the black thong set I wore.

"Everyone's favorite whore," one of them drawled, snapping her gum.

I didn't grant her a glance. Tonight, my nerves were already gnawing at me, and she wasn't worth the crumbs of my energy.

Men with big guns stared at my ass as I passed them. But that too was the least of my problems.

I wiped my hands against my thigh before I finally stepped into the big hall—Blayne's parlor. The place pulsed with smoke, laughter, and the sweet rot of expensive liquor. A party every night, but the kind where you prayed not to be the main event.

As always, my entrance rewired the atmosphere. Heads snapped, eyes pivoted, conversations paused. I lowered my gaze, shoulders tight, and kept moving toward the velvet-roped VIP corner; the lion's den where my nemesis would arrive.

Friday nights were always my curse. The night of the 'big boys,' when the most dangerous wolves prowled out in the open.

Whistles and crude murmurs rose as I passed tables of men, the sound weaving into the music. Some clapped, some hissed, some smirked, but none dared touch me. As long as you weren't seated in the VIP corner of the club tonight, The Torturer's woman wasn't yours.

Eight girls were already lined up when I approached, their eyes flaring hotter as I joined them. Their hostility pressed against my skin. I never understood why I seemed to them a threat. It wasn't like I wanted this crown of thorns.

Blayne's stare was flint-hard. I'd bought myself trouble by being late.

I swallowed the bile in my throat and scanned the room for the true monsters. Relief pricked my chest when I realized they weren't here. Not yet.

My eyes slid shut for a single second, savoring that fragile breath of safety. But I knew better than to let it root itself. Hope was dangerous. They could still walk in at any moment.

If only Lucien would start the bid and get it over with.

"Gentlemen, the gem of the night just arrived," Lucien declared, stepping onto the small VIP stage. His voice carried easily across the two halves of Orgy House, as it was commonly called—the velvet-draped section where we stood on display, and the wider hall where smoke, neon, and liquor drowned the men watching. Those in the other half could see and hear us clearly.

The Hollow Brothers never bothered with games. They always threw the highest number straight away. It wasn't about the bid; it was about making sure no one else even considered playing.

"Two hundred thousand!" Lucien repeated, his voice ripe with satisfaction. "Any challengers? Anyone willing to outbid the Hollow Brothers?"

The room fell quiet. Lucien's eyes scanned the crowd, but no one spoke. Of course they didn't. Challenging the Hollow Brothers wasn't brave. It was suicidal.

"Two hundred thousand it is then! The Torturer's woman is yours for the night!"

My eyes shut longer than a blink, savoring the fragile relief. Tonight, at least, I was safer. Not safe, never safe, but safer. The Hollow Brothers had their own cruelty, their own brand of evil. But If I had to be broken, I'd rather be broken by them. At least, they left fewer scars.

The Brothers rose, ready to take me away for the night. And it was at that moment my true nemesis arrived.

Air became a stranger, and I forgot how to let it in. It took everything I had not to inch back like a child dodging a bedtime monster.

The Ash Twins. Marshall and Mayor. Not twins in face, but carved from the same hell. Identical only in their monstrosity.