“Spread your legs, Cat.” His voice was cold, and left no room for argument.

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to fuck you until you’re crying and begging us to stop—and we won’t stop until we’re thoroughly satisfied.

***

One house. Two monsters. And a bet that changed everything.

I thought I could survive moving into the mansion with my new stepbrothers, Jackson and Brandon. They are breathtakingly gorgeous, dangerous, and they hate me. But I didn't realize how much I hated them back—until they trapped me in my own bedroom and made my body betray every secret I was keeping.

I thought the heat between us was real. I thought the way they looked at me meant I was finally seen.

I was wrong.

I was just a thousand-dollar wager. A game they played to ruin my mother & kick us back to the gutter where they think we belong. They called me "easy." They called me "mid." They laughed about how I leaked for them while they planned to toss me aside.

But they made one fatal mistake: they showed me their weakness.

: Predators

Rhea

“Those ass thick as fuck.”

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, to find Jackson and Brandon looming in my doorway. Jackson leaned his weight against the door frame with a predator’s grace, while Brandon held the door wide open, one hand shoved deep into his denim pocket. Their eyes were raking fire over every inch of my bare skin.

“And your snatch is so full. Damn. I want a taste,” Brandon added, a small, dangerous smile curving the corners of his mouth.

I wondered how long they’ve been standing there and how much of my naked form they’ve seen.

Heat flared under my skin, and it wasn't just embarrassment. I was completely naked, caught in the middle of a frantic search through my wardrobe for a family dinner dress that I didn’t want to be in.

“Have you both lost your damn minds?” I snapped. I lunged for the towel on my bed, whipping it around my chest and tucking it tight. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? I’ve told you a thousand times, knock before coming into my room!”

Jackson chuckled, a dark, low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between us. He pushed off the door frame and stalked toward me. “Your door was wide open, Cat. Seems to me like you wanted us to see.”

I let out a bitter, jagged laugh. “In your dreams. What do you want?”

Jackson didn't stop until he’d swallowed the space between us. He towered over me, a breathtaking giant making me feel like a cornered mouse. It was infuriating how gorgeous he was, the sharp jawline, the scent of expensive sandalwood and trouble. It was enough to make my brain cells short-circuit and my hatred for this house, and the two of them, momentarily dissolve into a haze of treacherous longing.

He looked down at me with an arrogant smirk, his green eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity. “Your mother wants you downstairs. We wouldn't be here if you’d bothered to pick up your phone,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a private silk thread.

The Jackson and Brandon I knew would never come to my room if my mother sent them. They hated her. In their eyes, she was the gold-digger who’d married their father for his millions, a threat to their inheritance. As for me, I was just the collateral damage. They never liked me either; I was part of the problem just by existing in their father's house.

“You and I both know that’s not why you’re here,” I said, my breath hitching as he leaned closer.

“Then why don’t you tell me why I’m here, Cat?”

I hated that name. I fucking hated it. Every time they said it, my chest tightened. It made me feel small. Exposed. Like they’d already decided I was a pet, someone they could corner, toy with, and break if the whim struck them.

Jackson’s lips hovered so close to mine that I could almost taste the mint on his breath. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a split second, and he swallowed hard, his throat working as if he were fighting every instinct to claim me right there against the wardrobe.

“Your room's a mess,” Brandon's voice cut in, shattering the trance. I hadn't even noticed how near he was until then. He was behind me now, his presence a cold shadow. “Didn’t peg you for the disorganized type. Or are you just that desperate to find something that makes you look like a saint?”

“Quit talking nonsense,” I snapped, stepping back from Jackson’s suffocating heat, only to collide with Brandon's solid chest.

Now they had me trapped between them, their bodies caging me in like iron bars. Heat radiated from their skin, igniting my nerves until they screamed. My core throbbed insistently, a treacherous rush of wetness slicking my folds and trickling down my inner thighs.

: Losing Control

Rhea

I shouldn't feel this way. Not about them. They were my stepbrothers—technically, legally—and that should have been enough to make me sick. It was forbidden, twisted even to glance at them with anything but disdain. Yet here I was, aching for their hands to rip the towel away, for them to fuck me in all the filthy, ruined ways I'd fantasized about in the dead of night when the house was silent.

The word family felt like a lie when they looked at me like I was a meal they were about to share.

I stiffened as I felt Brandon’s erection press firmly against my ass, the hard ridge of him through his jeans unmistakable. I spun around to face him, my breath hitching in a series of shallow gasps. He was just as devastatingly handsome as Jackson, but with a sharper edge. While Jackson had that slicked-back, polished look, Brandon was the serrated edge to his brother's blade—black hair shaved at the sides, eyes so dark they looked like polished onyx, reflecting nothing but my own frantic expression.

“I’m not disorganized,” I managed to choke out, looking for a gap to escape. “I’m just looking for something to wear. Now get out!”

Jackson reached past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and plucked a tiny, silk red dress from a hanger. “You should wear this. I’d love to see what your ass looks like when this hem rides up.”

“It’s a family dinner, Jack, not a club,” Brandon countered, his voice mocking as he grabbed a modest pink flared dress from the bed. “This is decent. You are meeting our grandparents for the first time. This will make a good first impression. Grandma is hard to please, and we wouldn't want her thinking you're the little slut we know you are.”

I snatched the dresses from them, tossing them onto the heap on the bed. “I don’t want either! Just leave!” My frustration was peaking, mostly because I was terrified of the traitorous pulse between my legs. “Tell Mom I’ll be down in ten!”

They didn't move. Instead, Jackson’s hand came up, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with agonizing slowness before sliding into my damp hair, tilting my head back so I had no choice but to drown in his eyes. “Ten minutes is a long time, Cat. A lot can happen in ten minutes.”

Before I could protest, his mouth crashed onto mine. It wasn't a question; it was a conquest. His tongue forced its way past my lips, tasting of hunger and dominance. My head spun as he kissed me thoroughly, the room tilting on its axis. Just as I started to go limp, to melt into his strength, he pulled away with a cruel smirk, leaving me gasping.

Brandon didn't give me a second to breathe. He stepped in immediately, his hands gripping my waist to hold me still.

Brandon’s kiss was different—slower, hungrier, his teeth grazing my bottom lip until a broken moan escaped my throat and went straight into his mouth. I felt Jackson’s hands roam over the towel, his palms heavy and possessive against my breasts, while Brandon’s hand slid down to the small of my back, pulling me flush against his heat until there wasn't a millimeter of air between us.

Two men were kissing me, one after the other, marking me as theirs. I’d shared stolen kisses before—quick, reckless things at parties, but this was an eclipse. This felt dangerous. Consuming. Like a blood pact I wouldn’t be able to undo once the first drop was spilled.

“Look at you,” Jackson whispered against my ear, his breath hot and ragged, thick with triumph. He looked down at the floor, where a stray drop of my juices had hit the dark hardwood. “You’re leaking for us, little sister. You’re so wet you’re dripping on the floor like a bitch in heat.”

The shame should have been cold, but it felt like gasoline on a fire, turning my blood into molten lead.

“We’re going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk to dinner,” Brandon promised, his voice a low, vibrating growl against my neck. He ground his cock against me again, the friction of his heavy denim against my damp center making my knees buckle. “You’ll be crawling to the table, and every time you look at our father, you’ll remember the way we tasted.”

I felt their dual weight pressing in, the sensation of two hard erections dry-fucking me through the thin towel and their heavy jeans. I was lost in it, my head lolling back against Jackson’s shoulder, my eyes fluttering shut as I finally stopped fighting the forbidden reality of them breaking me open.

"Say it," Jackson commanded, his fingers dipping dangerously low beneath the edge of the towel, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. "Say you want your brothers to ruin you."

"I..." The words died in my throat as a loud, violent bang echoed from the hallway downstairs.

The trance shattered instantly. The reality of the house, my mother, and the impending dinner rushed back in. I pushed away from them, my chest heaving, my skin buzzing with an electric current that refused to die.

“Rhea!” my mom’s voice shouted up the stairs, sharp and impatient. “Downstairs. Now!”

Jackson ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the strands back into place as if nothing had happened. They started toward the door, at the door, Jackson paused and looked back at me, his green eyes dark with lust.

“We’ll finish this later.” He promised.

“And when we do,” Brandon added, his voice low, “we won’t stop until you’re begging for us to kill you or come again. Whichever comes first.”

The words sounded more like a threat than a promise.

I stood there shaking in the center of my room, clutching the towel to my chest, craving the touch of the two men who hated me. I knew then that wanting them wouldn't just change my life, it would destroy it.

: Crossing Boundaries

Rhea

The dining room didn't feel like a place for eating; it felt like a courtroom set to put my mom and I Into test and judgment.

My mother, Margaret, stood by the sideboard, gripping a silver serving spoon. She’d spent eight hours over a hot stove, but as she looked at Greg’s parents, she looked less like a wife and more like a servant awaiting a sentence. The air was thick—not just with the rich, savory scent of beef bourguignon, but with the suffocating weight of Grandpa Brenda’s judgment eyes.

I sat pinned between Jackson and Brandon like a prisoner in my own skin. Every time I shifted, their legs brushed mine, a constant, burning reminder of the sin we had almost committed in my bedroom. Even though I felt guilty they seemed unbothered.

At the head of the table, Grandpa Harold sat like a statue of granite. His silver hair was slicked back with military precision, and though he hadn't said a word, his silence felt like a physical weight. Beside him, Grandma Brenda didn't even look at her plate, her eyes narrowing at me the entire time.

"Child," Brenda said, her voice was polished, She gestured vaguely at my dress with a manicured hand. "Where on earth did you find that... garment? The cape detail. It looks almost hand-stitched. Or is it hand-woven?"

I felt a sudden, foolish spark of hope. At least I've won something that seemed to impress her. I looked at my mom, whose eyes brightened instantly, thinking this was the bridge—the moment of connection with family she’d been praying for.

"Oh! I actually found it at a little thrift store downtown," I said, offering a small, tentative smile. "I love the texture of the weave. I thought it felt... unique."

The table went deathly quiet. Elowen, Greg’s youngest, let out a sharp, jagged burst of a laugh that she quickly muffled with a linen napkin.

Brenda’s smile didn't falter, but it turned razor-thin. "I just knew it," she sighed, turning to Harold as if I weren't even there. "I knew it was a fake. A 'thrift store' find. How charmingly... resourceful. A real Laurent would never allow a hemline to be finished with such a clumsy, pedestrian stitch. It’s quite obvious, isn't it?"

The spark in my mom's eyes died a painful death. She looked down at her plate, her face flooding with a deep, humiliated red.

"Brenda, for heaven's sake," Harold muttered, “Let the poor child be. She's eating."

"I’m just stating the obvious, Harold," Brenda replied, dabbing her lips daintily. "If we are to be seen in public together, one must know the difference between couture and... used rags."

Elowen shook her head, her eyes dancing with malice. "It’s okay, Rhea. Maybe Grandma can take you to a real store. You know, where the clothes don't smell like other people's old sweat."

I felt a protective rage boiling in my gut, but before I could snap back, Brandon leaned closer to me. His voice was low it barely traveled past my shoulder.

“Don’t listen to them, Cat,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on his wine glass. “I think the dress suits you. It gives easy access for a quick fuck.”

I swallowed hard, trying to control the heat pooling between my legs.

I reached for a glass of water and gulped it down, desperate to cool the sudden sweat breaking out across my body, though it did nothing to steady the rush racing through me.

“Stop talking nonsense,” I said in a hushed tone.

He smiled arrogantly, fully aware of what he was doing to me. He brought his glass to his lips, taking a slow sip while watching me over the rim. “Just imagine how it would feel, us in the restroom of a club with you in this. I'd push it up around your waist, pin you against the cold tile wall, and fuck your little tight pussy until you forgot your own name.”

My pussy flooded instantly, soaking my panties. I gripped my fork so hard the metal bit into my flesh.

I stiffened, my breath hitching when I felt a large, warm hand settling firmly on my lap beneath the table, slightly pushing up my dress.

My fork clattered against my plate. The hand didn't stay still. It began to crawl upward, the fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, and heading straight for the epicenter of the ache Brandon had just ignited.

I looked down, peering through the small gap between my chair and the white tablecloth.

It was Jackson’s hand.

What the fuck is he doing? My mind screamed. Someone might notice. The table was crowded, the room was bright, and yet he was playing a game of chicken with our lives. I tried to shrug his hand off, pressing my knees together, but he gripped my leg in place with a strength that brooked no argument.

“What are you doing?” I whispered, the words barely a breath. “Please stop.”

An arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He didn't even look at me. With his free hand, he used a fork to spear a piece of chicken, taking a calm, appreciative bite as if he weren't currently violating every rule of his father’s house.

I could barely concentrate on the conversation above the table. My world had narrowed down to the sensation of his fingertips inching closer to the lace of my underwear. To distract myself, or perhaps to find some anchor in reality, my attention drifted to Elowen.

She was poking at a piece of chicken with her fork as if it were a dead lab rat. She took a tiny bite, chewed for two seconds, and then her face contorted in a mask of pure, performative disgust.

“Ugh! Fuck!” she gagged. The word sliced through the silence like a blade. She grabbed a paper towel and spat the half-chewed food into it with a wet, heavy thud. “This is disgusting. It tastes like actual shit.”

“Language, girl,” Greg muttered. He didn't look up. His tone lacked any real bite, more of a tired reflex than a true reprimand.

“Oh, leave her to express herself, Greg,” Brenda interjected. She offered a cold, thin smile that didn't reach her eyes. She pushed her own plate away as if the mere proximity of the food was an insult. “The girl is right. The seasoning is… well, it’s completely tasteless. It’s quite bland, isn't it?”

My heart sank for my mom. I watched her face fall. The light in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a shimmer of hurt she tried so hard to hide. She kept a broad, fake smile plastered on her face-the smile of a woman who was being stepped on and was apologizing for being under someone's boot. Ever since we moved into this mansion, she had been a saint. She'd tried to win over Greg's kids with kindness, and all they did was spit in her face.

“Oh… I’m so sorry, darling,” Mom said, her voice small and trembling. “If you don’t like it, I’ll try to make it better next time. I can go to the kitchen right now and make you a grilled cheese? Or a salad? It would only take a moment.”

“The food tastes good to me,” Jackson said suddenly.

The movement of his hand between my legs paused, his fingers hooking just under the edge of my panties. The table went silent. I looked up, stunned. I didn't expect a compliment to come from him—Jackson was usually the most cutting, the most cold-blooded of them all. I turned to look at him, and my breath caught. He was looking right at me, his green eyes hooded and dark with an unspoken hunger.