Deception. Betrayal. Mistrust.
It seems the closer Rayne gets to the truth, the more she finds herself wanting to run away from it. It's complex and terrifying-more than she ever fathomed.
New family members, good and bad, pop out at her like a br...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
𝗠averick couldn't understand it.
Couldn't hold it in his hand. Taste it on his tongue.
It'd been almost the same amount of time. They'd been given the same amount of moments. And still, as he sat on the beach towel hours ago and gazed upon his symmetrical face, purposely playing with his smiley just to garner his attention on his mouth, he was ignored.
Still, as his husband acted like a child and caused an argument, as well as embarrassed him just for the hell of it, he chose him. The man who'd burned him to a degree so severe, he couldn't breathe for weeks—months. The man who'd ruined his perception of life and love and yet, somehow, at the same fucking time, perfected it. Warped it. Rewrote it.
Maverick resented it.
Hated it.
He'd fabricated an apology, and it still wasn't enough.
He never wished this much ill against a person—never wanted to see the crackling corpse of another human being as they drowned in a fire he created. Never wanted to watch the life pour from those stupidly dark, but blindingly bright, blue eyes more than right now.
Now, as he stood in the hall with only the door separating their bodies.
Maverick looked around. His vision lingered on the crooked shadows of potted plants and manly décor for seconds too long. His paranoia had him hesitating, but his obsession had him craving a fight—craving the depravity he felt when Mason looked his way.
It was well past ten p.m..
Everyone was sleeping or out of the house. If he played his cards right, he could be in and out without a hitch. He could do what he needed, release what he yearned without a soul spotting him.
So he gazed back at the white door, latched a hand to the bronze knob, and pushed.
Maverick stayed still for a second.
Cocked his head and listened to the almost silent sound of the door on its hinges.
He peeked into Mason's room. Spotted the moon's silver hidden behind the glass panels of the window across from him. Noticed the lumped bodies tangled amongst sheets. Observed pieces of apparel that should belong to him decorating the floor.
The air was quiet, but the tension was thick. And so was the feeling below his belt as he shut the door with a small click, and dove deeper. His shoes marched across the hardwood, finding those same clothes to be a win—to have his sounds muffled under the softness of their fidelity.
Maverick halted at the side of the bed; in front of the window; in front of the two men who unabashedly held his dreams and aspirations in the palms of their hands without even knowing.
