Page 22 of Triple Pucked
I didn’t speak until I was twelve. It took years of support from my twin and adoptive parents to put more than two words together.
I cross my arms.
I’m dressed in a gray t-shirt and joggers. The wooden floor is cold against my bare soles.
My neck and shoulders are tense with pain. My temples throb.
I squint against the light, shuttering my expression to hide how much the light is hurting me.
The others don’t need to worry about my bullshit today. I can handle it.
I’ve always coped with pain.
The post-concussion syndrome from my injury on the ice wasn’t caused by a single fracture to my skull but by all the other blows before that. I can no longer skate because of the damage of beatings when I was a kid that cracked, shattered, then burned me to ash, before I was reborn again from the flames.
The bedroom — our bedroom — is painted sky blue.
A mirrored closet runs along one wall. A door leads through to a luxurious en suite. I can hear the cascade of water inside the en suite from the shower.
Shay must be taking a shower. He’ll be out in a couple of minutes because he’s as quick at washing himself as he is at skating. He should compete professionally.
Do speed showering contests exist?
Robyn definitely wouldn’t win.
She’d be better in theindulgently long bubble bath contest, especially if they include being served by naked men with champagne.
Shay is never more settled and happy in himself than when he’s playing Robyn’s servant, kneeling by her bath and handfeeding her chocolates.
Except, he’s not playing.
He’s fucking owned by both Robyn and D’Angelo. I don’t know if they realize just how much they could wreck my brother.
It scares me.
Having moved in together, however, some of the fear has melted from me.
My brother and I could always be kicked out, but D’Angelo designed this building just for us.
He built an entire library with a nook that feels like a nest.
I used my first salary to buy myself a single bookcase. Yet D’Angelo has gifted me a library.
Can I finally trust Shay’s ownership and my new love?
The four-poster bed that I slept in last night with rumpled silver silk sheets and piles of velvet cushions dominates the center of the room.
Metal handcuffs that are lined with leather do in fact hang from the oak headboard. In fact there are what look like handcuff points for restraints on both the headboard and baseboard that made Shay’s pupils dilate when he saw them.
A mural of an oak tree spreads across the far wall with painted robins hopping in its branches. D’Angelo had it specially commissioned by his artist friend.
He has a lot of friends like Shay used to.
Possibly, real ones.
Only, Shay’s mates were never true friends. They used him, and he let them because he wanted to please them. He was scared that he’d be rejected, abandoned, or turned over to people who would hurt us even worse (like we were by our parents), if he didn’t.
No one wanted to be my friend.
