Page 9 of Little Stranger

His silence is deafening, his breaths starting to calm from his vigorous workout.

“Mom told me to speak to you about something.”

The tip of his head is slight, and he lets go of my hair and backs away.

“She thinks you need help. A therapist, and to be medicated.”

He licks the salty sweat from his lips and reaches for a fresh towel, tossing it over his shoulder. He turns his back to me, and my eyes zone in on the expanse of it. He has a nice back, a tattoo on his ribs travelling up his back and across his shoulders.

It’s still fresh—I went with him to get it done a few days ago and read a book for nearly six hours while he kept his eyes on me. I asked if it hurt, but he shook his head.

I would rather stick pins in my eyeballs than get a tattoo. Who wants to be punctured with needles over and over again? No thank you.

He told me that night, while we watched a movie, that he was going to find a tattoo gun and put his name on my thigh, then continued to grab it and make me squeal as he started tickling me. I ended up frustrated and crushing my thighs together while we watched a movie.

Totally normal sibling behavior.

I want that playful Malachi, not the one walking away from me and into his bathroom to turn on the shower. He walks back in, leaning over the glass tank to check on his tarantula.

He looks up.Come here.

Hesitantly, I move forward, standing beside him as I watch the eight-legged beast scurry into a burrow. But then Malachi reaches down to grab it, letting it crawl onto his palm, and I try to step back, but he snatches my wrist to keep me in place.

The darkness within his eyes holds me in place, my body trembling as he manipulates my hand to put my palm upwards.

The spider is on the back of his hand as he signs to me.Are you going out with that dickhead?

I bite my lip. “I need to. Mom set up a dinner date for the weekend.”

His nostrils flare. He signs again.And the other guy?

My huff is louder than intended. “You already know I have to. It’s what Vize women do apparently. I can’t say no.”

His jaw ticks, and I yelp as he snatches my wrist.

“Please don’t,” I beg, barely able to stay still as the spider crawls down his arm, up his forearm, and settles in his palm. “Please, please, please don’t.”

Malachi tries to put the horrific thing in my palm. I yank away just in time, and it drops onto the floor. The shriek I let out as it scurries to my feet vibrates in my ears as I run to the other side of the room, throwing myself on his bed.

I’m still screaming when Malachi climbs on top of me and covers my mouth with his hand, fingers digging into my cheek. He raises his finger to his lips, telling me to be silent, but all I can focus on is his body layered over mine—the hardness pressed against my inner thigh.

He’s… hard. Aroused.

His cock is hard and it’s pressing against me.

Me. His sister.

I gulp, tensing everywhere to stop myself from moving, not breathing as I feel him twitch. His jaw is clenched firmer, his eyes hooded as he stares down at me.

I try to say something against his palm, but only a muffled whimper pours out of me.

Is he getting harder?

Oh God.

Not wanting to point out the obvious, because he might not even mean to be hard, or feel the heat between us rising, or the energy in the room altering as my own arousal coats my panties—and because my mouth is covered—I lift my hands to sign.

I won’t scream.

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