Page 18 of Auctioned to her Stepbrothers

I'm the first one out, needing fresh air, but Lyle and Nate are quick to follow. The slamming car doors are like gunshots in the quiet night.

Part of me wanted to stay at the club all night. Finding Honor under the mask was a shock, but now that she's ours, I want my fucking money's worth. My back is a scarred mess from all the beatings I took, and it's about time I got something in return. If we only have her for a week, I'm going to put her through her paces, and if she pretends to hate it, even better.

Maybe it's better that she gets to stew until tomorrow night. Let her imagination work for a while. And then show her that her imagination is nothing compared to the reality of what I'm going to do to her.

The massive oak front door with the family seal embossed on it creaks as I push it open. It's as apt a metaphor as any for life here. Fancy as fuck on the outside, but it doesn't take much to show how little care gets put into it.

"Is he home?" asks Nate. He glances towards the west wing, where Dad has his office. Light spills out from under his door down the hall.

"Who the fuck cares?" Lyle shrugs. "Old Dick-Ass can go rot. I've got other things to do."

Dick-Ass. Honor came up with that nickname, surprisingly enough. She was sweet as pie, but her mind took clever turns, too. Richard Aston to the world, Dick-Ass to his kids, real or step. She couldn't have found a more fitting name for him.

Unless it was Abuser. Narcissist. Cruel, insecure piece of shit. There are so many possibilities.

A growling, cigarette-scratched voice calls out, "It's the middle of the fucking night. Where the hell have you boys been?" His voice carries clearly, even through the door. It's amazing how well old stately mansions carry sound. I always knew when Lyle or Nate had a girl over if that paints a picture.

Guess he's home. "You guys do whatever. I'll deal with him."

Nate's forehead creases in concern. "Ky, you don't have to do it alone."

"I know. Now fuck off."

They do, probably out of habit, taking the stairs up toward the bedrooms. It's what they're used to. I could never take all the heat off them, but I did my best. I'm the oldest, after all.

Fuck my hero complex, but if I don't take control, who does?

I roll my shoulders, loosening them. Dad doesn't dare get physical these days, but old habits are hard to break. He was always a firm believer in "spare the rod, spoil the child," but Idon't think he ever planned for what to do once his children were grown and bigger than him.

I don't bother knocking.

"It's three in the fucking morning, and you're rolling in like you're still teenagers. The shareholder meeting is at nine sharp tomorrow, and I expect all of you to be there. You're not going to embarrass me out there." His back is to me. It's broad and muscular. There's little doubt where I got it from. Even at his age, he's no pushover.

What the fuck is wrong with this family when the first thing I do on entering my father's office is to prepare for a fistfight? I'm sure that explains more than a few things.

He finds whatever he was searching for in the cabinet and turns to face me. With a grimace and a dark glare, he taps the papers on his desk to align them, then puts them aside for later. He eases into his massive leather desk chair, almost as old as he is. "And if you're out fucking around, you better be careful. The last thing this family needs is a bastard to complicate things."

I glare right back, pushing down the memories of looking up at him when I was a boy. When his face would be twisted in fury as he loosened his belt. I hate that he can still make me feel like this. But these days, we mostly fight with words. "You're all the bastard this family will ever need."

He grunts, unimpressed. I wonder what he might say if I told him about Honor, but I won't. I speak to the old son of a bitch only when I have to, and it would only give him pleasure to hear that she's in so much trouble she has to fucking sell herself. He called her mom a whore often enough.

But then I'm enjoying it too, so does that make me any better than him?

Fuck.

"Well, you're here now, and we're both up, so come look at this, so we're both ready tomorrow. If you're awake enough to fuck, you're awake enough to pretend to take some responsibility." He turns his laptop so we can go over the figures. Having to cooperate with him makes my mouth taste like puke, but business is business. And while Dick-Ass is a narcissistic asshole, it's in both of our best interests that the family business goes well, so the day he finally kicks the bucket, my brothers and I have a thriving, company to take over.

I settle into my chair, prepared for a night of trading barbs and hoping that he finds it in himself to get riled up so that he punches first.

Wishful thinking.

But if he does, it sure as hell will be me who punches last.

* * *

My mood is still sour when I find myself outside the entrance to Club Scarlet the following night. Even the thought of Honor waiting for us isn't enough to wash the bad taste out of my mouth, but I suspect that I'll be feeling better by the end of a night of using her the way she deserves.

"We can deal with Dad sometimes, too," says Nate. Much as I try to hide it, he and Lyle know me too well.

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