Cheated With Four Girls

The sickening sound of four zippers dropping in unison echoed through the neon haze of the VIP lounge. It was obscene—sharp, metallic, and final. Like a guillotine falling. My heart hammered so hard I almost missed the low, breathy giggles that followed, rising and falling with Kade’s lazy drawl. I pressed closer to the door, my vision tunneling through the sliver of light leaking from the crack.

Four girls draped over him like silk scarves in a storm. Their hands everywhere, their glossy lips parted in worship, hunger, or both. Kade sprawled against the velvet couch, shirt half-open. His eyes glittered, sharp and hollow; his smile was a cold, practiced thing. My stomach twisted, a hot, sour rush rising in my throat. This was what I was to him. An afterthought, a name to be called when the games were over.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to retch. The taste of bile burned at the back of my tongue. My other hand went rigid, fingernails digging so violently into my palm that crescent moons of blood bloomed beneath the skin. I could feel the sticky warmth, proof that I was still here—still real, even if Kade was somewhere else entirely.

The corridor outside the lounge was deserted, washed in blue light that flickered with every pulse of the club’s bass. I stumbled backward, heel catching on something brittle—there was a sharp, crystalline crack. I jerked my foot away, too late. My stiletto had smashed a champagne flute someone had abandoned in the shadows. Shards glittered across the floor, tiny, jagged stars. The sound was too loud, too sharp, slicing through the music and my panic alike.

I spun on instinct, desperate to escape before someone noticed. My vision swam, colors blurring at the edges. I barely saw the figure until I crashed into him—a wall of muscle and expensive cologne, undercut with something darker: cedar, smoke, and the threat of violence.

His hand caught my shoulder before I could fall. I looked up. Ryker. Kade’s older brother—his shadow and his nightmare.

Ryker stood half in the dark, half in the spill of neon. His eyes were black and bottomless, mouth twisted in a smirk that was more wound than smile. He looked at me like he already knew every secret I’d ever tried to hide. "Running away while he enjoys the show, little bird? How pathetically predictable."

His voice was rough, silk dragged over gravel. Each word landed with the weight of a dare. I tried to jerk free, but his grip tightened—casual, unyielding. I hated the way my breath hitched at his touch, hated how his gaze pinned me like something fragile and ridiculous.

"Let me go," I hissed, my voice barely more than a rasp. My pulse thudded against his fingers.

Ryker’s thumb brushed the side of my throat, just above where my necklace hid the bruises Kade left when he was bored or angry. "Go back in there, then. Watch him fuck them. Or do you want to put on a show of your own?" He leaned in, the heat of his breath feathering over my cheek.

I shook my head, the motion wild, desperate. "You don’t know anything."

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Don’t I? You’re always here, always watching. Like a ghost haunting your own funeral."

Behind us, the door to the VIP lounge slammed open. The noise smacked through my panic like a starter’s pistol. Kade’s voice—slurred, impatient—echoed into the hall. "Sienna? Where the fuck did you go?"

Ryker’s eyes flashed, the smirk vanishing. He moved with predatory precision, dragging me sideways, away from the spill of light. A closet door yawned open at his shoulder—a janitor’s nook, shadowed and close. Before I could protest, his arm circled my waist, hauling me inside. The door swung shut, plunging us into darkness.

I barely had time to gasp before Ryker’s hand clamped over my mouth. His palm was callused, fingers long enough to cover half my face. The scent of cedar and tobacco was suffocating, entwined with the copper tang of blood still seeping from my palm. I could feel his chest pressed against my back, every breath slow and deliberate.

"Shh," he whispered, lips so close to my ear that I felt the shape of the word more than heard it. "Don’t make a sound, little bird."

On the other side of the door, Kade’s footsteps rang out, hesitant, then sharp. He was close—so close I could see the thin line of light beneath the door tremble as he paused. My heartbeat hammered against Ryker’s arm. I didn’t dare breathe.

Ryker leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of my ear. His breath was hot, slow, and deliberate. The space was too tight, too dark—his body a cage, his hand a lock. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear, to become nothing but shadow and silence.

Outside, Kade’s voice was softer now, almost uncertain. "Sienna?"

Ryker’s nose grazed the shell of my ear. I felt the faintest tremor in his chest—a laugh, maybe, or something darker. Our breaths mingled in the dark, heat and fear and something sharp as broken glass building between us.

The world shrank to the pulse in my throat, the weight of Ryker’s hand, and the knowledge that on the other side of the door, everything I thought I knew about safety was a lie.

I didn’t dare hope for rescue. I didn’t dare move. I only listened, every nerve alight, as Kade’s footsteps lingered—one heartbeat, two—before the shadow beneath the door shifted.

And Ryker, in the darkness, did not move his hand. His other arm tightened around my waist, a silent warning and a promise all at once.

I was trapped. Not just in the closet, but between brothers, between fear and desire, between the shards of what I’d thought was love and the jagged truth pressing against my skin.

In the pitch-black, with Ryker’s breath hot against my ear, I realized I was more alive than I had ever been. And far more lost.