Fraternal: CH. 5

CHAPTER FIVE: THE CONFESSION

ASHER

"What the fuck, Ezra?!"

I honestly don't know where this anger is coming from, but it's bubbling up from somewhere deep—that place where bad thoughts tend to brew. The place where intrusive thoughts take hold and manifest into something dark and ugly. The place I try to keep locked away most of the time, but right now the door has been blown wide open and everything is spilling out, uncontrolled and raw.

"Ash—"

He tries, but I'm not done yet. Not even close.

"We made a deal, Ezra."

My voice is shaking now, trembling with something I can't quite name. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I can feel my nails digging crescents into my palms, the sharp bite of pain grounding me.

"I know, but—"

Again, I don't let him finish the thought. I can't. If I let him talk, if I let him explain with that voice of his, I might lose my nerve. I might crumble.

"Ezra! We made a deal!"

The words come out louder than I intend, almost a shout that echoes in the small space between us. I watch him flinch slightly, his shoulders drawing in, and I feel a pang of guilt that I quickly push away. I can't afford guilt right now.

"Just let me explain," he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Okay, Ez—explain," I say, crossing my arms over my chest like I'm trying to physically hold myself together, like if I don't I might fall apart completely. "Explain how you walked into that club, pretended to be me, and walked out of the place with my date."

The image of it plays in my mind like a movie I can't turn off. Ezra with his charming smile, using my name, taking what was supposed to be mine. Dancing with Elliot. Touching him. Being touched by him.

"Well—but it's not what you think," he says, running a hand through his hair in that nervous way he does when he's scrambling for words.

"I'd ask you to explain it, but I guess this is how it is now," I say, the words coming out hollow. I'm not even sure what I'm alluding to. Maybe I'm talking about us. Maybe I'm talking about everything that's been building between us for months, years even. Maybe I'm talking about the way things can never go back to how they were.

Ezra just stands there, frozen, the collar of his undershirt stretched loose like someone's been grabbing at it. Or pulling it off. The evidence is written all over him—his mussed hair, his swollen lips, the faint marks on his neck that I can see even in the dim light of our room.

"Did you fuck him?" I ask, the question coming out flat, dejected. The words taste bitter in my mouth, like ash and regret.

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and loaded with everything I'm not saying. With everything I can't say.

"What—Ash—of course not."

"And why should I believe you?"

My voice cracks on the last word and I hate myself for it. For showing weakness. For caring this much. For letting him see how much this is tearing me apart.

"Because I'm your brother."

He says it should mean something. Like that should be enough to erase the doubt, the jealousy, the hurt. And maybe it should be, but it isn't. Not anymore.

Maybe they really didn't have sex. Maybe they did—I don't know. What I do know, what I'm finally admitting to myself as I stand here staring at him, is that I'm not mad about the bet. I'm not mad about the stupid game we were playing or the rules that got broken. I'm not even mad that he pretended to be me.

I'm mad that he potentially had sex with someone who wasn't me.

And as fucked up as that sounds, as wrong and twisted and completely inappropriate as it is, it doesn't change the fact that I'm in love with him.

Ezra walks over and puts his arms around me. And he just holds me because sometimes a person just needs to be held.

"I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you," he says, still holding me close.

He places a kiss on my neck.

"You know that right?"

I can't tell if he's asking a question or if he's making a statement, but he kisses my neck again and I want to melt.

My body responds before my brain can catch up—shoulders dropping, breath hitching, skin heating up where his mouth touches. It's instinct. Muscle memory. The way my body knows his touch better than anyone else's and reacts without permission.

I should push him away. I should demand answers. I should make him tell me exactly what happened in Elliot's room—every detail, every touch, every fucking second.

But I don't.

Because his lips are on my neck and his hands are sliding up under my shirt and I'm already half-hard just from this. From him being close. From the way he knows exactly where to kiss, exactly how much pressure to use, exactly how to make me forget why I was angry in the first place.

"Ezra—" I start, but it comes out breathless. Weak.

"Shh," he murmurs against my skin. "Just—let me."

His hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it up. I lift my arms automatically, letting him strip it off. The air in the dorm room is cool against my bare chest but his palms are warm as they slide down my sides, thumbs brushing over my ribs.

"I'm still mad at you," I say.

"I know."

"I mean it."

"I know," he says again, and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is different from the ones we've shared before. There's desperation in it—something raw and urgent that makes my chest tight. His tongue slides against mine and I taste the fear underneath everything else. The terror that I might actually walk away from this. From him.

I kiss him back harder, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. If this is manipulation, if this is him using my feelings to avoid the conversation we need to have, then fine. I'll let him. Because right now I need this more than I need answers.

His hands move to my jeans, fingers working the button open with practiced ease. The zipper comes down and then his hand is inside my boxers, wrapping around my cock.

"Fuck—" I break the kiss, head falling back.

"You're already hard," he says, and there's something almost relieved in his voice. Like my body's response proves something. Like it means I'm not really that angry. Like we're okay.

We're not okay.

But his hand is stroking me now—slow, deliberate pulls that make my hips buck forward—and I can't think straight enough to care.

"Bed," I manage.

Continue reading with full access to The House of Thorne.

UNLOCK FULL ACCESS