Chapter 3 Samantha
SAMANTHA
Mom’s hand feels like paper in mine. Thin skin stretched over bones that jut out at wrong angles.
The hospice room is too warm, the air thick with the smell of industrial cleaner trying to mask something worse underneath.
Machines beep steadily beside the bed, tracking a heartbeat that’s slowing down with each passing hour.
I’m eighteen years old, and I’m watching my mother die, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do except sit here and hold her hand and pretend I’m not crumbling inside.
“Sam.” Her voice comes out as barely a whisper, rough like gravel.
“I’m here, Mom. I’m right here.” I lean closer, squeezing her fingers gently because I’m terrified of hurting her. Everything about her seems breakable now.
Her breathing changes. Gets rougher, wetter. There’s a rattle deep in her chest that makes my stomach turn.
The nurse warned me about this sound yesterday. Told me in that sympathetic voice that when the breathing changes like this, it means we’re close to the end.
But knowing it’s coming and actually hearing it are completely different things.
The rattle gets louder. Her chest heaves with effort, fighting for air that won’t come easily anymore. I squeeze her hand tighter, silently begging her to keep fighting even though I know it’s selfish. Even though I can see in her eyes that she’s already somewhere else, somewhere I can’t reach.
Then comes the sound I’ll never forget. That final grunt. Low and guttural and so completely wrong that my entire body recoils.
Her chest stops moving.
The machines start their awful, endless whine.
And I’m screaming, screaming, screaming—
I bolt upright in bed, gasping like I’ve been underwater. Sweat soaks through my silk pajama top, making it cling to my skin. My heart is trying to break through my ribs. The scream is still trapped in my throat, clawing to get out.
“Keep it down,” Logan mutters from beside me, not even bothering to open his eyes. He rolls over, taking most of the blanket with him.
Not are you okay. Not what happened. Not even a concerned look in my direction because I’m a barking dog interrupting his beauty sleep.
I sit there in the darkness and roll my eyes. This isn’t the first nightmare that’s woken me up since we started dating. Won’t be the last either. And his response is always the same. Turn over, go back to sleep, pretend I don’t exist until morning.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sand. I need water.
I slip out of bed as quietly as I can and grab my robe from the chair near the window. Logan’s already snoring again, one arm thrown across his face, mouth hanging open. How romantic.
The hallway outside my room is dimly lit by sconces mounted along the walls, casting shadows that make everything look slightly menacing. I didn’t pay attention earlier when Logan showed me our room.
I turn left because it feels right. The carpet is so thick that my footsteps don’t make a sound. I pass one closed door, then another, then another. They all look identical. Expensive landscape paintings in heavy frames. Side tables with fresh flower arrangements. More doors.
The hallway branches off, and I pause, trying to remember which way leads to the main part of the house. Left? Right? Straight?
I pick left and keep walking.
More doors. More paintings. A grandfather clock tucked into an alcove that makes me jump when I pass it.
The hallway branches again, and I’m completely turned around now. Everything looks the same in this massive house. Who needs this much space? What are they hiding in all these rooms?
A clock somewhere chimes twice. It’s two in the morning. Perfect.
I keep walking because stopping means admitting I’m lost, and I’m not quite ready for that level of humiliation. Maybe I’ll stumble across the kitchen. Or at least find someone who can point me in the right direction.
Then I hear voices. Low and muffled but definitely voices.
I stop, listening. A woman laughs, breathy and pleased. A man says something I can’t make out. Another laugh, this one turning into a soft gasp.
Light spills from a partially open door at the end of this hallway. I’m curious about what people are laughing about at two in the morning.
My feet carry me forward.
The voices get clearer as I approach. The woman moans, long and drawn out. Someone murmurs something in response. My pulse picks up speed, heat crawling up my neck even though I haven’t seen anything yet.
I reach the door and hesitate. This is such a bad idea. This is none of my business. I should leave.
I peer through the narrow gap anyway, the door barely cracked, offering a sliver of the firelit room beyond.
My hands fly to my mouth, stifling a gasp as my heart slams against my ribs. Holy shit, is this even legal? Grant, Donovan, and Kai surround a woman pressed against the wall, her body glistening with sweat in the flickering glow.
Kai’s on his knees, hair wild with his face buried between her thighs, tongue working her pussy with hungry, relentless licks, her hips bucking against his mouth, fingers clawing his scalp.
Donovan’s at her side, his hand wrapped around his glistening cock, stroking slowly, his other hand pinching her nipple, making her arch.
Grant’s opposite, his tattooed arms braced on the wall, caging her, his own cock hard as he strokes it, lips grazing her neck with a possessive edge.
“Oh, fuck!” she moans, her voice muffled through the door, the words barely reaching me—just yes and more—but her body screams ecstasy, head thrown back, trembling under their hands.
My pulse is a jackhammer, heat flooding my core so fast I sway, thighs pressing together as a slick ache builds.
This is like the first time I stumbled across porn at age thirteen, sneaking onto Mom’s laptop and finding that grainy video of bodies tangled in ways I didn’t know were possible—shocking, wrong, but so hot I couldn’t look away.
Except this is real, and I’m standing here like a perv, watching my boyfriend’s family do… this.
Is this what rich people do in their mountain homes? Just fuck like it’s a Tuesday-night hobby? I mean, Jesus, they’re so into her, like she’s the center of their goddamn universe.
Logan’s never even looked at me like that, let alone made my body sing like she’s singing now. My hands are shaking, one still clamped over my mouth, the other pressed to my stomach, trying to stop the throbbing need that’s making my panties a lost cause.
Kai pulls back, lips slick, and stands, lifting her effortlessly. “Veronica,” he growls—her name hitting me like a shock wave—as he thrusts into her, pinning her to the wall with hard, fast strokes.
Her legs wrap around his waist, nails raking his back, her moans sharp and desperate, though I only catch snatches like please.
Donovan guides his cock to her mouth, and she sucks him eagerly, her hand reaching for Grant’s length, stroking him in sync. The coordination is insane, like they’ve got a playbook for this.
I’m dizzy, my breath shallow, wondering if I’m a creep for how much this is turning me on. Seriously, Samantha, get a grip—except I can’t, not when they’re worshiping her like that.
This is wrong. I know this is wrong. I shouldn’t be standing here watching my boyfriend’s father and brothers with another woman. I definitely shouldn’t be getting turned on by it.
But I can’t look away. Can’t make myself move.
Kai slows, pulling her away from the wall, and I catch a muffled plea from her. “I want you both inside me, please, Daddy!”
My heart skips at the words, sending a fresh wave of heat through me.
What the actual fuck.
Grant nods, the low rumble of his voice—good girl—barely reaching me. They move toward a leather chair just out of my sight line, the firelight still catching their bodies as they reposition.
I strain to see like the creep I have not become, catching a glimpse of Kai sitting, pulling her onto his lap, her front to his chest as he slides into her pussy again.
Grant’s behind her, spitting on her ass—God, that’s filthy—and easing into her.
Their bodies starting to move in tandem for double penetration, but the angle of the chair hides them now, the door gap too narrow to show more.
She cries out, “Yes, Daddy, please!”
The words are clear enough to make my thighs clench, my body aching with a need I can’t name.
Donovan’s voice cuts through—“Good girl, Veronica”—low and approving, but they’re too far into the room now, the chair blocking my view.
I can’t see the rest, just hear her moans spiking, raw and overwhelmed, and it’s too much. My knees are jelly, my heart screaming this is wrong, but my body’s screaming louder for something I’ve never had.
They’re so focused on her pleasure. It’s nothing like Logan’s half-assed groping. I want to be her, pinned between them, taken apart, and I hate myself for it.
Grant’s eyes flick toward the door, and I freeze, heart in my throat, sure I’m caught. But his gaze slides back to her, his movements hidden now. He didn’t see me. Thank God. I stumble back, legs unsteady, forcing myself to turn away before I’m spotted.
The images burn in my mind—Kai’s tongue on her pussy, Donovan’s cock in her mouth, Grant’s hands spreading her for more.
My hands shake as I navigate back through the hallways. I take two wrong turns before I finally recognize the corridor that leads to my wing. By the time I slip back into my room, my heart is racing and my skin feels like it’s on fire.
I couldn’t even get the water. Dammit.
Logan hasn’t moved. He’s still snoring and oblivious. Wait, does he know? Does he know his father and brothers do this? Is he a part of this?
Oh, no, my God. Maybe he brought me here so they can share me too?
Seriously, Sam? That’s silly.
I climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling. Sleep is impossible now. Every nerve ending in my body is awake and screaming for attention. The image is burned into my brain.
I want to touch myself. I know I’m wet down there. I can feel it.
The ache between my legs is getting worse, not better. But Logan is right there, three feet away, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
Though, he wouldn’t notice if I did. And he probably wouldn’t care. But the idea of getting myself off to the thought of what I’ve just seen, while my boyfriend sleeps beside me, completely checked out, feels pathetic in ways I can’t quite name.
I roll onto my side and try to think about something else. Anything else. Work emails I should answer. The grocery list I left on my kitchen counter back in Chicago.
Nothing works. My body won’t cooperate. The ache just intensifies.
After thirty minutes of torture, I give in to sleep.