Atticus
“ENGLISH IS TOO HARD!” Atlas whines, flopping back onto the chaise he’s lying on in the drawing room.
I peer at him over my book, raising a brow. “You speak it perfectly fine, don’t you?”
He levels me with a glare, one that makes him appear to be a displeased, unsatisfied kitten.
“Of course,” he scoffs. “But this is different. How am I meant to write an eight-page essay on The Scarlet Letter?”
“I did it,” I offer. “Padro doesn’t ask for the impossible, darling.”
My baby brother is still in high school, taking lessons from the same private tutor I had before I started college—the same one our little Abigail will obey once she enters her teen years.
I watch as Atlas whines, his fingers gripping the previously mentioned novel as he stares at the ceiling.
It’s known inside the walls of Chastain that I’m a protective older brother. I love Atlas and Abigail like my next breath of air, and I pray for any man who decides to lay a claim on either of them someday.
And yes, I say man because it’s clear that both of them will fall in line with that assumption. Abigail spends most of her nights gushing over boy bands, even at her young age, and Atlas has grown into the perfect little prince waiting in his castle for a knight in shining armor.
And they’re both so beautiful—Abigail with her long blonde hair and bright green eyes, fair skin, and gentle but excitable personality.
Then there’s Atlas, with his bouncy brown curls and big blue eyes, wearing his soft blouses and following Mother around, learning how to appear graceful and demure, as if he doesn’t already succeed just by breathing.
Neither of them is anything like me—all coiled control and barely contained possessiveness. Which is good, as I’m pretty sure my personality type isn’t normal. Not with how involved I can be, how desperately I crave order and submission.
When I graduate and I marry, carrying on the Chastain legacy, it will be to someone who listens. Someone who wants to be guided and controlled. I will not stand for anything less.
And this exact thought is why, for the first time ever, I’m having trouble focusing on Atlas and his whining.
My mind continues to wander back to last night, to a dark guestroom in town, way past the time I normally lock myself away to read or meditate. When I was somewhere I never would have gone before—until I saw him.
I’m not one to label myself, though it’s true that very few women have ever gotten my attention. Men, either, if I’m honest. Not only am I extremely picky, but knowing my personality, only a very specific kind of person can pique my interest.
And Cameron has.
I’m not an idiot; I’ve seen him watching me.
Since we were young, if that man caught sight of me, his stormy eyes would lock in and never stray.
It was annoying at first, then slightly flattering, then something I ignored altogether.
But now, having spoken to him, I’m certain of the kind of person he is.
Those nervous, darting eyes and unsure posture. The way he seems to force himself to be okay with physical contact, and how he can’t seem to adequately make a single decision or assumption on his own.
Like being unclear on whether I wanted his number, even as I held my phone out to him. Like not being able to pick a poison at his own party.
I just know, with everything in me, that he needs guidance. He craves a strong hand to move him through this life. And I want nothing more than an obedient, willing companion. It calms me, makes me feel needed and larger than life.
As soon as he spoke, his voice deep yet soft, I wanted to taste him. To see if he tasted like sweet submission, the way he sounds and acts.
I wanted it so badly that I entered a hormone-infested party, and I let that flirty girl—Cassie, I believe—from town have my phone number just so I could get his.
And then, I did taste him. Sweet like candy yet layered in a glorious layer of fear and uncertainty. Like he wanted nothing more to crumble in my capable hands, but was too terrified to let go.
I will teach him to let go, even if I have to frequent the dreary landscape of Port Orford more often just to do so.
I’m unsure if I want to keep him forever, but I do know that I want to possess him completely and take away the burden of living this life alone.
At least for now.
The question is, will he let me? I think he will. I think that with enough swaying and enough comforting, he’ll collapse so beautifully.
“Atticus?” Atlas says, interrupting my thoughts once more. “Are you even listening to me? I’m floundering! How am I meant to graduate when I can barely understand this blasphemous book?!”
Blasphemous is a stretch, but even as we Chastains have always been devoted Christians, I’ve never been super dedicated. His choice of terminology doesn’t offend me, and I know for a fact that Atlas hasn’t gone to the chapel in days.
“You can do this,” I tell him, smiling gently as I stand from the lounge chair I was sprawled over and approach where he lies. “You’re smart, Atty.”
My hand smoothes over his curls, his lashes fluttering as he stares up at me in admiration.
How am I ever meant to settle when my brother already stares at me like I’m a god?
“But it’s difficult!” he cries.
“I know. But so many things are, and even if you only ever intend to be a beautiful little thing, gardening and taking care of your home, you still need basic knowledge of the world.” I attempt to placate him, knowing full well that Atlas doesn’t crave a career the way I do, but still wanting him to put his best foot forward.
“You’re right,” he mutters, pouting so insistently that his full bottom lip juts out in defiance. “I just want to finish already. I want to be like Momma and spend my days being beautiful and kind. Nothing else.”
“You already are beautiful and kind,” I insist. “But do you believe that Mother never finished school?”
Atlas shakes his head, glancing back at the book in his hands. “Fine. But after I finish high school, I’m not doing anything. I swear it.”
A soft laugh leaves me as I bend down and kiss his forehead, feeling his soft skin against my rough hands. “Sure, darling. Whatever you want.”
While Atlas craves to do nothing after graduating from high school, I’m at university for business.
It is my duty as the eldest son to take over Portline Enterprise when my father retires, and I intend to be outstanding.
Once I graduate with my bachelor’s, I’ll be able to start training under him, learning our trade.
And one day, I’ll marry and have kids—whether through physical creation or adoption—and take over Chastain Castle. Mother and Father will retire to our cottage home in town, living the simple life, while I maintain the integrity of our bloodline.
It is tradition. It is what I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little boy, clinging to my father’s pant leg.
As Atlas closes his book and disappears to the kitchen to greet Barfred, our cook, I head to my own room to do some homework.
All of our help is kind. Barfred is a few years older than I am, but still relatively young for his position, and as someone who is controlling and possessive in nature, I can sense some level of that in him, too.
Then we have Hannah, who is older than Barfred but not as old as our butler, Oscar, and who takes care of a lot of mundane cleaning and assistance.
Oscar is kind—he works closely with my father and has all of our best interests at heart.
The only help that lives with us is him and our attendant, a middle-aged woman who spends most of her time attending to Atlas or Abigail. As a college student, I can take care of myself.
With the door of my quarters safely shut and locked, I lie on my bed, pretending to do my homework on my laptop as I mentally return to that dark room. To Cameron.
I want to find him even now, to ask him to be my obedient sweetheart and to feel him please me, just as desperately as I wish to please him.
In truth, Cameron is beautiful. This is something I noticed even as a kid, with his raggedy clothes and wild blond hair. But beauty was never a deciding factor to me; it was always submissiveness.
And Cameron is dripping in both. With his golden hair, stormy gray eyes, and rippling muscles, his body and face greatly contradict his personality. I pride myself on being able to read people—it’s good for business—and from him, I read exactly what I hope is the truth.
He needs me.
Remembering how he tasted, how his lips felt against mine, how he shuddered and fell apart after telling me yes, I can make these decisions for him, makes my heart thunder.
And my cock swell.
The zipper of my slacks digs into my hardening length, but I ignore it. Pulling myself out and thrusting into my own hand doesn’t sound nearly as satisfying as rutting against him, as hearing his breathy whimpers and feeling his trembling hands on my skin.
Like he’s begging me to take control.
If I weren’t certain that he’s currently nursing a hangover and preparing to start work tomorrow, I’d find him right now. I’d drive into town and ask around until I found his house, and then I’d take him, teaching him just how pleasurable it can be to give up his control. To feed it to me.
Cameron gives off the look that he’s a strong, dependable man. He’s a hard worker, someone who supports his family and appears to be the epitome of an independent, confident man. All of these things I learned from Cassie, who answered all my questions without a hint of suspicion last night.
But I can see him. I can see him for what he truly is: a man in desperate need of protection, guidance, and an outlet to plug his submission into.
For some reason, he’s hiding this. He’s battling it. And I want to find out why; I want to dig into his psyche and bleed the truth out of his bloodstream. Then, I will use it against him until he drops those walls and crumbles.
This thought alone is enough to make my cock jump, excited and aware.
But I can wait. I’ll sit by idly until I have him alone again, ready to tear him to shreds and have him sobbing in relief. In pleasure.
I just have to see him. He has to see me.
Then, it’s game on.
Checkmate, Cameron.