Family Ties - He Was Mine First

Leo POV

Leo’s hands were steady on the wheel as the cabin disappeared in the rearview mirror. The forest road blurred past under the headlights, trees black against a sky that had gone the colour of old bruises. Fifteen minutes later the neon of a roadside motel flickered into view, cheap, isolated, the kind of place that asked no questions and kept no records worth reading.

He paid cash for a ground-floor room that smelled of bleach and last year’s cigarettes. The door locked with a heavy clunk. Only then did the shaking start.

He sat on the edge of the stained mattress, head in his hands, and forced the images back: Alex in the sling, collar tight, cage locked, piss spraying while his father laughed and kept thrusting. The sound of Ron calling him a toilet. The way Alex had smiled through it.

Revenge needed more than rage. It needed proof.

At first light he drove three towns over and found a military surplus store still open under fluorescent tubes that hummed like insects. He walked the aisles until he found what he needed: a pair of high-powered binoculars with night capability, and a small selection of wireless micro-cameras, button-sized, battery-powered, motion-activated, the kind sold for “security” and “hunting.”

He paid, left, and returned to the motel only long enough to charge the devices and load them into a black backpack.

Destroy them all. That was the fantasy that had kept him awake. Burn the cabin, smash every face, make them feel a fraction of what he felt, but that would only end with him in handcuffs. He needed evidence first. Leverage first. Then the rest.

By mid-morning the sun was already high and merciless.

Alex POV

Alex woke to the dull, delicious throb that lived between his legs. His hole felt swollen, puffy, used in the best possible way, raw around the edges, still slick, still open enough that the sheets brushed him like a second touch. He shifted and hissed, a low sound of pure satisfaction.

Beside him the twink slept on his stomach, face turned into the pillow, dark hair messy, body marked with the same night’s work. Peaceful. Completely spent.

Alex’s stomach growled. Coffee. Now.

He pulled on nothing but one of the discarded black thongs from the night before and padded barefoot down the hall. The kitchen was already alive. Glen and Steven sat at the long wooden table, shirts off, coffee mugs in hand, looking like men who had fucked hard and slept harder. Ron stood at the stove, spatula moving through bacon and eggs that hissed and spat. Frank was at the coffee machine, the rich smell of a fresh pot filling the room.

Glen looked up first. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his bearded face. “Morning, sunshine.”

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