Chapter 3: Liquid Courage and Submission

Destiny builds the drinks without looking at the label. She upends one bottle after another into the pitcher, wrist rolling, not simulating a measure of restraint. Punch overflows; the fake blood streaks the rim.

The vodka goes in heavy—she never waters it down for the white boys. Stanlee tries to track how much, but Destiny blocks his line of sight every time. Ice snaps between her fingers. Cubes crash into the bowl, one bouncing onto the floor. Fog burgeons around the baseboards; Stan’s cape drags through, the hem soaks with condensation.

With hands open, Wesley hovers near the counter, not sure what to do. Destiny shoves a drink toward him, so full that the liquor sloshes over the sides.

“You’ll keep up, Stanny,” she says.

That’s not a question. The raw command shocks Wesley, and he flinches. When he grips the cup, he nearly drops it on the linoleum. Amused, Destiny chuckles and shifts focus back to Stan.

Even though Stanlee itches for escape, Destiny’s glare pins him. A soft caress grazes his knuckles as she slides a glass into his palm with her other hand. The chill from the beverage barely cools the trembling. While he wants to stabilize his hand, Lisa sits a few feet away, Elijah’s arm wrapped around her, trapping her like an afterthought.

Elijah never lets up. Cradling Lisa’s head, dark fingers sliding through blonde hair, tugging the strands enough to tilt her face. His other hand traces her neck—sometimes the pulse, other times the hollow above the bone.

All the time, Elijah keeps his eyes on Stan. Never batting an eye, daring him to make a move. Lisa’s lips tremble. Her breathing hitches when Elijah’s thumb passes under her chin.

And Stanlee grips the container so tight, the thin cup warps, moisture pooling in his palm. He needs to break the stare, needs to rescue Lisa from the couch, but his body refuses to coordinate. Destiny’s vodka burns his tongue, makes his brain buzz. Each time he aims to rise, she blocks with another drink or a glare.

Across the room, Justus claims Carol without ceremony. He yanks her down into the battered armchair, tugging her onto his lap—her skirt rides up, black lace flashing at the hem. Justus buries his face behind her ear, lips brushing skin, voice a low mutter meant only for her. Carol jumps with every phrase, blush creeping down her throat, but her spine curves into Justus’s chest like she’s safer there than anywhere else in the apartment.

Wesley can’t handle it. He stalks across the rug, hand out like he’d like to snatch Carol back. Jasmine cuts through the route—panther-quick, stealthy, an actual wall. She slams her hand flat against Wesley’s chest and doesn’t let go. He strains to move her, but Jasmine’s grip doesn’t budge. She shoves him once, not rough, but definite. Wesley sags. Jasmine steers him back to the kitchen chair, nails digging where his shirt tucks in.

Carol and Justus only notice when Jasmine’s laughter cracks the air. Carol glances over, face hot, then looks away again. Her knees drape over the armrest; Justus’s hand parks firm on her thigh, thumb kneading circles. The witch hat bounces at the small of her back, forgotten. Justus drowns her in whispers, gaze locked on Destiny to see if she’s paying attention.

Fog rolls deep in the corners. Halloween lights flicker, and the bones on the ceiling cast shadows over the faces underneath. Stan loses sight of Lisa’s mouth, but he can’t lose the sound—she moans under Elijah’s touch. The nurse skirt hitches up, pale thighs glossy in the candlelight.

Elijah never stops tracing and claiming her skin.

Music swells—some old rap song, not the right genre, but Destiny likes it because it’s hers. She dances at the libations table, hips rolling, cape brushing the edge of Stanlee’s arm every time she spins. Stan feels the contact. He hates waiting for it.

Lisa quivers on the couch. Her head tips back, neck arched, lips parted so wide they shine. Elijah cups her face, thumb rubs from the dimple of the neck up to the chin, down to the collarbone. The finger slides beneath the strap of the nurse dress, and he pulls it down until her skin is exposed, all pale, white, yearning flesh.

A conquered woman, Lisa, whimpers.

Stan can’t hold back the urge to reach out. His leg jumps, heel skidding the floor, where the cape lets go. Destiny clocks every detail—his need, his shame, and the way Elijah won’t even let Stanlee’s jealousy phase him.

Playing the hero, Elijah smirks at Stanny.

Letting his hand crawl along Lisa’s throat, not choking, but owning the territory. Lisa’s breath fogs in short, ragged bursts. Her hands flutter at her lap, not sure if they want to cover her legs or clutch Elijah’s wrist.

Unable to choose, she does neither.

Stan tries to steady his drink. He wishes Lisa would signal for rescue. Wants her to claw out from Elijah and hide against him on the other end of the couch. Instead, Lisa’s eyes roll back, lashes fluttering closed. The sight sends a jolt through Stanlee’s ribs. Not from the cold, he shivers, but from being stunned. Should he move, yes, he knows it.

Destiny slides her hip onto the counter, boots knocking a bunch of plastic grapes off the punch bowl. She watches Lisa dissolve beneath black hands. The more Stanny twitches, the more cruel Destiny smiles.

Sulking in the chair, Wesley’s shoulders slump. Jasmine parks herself at his elbow, panther tail coiling around her own wrist. She commands all the space. Wesley tries to lean toward Carol, but Jasmine shoves him back with a single palm.

Dead calm, Jasmine doesn’t talk—she stares, as if she’ll hold Wesley there forever. Wesley’s jaw sets, but even his own hands betray him; they rattle against the bottom of the cup, ice spinning in circles. Not sweet at all, Jasmine’s fingers brush his cheek. More of marking her property.

Jasmine’s eyes remain fixed on the show on the couch. Purring, pleased, she leans in.

“You’re not gonna win her back that way, pussy child.”

The words slice, but Wesley can barely answer. All fight drains, and his cheeks turn mottled red and white.

Carol hears it too. The armchair squeaks when she shifts, and Justus’s body swallows hers in one move. Justus runs both hands along her ribs, skips the waist, and lands on her hip, pinning Carol still. He whispers filth in her ear—something about how the pussy’s too tight, or how she’s already wet through her panties, or how Wesley can’t match what’s coming. Carol squirms, but she never escapes the press of Justus’s hand. Her legs open over his lap.