Chapter 2: Initiation

Summer settled over Uncle Dom’s property like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The days were a monotonous cycle of heat and silence, broken only by the distant hum of insects in the dense, enclosing woods. There was no lake, no neighbor, nowhere to go. Their world had shrunk to the confines of the weathered house.

A dull routine took hold. Mia woke early to make breakfast. Owen helped clean up. Uncle Dom would leave for the garage, his absence a temporary relief, and return in the evening, his presence an immediate, heavy cloud. He spoke little, but his eyes spoke volumes, constantly tracking Mia with a possessive, hungry gaze that made Owen’s stomach clench.

Owen couldn’t shake the feeling of being under a microscope. He’d catch his uncle staring at Mia during meals, his dark eyes lingering on the way her shirt stretched across her back or the shape of her legs. Mia tried to ignore it, burying herself in chores, but Owen saw her flinch at the sound of his heavy footsteps, her calculated efforts to never be in a room alone with him.

The first violation was subtle. A Tuesday morning. Mia, her hair still damp from the shower, padded toward the kitchen. Uncle Dom appeared in the hallway, a mountain of denim and muscle blocking her path.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he rumbled, his eyes performing a slow, deliberate inventory of her body.

“Morning,” Mia mumbled, trying to sidestep him.

He didn’t move. His hand shot out, not to grab, but to press flat against the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of her shirt. Mia froze, her breath catching.

“Careful,” he said, his tone a mockery of concern. His hand slid down, fingers splaying to grip the curve of her hip, digging into the soft flesh. “Wouldn’t want you to bump into anything.”

She nodded, a flush of shame and fear heating her cheeks, and ducked past him. Owen, watching from his doorway, felt a surge of impotent rage—and a flicker of something else, dark and unwelcome, that he choked down with a hard swallow.

The second time was worse.

Mia was at the sink, her back to the room, scrubbing a plate. Owen sat at the table, a comic book forgotten in his hands, his entire focus on the tense line of his sister’s shoulders.

Uncle Dom leaned against the counter, his presence sucking the air from the room. “How old are you now, sweetheart?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual.