The belt whistled through the dark and cracked across his jeans, a line of fire that stole his breath. Evan's fingers curled into the leather cushion, knuckles white, and he felt the sting bloom across his thighs like a confession he'd been holding for years. His body didn't flinch away—it pressed forward, as if chasing the heat, a low animal sound escaping his throat before he could stop it.
Marcus's palm settled on his lower back, firm and steady, and Evan felt the weight of it more than the belt. A grounding point. Permission to stay where he was. He heard himself whimper—not from the pain, which was already fading into a deep throb, but from the shameful relief of finally being seen for what he was. The thing he'd hidden in locker rooms and barracks and every handshake with their father—Marcus had known. Had always known. And he was here, hand on Evan's spine, belt still warm where it had landed.
"Count." Marcus's voice came low, almost conversational, as if he were reminding Evan of the rules of a game they'd both agreed to.
Evan's throat locked. His mouth opened, dry. "One."
"Good boy."
The words landed harder than the belt. Evan's eyes burned, and he pressed his forehead into the chair's armrest, the leather cool against his flushed skin. Behind him, he heard the belt fold in Marcus's hand, felt the air shift as Marcus adjusted his stance. The second stroke landed lower, catching the backs of his thighs where the denim pulled tight. A sharper sting, closer to skin. Evan gasped, fingers scrabbling against the cushion, and his hips bucked forward reflexively before he caught himself.
"Two." His voice cracked on the word.
Marcus's hand spread across his lower back, palm flat, fingers splayed. The heat of it bled through Evan's shirt, and Evan realized he was trembling. Not from cold. Not from fear. His whole body was shaking with the effort of staying still, of not pressing up into the next stroke before it came. Marcus must have felt it. The hand on his back pressed down, a silent command: steady.
The belt whistled a third time. This one caught the saddle of his jeans, the place where hip met thigh, and the crack of it echoed in the quiet study. Evan cried out—a sharp, startled sound—and his chest hit the chair seat, his arms giving out. For a moment he hung there, forehead pressed into leather, breath coming in shallow gasps. The sting radiated through his whole body, branching like lightning under his skin, but beneath it, something else spread too. Something warm. Something he'd been starving for.
"Three." It came out broken, wet. He tasted salt and leather and the ghost of their father's approval that was never meant for him.
Marcus's hand left his back. Evan heard the belt being set down, a soft thud across the room. Then footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming around the chair. He didn't lift his head. He couldn't. His body had settled into the position like it belonged here, like this was the shape he'd been trying to force himself into his whole life.
Marcus's hand found his hair, fingers threading through the short strands, and tugged gently. Evan lifted his head, eyes wet, mouth parted, and met his brother's gaze. Marcus's gray eyes were dark, pupils blown, his jaw tight. He didn't look satisfied. He looked like a man standing at the edge of something he hadn't planned to find.
"You took that well." Not a question. An observation, delivered flat, but something flickered beneath it—something raw that Marcus couldn't quite hide.
Evan's lips moved. No sound came out. He swallowed, tried again. "Yes, sir."
The words hung between them, heavier than the belt had been. Marcus's hand tightened in his hair, just a fraction, and Evan felt it everywhere. His mouth stayed open. Waiting. Ready.
Marcus's thumb traced the shell of Evan's ear once—almost tender, a ghost of something that might have been affection. Then his hand fell away. The absence was immediate, cold. Evan felt it in his chest, a hollow opening. Marcus turned, slow, deliberate, his shadow sliding across the floor.
The belt lay where it had fallen, a dark curve against the hardwood. Marcus didn't glance at it immediately. He let the silence stretch, let Evan watch him watch it. Then he bent at the waist, his fingers closing around the midpoint of the leather, not the buckle. He straightened like the act cost him nothing, the belt hanging loose from his fist.
Evan's breath caught. He couldn't stop watching. Marcus held the belt there for a moment, letting it hang, letting Evan see it. Then he folded it, slow, crease against crease, the leather sighing as it doubled. He tested the weight in his palm once, the looped end swinging gently.
"Up."
The word landed before Evan's mind caught up. His body answered first—hips rising, back straightening, hands sliding off the chair to rest on his own thighs. Palms down. Fingers spread. He ended up on his knees, spine aligned, mouth parted. Waiting.
Marcus circled him. The belt dragged across the back of Evan's shoulders, a light, teasing pressure. It traced the curve of his spine, dipping into the hollow of his lower back, settling across the denim where the first three strokes had landed. The leather was cool through the fabric.
"You're not going to move this time." Marcus's voice came from behind him, low and flat. His free hand found the back of Evan's neck, thumb pressing into the muscle at the base of his skull. "You're not going to flinch. You're going to take it, and you're going to count."
Evan's throat worked. His eyes were fixed on the lamp on the desk, the way the light pooled on the polished wood. "Yes, sir."
Marcus's thumb pressed deeper, a brief, grounding pressure. Then he stepped back. The belt lifted from Evan's back. The air in its place felt cold.
Evan stared at the light. He counted his own breaths. One. Two.
Behind him, the belt whistled.
The belt whistled through the dark and cracked across the backs of his thighs—lower this time, catching the tender skin where denim pulled tight over the start of his hamstrings. Evan's breath punched out of him, a raw, startled sound, and his hands shot forward to brace against the chair seat. The sting branched wider than the first three strokes, deeper, settling into muscle instead of surface. He held himself there, trembling, and heard himself count through gritted teeth. "Four."
Marcus didn't speak. The belt lifted, and Evan heard the leather sigh as Marcus adjusted his stance behind him—weight shifting, the floor creaking under his boots. The next stroke landed across both cheeks of his jeans, a clean, horizontal line, and Evan's hips bucked forward into the chair. "Five." The word came out wet, almost swallowed.
A pause. Evan's breath sawed in and out of his chest. The belt dragged across the back of his thighs, a light, almost teasing pressure, before lifting again. When the next stroke came, it caught him across the same spot—exactly the same spot—and Evan's vision whited for a second. His elbows buckled; his forehead met the leather cushion. "Six." Barely audible.
The belt didn't lift again. Evan heard the leather being folded, slow and deliberate, crease against crease. Then footsteps, circling the chair. Marcus appeared at his side, one hand coming to rest on the back of his neck—fingers spread, thumb pressing into the muscle at the base of his skull. He didn't say anything. He just held Evan there, breathing, the belt looped in his other hand, hanging loose.
"Say it." Marcus's voice came low, almost soft. Not a command—an invitation, with teeth.
Evan's throat worked. The words sat there, thick and hot, and he couldn't—he opened his mouth, and nothing came out except a broken sound. Marcus's thumb pressed deeper, a brief, grounding pressure. "Say it," he repeated, the same low tone, patient now. "Say what you are."
"Good boy." Evan's voice cracked on the first word, splintered on the second. It came out like a question, tiny and raw, and he felt heat flood his face—not shame, something else, something that made his chest ache.
Marcus's hand tightened in his hair, just a fraction. "One more time."
Evan pressed his forehead into the leather, eyes squeezed shut. "Good boy." Louder this time, but his voice wavered on the last syllable, catching in his throat like a sob. He tasted salt. He didn't know when he'd started crying again.
"Again." Marcus's voice was gravel now, the control fraying at the edges. His other hand found Evan's jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge, tilting his face up. Evan's eyes opened—wet, red-rimmed, helpless. Marcus held his gaze, gray eyes dark and hungry, and said it one more time. "Again, Evan."
Evan's lips moved. His voice came out as a whisper, barely a thread of sound, broken and honest and stripped of everything he'd ever used to defend himself. "Good boy."
The word hung between them, raw and perfect, and Marcus's hand slid from his jaw to the back of his head, pulling Evan forward until his forehead pressed into Marcus's chest. Evan felt his brother's heartbeat under his cheek, steady and strong, and Marcus's voice came from somewhere above him, rough with something he couldn't name. "That's enough now."