Whispers of the Whip, Taste of Freedom

Jaxon's POV

I stood frozen, watching them. Rhys between her legs, his tongue working magic judging by the way Hazel's back arched off the mattress. Her fingers tangled in his blonde hair, guiding him, her eyes half-closed in pleasure.

The sight should have disgusted me. That's what my father would have said.

*Disgusting. Perverse. Unnatural.*

The memory of Victor's voice sliced through me like a phantom whip across my back. I called it "the Whip" – that voice that had haunted me since childhood, cracking against my thoughts whenever I looked too long at another man.

*No son of mine will be a fucking faggot.*

I flinched at the memory, my hands curling into fists at my sides. I could almost feel the leather belt cutting into my skin, taste the blood in my mouth from biting my tongue to keep from screaming.