Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

and then almost a thunder that vibrates under my feet.
Jesus. I need air.
Whipping my door open, I find Dallas and Trace on the floor of the
hallway, wrestling. Dallas is soaking wet and wearing a towel that’s only a
prayer from coming off his body, and Trace is just in jeans, laughing his ass
off as they go at it.
“Enough!” I yell.
For God’s sake. I grit my teeth, barreling past them and stepping over
their bodies.
But hands grab my legs, and I barely have time to let out a scream before
I’m falling backward and into waiting arms.
“Trace!” I yell, not even having to look to see who the culprit is. Dallas
isn’t the playful one, so I know it’s not him.
Fingers dig into my stomach, and I hold back my laugh, kicking and
squirming.
“Stop!” I growl as my brother tickles. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You got sleep,” Trace fires back. “I didn’t get sleep.”
Dallas pushes us off, clutches his towel closed, and disappears back into
the bathroom, slamming the door.
“Come on.” I fight Trace’s hold, the scruff on his cheek stabbing my ear.
“Coffee first. Please.”
He’s got this thing about moody people. People like Macon and Dallas.
People like me. He purposely pokes the bear and doesn’t know when to stop.
We fight, and I kick, hitting the wall instead of him, the plaster cracking
and a nice, round dent appearing where there wasn’t one before.
I used to feel bad, but the walls are covered in dents and holes from years
of six Jaeger kids. Macon, the oldest and head of the house, won’t know the
difference.
“Let me go!” I bark and elbow him in the gut.
His hold relaxes, and I scramble out of his arms, crawling and climbing to
my feet, escaping.
But I hear his voice behind me. “Your turn to wash the bedding!”
I stop and turn my head, his short, black hair sticking up all over the
place, and his green eyes showing no hint that he’d had a sleepless night like
he claims.
“I’m not touching your sheets,” I tell him. “Put them in the washer
yourself.”