My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
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My husband cut corners on my postpartum care by hiring his own brother.
I was the picture of effortless elegance—a woman in her prime at twenty-eight, with curves that turned heads. But to my husband? I might as well have been yesterday's trash.
His brother's so-called "care"? A joke.
Three days of half-hearted massages, and then he vanished, leaving me aching, swollen, and furious. When I kicked him in the spine, he barely blinked, just hoisted our baby with a scoff.
"You complain about back pain all day. You think I don't hurt from carrying the baby?"
That was it. The last straw.
"If you won't take care of your own wife, then hire a damn professional!"
He left without another word.
I punched my pillow, seething, expecting him to realize I was just exhausted, just desperate.
But the next day, he actually brought someone.
A masseur.
His older brother.
And the moment I saw him, my breath caught.
My husband was… average. Unremarkable in every way.
But his half-brother?
Tall. Broad. Chiseled.
The kind of man who made married women forget their vows.
Their messy family history meant I'd never met him before. Now, standing in my living room, he was all I could see.
Young girls might chase after pretty boys.
But real women?
We knew better.
Yet the way he looked at me—like a wolf eyeing its prey—sent a shiver down my spine.
I wasn't naive. That gaze wasn't innocent.
No matter how breathtaking he was, I was married.
And this was family.
I forced a smile and called for my husband.
Ryan stepped forward, toolkit in hand. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that could crush a man's skull. Those gray sweatpants? A crime.
Even as I kept my distance, his smirk never faded.
"You must be my sister-in-law. Call me Ryan."
My husband reappeared, grinning like an idiot.
"Thanks for coming. Just fix her back—she's been whining nonstop."
I froze.
He was serious?
Dragging him into the kitchen, I hissed, "This is insane."
He shrugged.
"Who'd want a postpartum woman? Besides, family's free."
I couldn't exactly say, "Your brother looks at me like he wants to devour me."
But I knew.
When I hinted at it, my husband just laughed.
"Relax. He's family. What's the worst that could happen?"
Maybe he was right.
At least here, I was safe.
Before I could argue, he left with the baby.
I returned with a glass of water, nerves coiled tight.
Ryan stood.
"I'm on a tight schedule. Let's begin."
His earlier intensity was gone—had I imagined it?
Too awkward to refuse, I followed him to the bedroom.
Then he locked the door.
I was the picture of effortless elegance—a woman in her prime at twenty-eight, with curves that turned heads. But to my husband? I might as well have been yesterday's trash.
His brother's so-called "care"? A joke.
Three days of half-hearted massages, and then he vanished, leaving me aching, swollen, and furious. When I kicked him in the spine, he barely blinked, just hoisted our baby with a scoff.
"You complain about back pain all day. You think I don't hurt from carrying the baby?"
That was it. The last straw.
"If you won't take care of your own wife, then hire a damn professional!"
He left without another word.
I punched my pillow, seething, expecting him to realize I was just exhausted, just desperate.
But the next day, he actually brought someone.
A masseur.
His older brother.
And the moment I saw him, my breath caught.
My husband was… average. Unremarkable in every way.
But his half-brother?
Tall. Broad. Chiseled.
The kind of man who made married women forget their vows.
Their messy family history meant I'd never met him before. Now, standing in my living room, he was all I could see.
Young girls might chase after pretty boys.
But real women?
We knew better.
Yet the way he looked at me—like a wolf eyeing its prey—sent a shiver down my spine.
I wasn't naive. That gaze wasn't innocent.
No matter how breathtaking he was, I was married.
And this was family.
I forced a smile and called for my husband.
Ryan stepped forward, toolkit in hand. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that could crush a man's skull. Those gray sweatpants? A crime.
Even as I kept my distance, his smirk never faded.
"You must be my sister-in-law. Call me Ryan."
My husband reappeared, grinning like an idiot.
"Thanks for coming. Just fix her back—she's been whining nonstop."
I froze.
He was serious?
Dragging him into the kitchen, I hissed, "This is insane."
He shrugged.
"Who'd want a postpartum woman? Besides, family's free."
I couldn't exactly say, "Your brother looks at me like he wants to devour me."
But I knew.
When I hinted at it, my husband just laughed.
"Relax. He's family. What's the worst that could happen?"
Maybe he was right.
At least here, I was safe.
Before I could argue, he left with the baby.
I returned with a glass of water, nerves coiled tight.
Ryan stood.
"I'm on a tight schedule. Let's begin."
His earlier intensity was gone—had I imagined it?
Too awkward to refuse, I followed him to the bedroom.
Then he locked the door.
End of My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap book page.