My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
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A flicker of hope sparked in my eyes as I wordlessly begged Ryan Lowell, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
Please, I thought desperately, just let me go. My husband is right in the next room.
But Ryan didn't budge. Instead, he dragged a slow finger down my cheek, his touch sending a shiver through me.
Then he leaned in, his lips grazing my ear.
His breath was hot against my skin, and—God help me—he had the nerve to laugh, like this was some kind of game.
I froze, barely daring to breathe. If my husband walked in now, no explanation in the world would save me.
"Don't..." My voice cracked, barely audible.
Ryan only smirked, his dark amusement growing, as if my fear thrilled him.
Dread coiled in my stomach, cold and suffocating, like I was plunging into black water.
"Bro, you done yet?"
My husband's voice from the hallway snapped Ryan's attention away. He must have been in here too long.
Tears spilled down my face, panic clawing at my throat.
Maybe my terror finally bored him, because Ryan pulled back. He wiped his hands with a wet wipe—slow, deliberate—then tossed the blanket over me like I was nothing.
And just like that, he strolled out, chatting with my husband like everything was normal.
I stayed curled on the bed, shaking, until the front door clicked shut. By the time my husband returned, I'd wiped my face dry.
Our baby slept peacefully in the crib.
The scent of essential oils still clung to me, and when my husband wrapped an arm around me, nuzzling my neck, he inhaled deeply.
"God, you smell incredible..."
I ducked away, mumbling something about the bathroom.
Locked inside, I finally broke, muffling my sobs with my hands.
Ryan is my husband's brother. How do I even say this?
After all those "massages," how could I prove nothing happened?
But if I didn't stop him, how far would he go?
That candle he'd used today—I was sure it was laced with something. If this was how he treated me, how many others had he done this to?
The thought made me sick.
I wanted to tell my husband.
But they were family. Without proof, would he believe me? I hadn't even kept the candle.
Three days later, my mom asked to see the baby.
The second I got back, Ryan appeared again—this time with a smaller bag, but the way it bulged made my stomach twist.
When he set it down, metal clinked inside.
With the baby gone, my husband was in a good mood, even inviting Ryan to stay for dinner.
I cooked, forcing myself to stay calm. Over the meal, I hesitantly suggested ending the sessions.
Ryan raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
My husband, though, insisted: "One last time won't hurt."
Ryan smiled. "Of course."
I had no choice but to agree—what else could I say?
After dinner, Ryan went to the bathroom. My husband stepped outside for a smoke.
Alone, I crept toward Ryan's bag.
I unzipped it.
And what I saw inside turned my blood to ice.
Please, I thought desperately, just let me go. My husband is right in the next room.
But Ryan didn't budge. Instead, he dragged a slow finger down my cheek, his touch sending a shiver through me.
Then he leaned in, his lips grazing my ear.
His breath was hot against my skin, and—God help me—he had the nerve to laugh, like this was some kind of game.
I froze, barely daring to breathe. If my husband walked in now, no explanation in the world would save me.
"Don't..." My voice cracked, barely audible.
Ryan only smirked, his dark amusement growing, as if my fear thrilled him.
Dread coiled in my stomach, cold and suffocating, like I was plunging into black water.
"Bro, you done yet?"
My husband's voice from the hallway snapped Ryan's attention away. He must have been in here too long.
Tears spilled down my face, panic clawing at my throat.
Maybe my terror finally bored him, because Ryan pulled back. He wiped his hands with a wet wipe—slow, deliberate—then tossed the blanket over me like I was nothing.
And just like that, he strolled out, chatting with my husband like everything was normal.
I stayed curled on the bed, shaking, until the front door clicked shut. By the time my husband returned, I'd wiped my face dry.
Our baby slept peacefully in the crib.
The scent of essential oils still clung to me, and when my husband wrapped an arm around me, nuzzling my neck, he inhaled deeply.
"God, you smell incredible..."
I ducked away, mumbling something about the bathroom.
Locked inside, I finally broke, muffling my sobs with my hands.
Ryan is my husband's brother. How do I even say this?
After all those "massages," how could I prove nothing happened?
But if I didn't stop him, how far would he go?
That candle he'd used today—I was sure it was laced with something. If this was how he treated me, how many others had he done this to?
The thought made me sick.
I wanted to tell my husband.
But they were family. Without proof, would he believe me? I hadn't even kept the candle.
Three days later, my mom asked to see the baby.
The second I got back, Ryan appeared again—this time with a smaller bag, but the way it bulged made my stomach twist.
When he set it down, metal clinked inside.
With the baby gone, my husband was in a good mood, even inviting Ryan to stay for dinner.
I cooked, forcing myself to stay calm. Over the meal, I hesitantly suggested ending the sessions.
Ryan raised an eyebrow but stayed silent.
My husband, though, insisted: "One last time won't hurt."
Ryan smiled. "Of course."
I had no choice but to agree—what else could I say?
After dinner, Ryan went to the bathroom. My husband stepped outside for a smoke.
Alone, I crept toward Ryan's bag.
I unzipped it.
And what I saw inside turned my blood to ice.
End of My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap Chapter 9. Continue reading Chapter 10 or return to My Brother-in-Law’s Postpartum Massage Trap book page.