She runs into my back. Her breasts press against my shoulder blades. Her hands grab my arms for balance. "What?"
The room is... different. Wrong. All wrong. Everything wrong.
The couch is gone. The leather sectional where we've fucked countless men and women. Where we used to pass out drunk. Where we'd have our late-night conversations when Atlas couldn't sleep and Bane was having nightmares and I was too wired to rest. Gone. The bar cart is gone. Our whiskey. Our glasses. Our space. Gone. The dim lighting we kept it at—gone. Now it's bright. Soft. Warm. Inviting in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Instead, there's a bed. King-sized. Made. Perfect. With gray linens —expensive, probably Egyptian cotton— and too many fucking pillows. Decorative ones. Useless ones. The kind that exist just to be moved aside.
A desk by the window. Dark wood. Organized. A lamp with a soft yellow bulb. Books on the shelf. Paperbacks. Some with cracked spines. Some with dog-eared pages. A laptop. Oldand scratched. Covered in stickers from bookstores and coffee shops. A backpack. Black. Faded. Pins all over it.
This isn't the fuck lounge. This isn't ours. This isn't what it was. What it's supposed to be.
This is Max's room.
Fuck. Fury rises. Hot. Immediate. Consuming.
"Hey, babe, what's wrong?" The girl's hands slide up my back. Searching. Teasing. Trying to pull me back into the moment.
I step away from her touch. Jerk forward. Put space between us. Her hands fall.
"No." The word comes out harsh. Final.
"What?" Confusion. Then annoyance. Her voice sharpens.
"You need to leave." I turn around, already pulling out my phone. Unlocking it. Opening the app. Not looking at her. Can't look at her. "I'll get you an Uber."
Her face shifts from confused to pissed in about two seconds. Her eyes narrow. Her red lips curl into a snarl. Pretty face turning ugly. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
"I'm not in the mood anymore." I'm typing. Entering the address. Requesting the car.
"You were in the mood five seconds ago!" She's yelling now. Voice shrill. Echoing in the hallway.
"Well, now I'm not." I'm already typing in the app. Three minutes away. Good. Get her out. Get her gone. "Car's three minutes away."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious." I don't look up from my phone. If I look at her, I might say something worse. Might do something worse.
She stares at me like I just slapped her. Her eyes are wide. Wounded. Furious. "You know what? Fuck you. I'll get my ownride." She pulls out her own phone. Hands shaking. Whether from anger or embarrassment or both, I don't know. Don't care.
She turns and bolts, heels clicking down the hall. Angry. Stomping. The sound echoes.
"Great. Do that," I call after her. My voice is flat. Empty. Already dismissing her.
She flips me off without looking back. Middle finger high. Defiant.Fuck you too, sweetheart.
The front door slams a minute later. The sound reverberates through the house. Loud enough to wake the dead.
I don't give a shit.
I stand in Max's doorway, jaw tight, fists clenched. My nails dig into my palms. My teeth grind. Fury burning through me like gasoline on fire.
My mood's fucking ruined now. Cock soft. Night shot. All because of him.
All because of him. All because Max Carter exists. Because he's here. Because he took something from us. Because he's sleeping in our space. Because we had to give up the one room in this house that was ours—no rules, no expectations, just a place to fuck and forget. A sanctuary. A release. A space that belonged to the three of us and no one else.
Now it belongs to my fucking step-brother. The interloper. The outsider. The unwanted addition.
I look back into the room. Really look. Take in every detail. Every change. Every violation.
