What kind of parent would allow their child to try and take care of a household and their drunken state?
I’d exhausted all charities and social services programme options to the point that I ended up on antidepressants, but I did manage to get some free therapy through it. Between working, studying, and looking after him, it finally took its toll.
Only through those sessions did I realise that I’d been stuck in the role of caregiver since my mum died. No one could understand the desperate need to be loved—even if it was by a careless, alcoholic parent. I felt like a fool. All those years, people told me to stop helping him or asked why I didn’t just move out.
No one could understand unless they had parents who were selfish to the core.
And here I was again—stuck.
Not by choice.
Not by fate.
Not by consequence.
But by my father.
My footsteps were heavy as I walked towards the bathroom for a shower. No one would see my tears there.
???
Once I was out of the shower and back in my pyjamas, I wasn’t sure whether I was meant to wait for him in bed or sit on the couch. The uncertainty gnawed at me. I had to force the thoughts of my father out of my head if I wanted any chance of surviving whatever game Rowan was about to play.
Before I could decide, he walked in.
His expression gave nothing away. He was still dressed in his shirt and trousers, but the tie was gone—discarded somewhere between control and intention. He crossed to the other side of the bed and began removing his cufflinks with unhurried precision.
“Strip.”
The single word sent a ripple of unease through me, but I didn’t hesitate. I reached for the buttons of my nightshirt, undoing them one by one. Metal clicked softly against wood as he placed the cufflinks on the bedside table.
I folded the top neatly and set it at the foot of the bed, pretending not to notice the cool air tightening my nipples. When I slid my hands to my bottoms, I framed it the only way I could—as a transaction. Something procedural. Contained.
It was just sex.
Something I could handle.
I swallowed as I added the pyjama bottoms to the pile.
When I looked up, Rowan had removed his shirt and was unfastening his trousers. He wasn’t built like Nick—less brute force, more restraint. No tattoos. Lean, toned muscle beneath pale skin. His hair was lighter too, sandy where the others were dark. Yet his eyes were the darkest of them all—a rich brown, compared to Alec’s lighter hazel.
He could have been handsome.
If not for the crooked black heart beneath it all.
“I expect complete subservience from you, Ella.”
His quiet words carried weight.
I lowered my eyes.
A dictatorship. Got it.
“I’m sure there will be some hiccups,” he continued calmly.“But don’t test me. Or my brothers.”
My gaze drifted to the bed.
Brothers who did everything together.
