Silence stretches between us, and I can’t help but wonder—if he only knew what I’ve done, how much he’d hate me. I’ve never let myself imagine how he’d react if he ever learned the truth of my actions, or the consequences they carried.
“I worry that you’ll be the one to disappear, and this time, not come back,” he murmurs. “Like I did.”
I slide one arm under my pillow, and with the other, I reach out, letting my hand rest at the center of his back.
“You’re wrong, sunshine… so fucking wrong.”
21
We didn’t speak after that. I simply laid on my side, feeling his warm fingertips trace up and down the scar on my spine.
I’m not sure how long I forced myself to stay awake, but I drifted off before his hand stopped moving. For the first time since that night on the couch when we were younger, I slept peacefully.
No thoughts of waking up to Michael.
No thoughts of the fight waiting for me when I did.
No nightmares of the accident—fleeting fragments, but never the full memory.
I don’t blame what happened between us eight years ago on my fear of telling Keo about the abuse. It’s the stigma, the embarrassment that it “couldn’t happen to a man,” that keeps me silent.
Telling him about the accident would open more questions, inevitably circling back to my relationship over the past six years.
Maybe I should follow his lead and actually seek therapy.
I’m a goddamn mess. But these past hours—the calm, thecloseness—have been the most serene I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t want to wake up, but as light spills through the curtains, I know I have to.
I squeeze my eyes tight before slowly peeling them open, letting out a half-groan, half-sigh. It’s warm, the bed so comfortable it begs me to stay.
Or maybe it isn’t the mattress at all. Maybe it’s the way I’m held possessively. I freeze completely, unwilling to move.
I can see the arm that’s inked from wrist to chest in a tribal design. He’s part Polynesian, and I know that each section carries meaning, though I’m not entirely sure what each one signifies. One consistent motif stands out though: Fire.
He’s always had a strange obsession with it. Ironic, considering he became a firefighter.
I’ve wanted to study the ink more closely, and I could… if it weren’t for the way he has me held.
One arm is under mine, stretching across my chest with his hand resting lightly at my throat. The other is tucked beneath me, wrapped around my midsection. His body is flush against my back, one knee positioned snugly between my thighs.
The hand at my neck alone is enough to make me painfully hard—but it’s the control he exerts in this position that really does it.
I haven’t breathed. Maybe I haven’t even blinked.
A soft snore brushes the back of my head, barely audible. His breath glides over the nape of my neck, and I bite down hard on my bottom lip.
Don’t wiggle your hips, Ayden. Don’t…
It’s like my brain said,“Fuck you, I’ll do what I want,”and I do the exact opposite. I rub against him, and I’m not sure if I’m grateful I don’t feel anything press against my ass or not.
Probably for the best. The thought of his cock should not be at the forefront of my mind.
Or how it would feel. Or taste.
A whimper escapes my throat, though I’m blaming it strictly on being thirsty.
For your former stepbrother.
Oh, fuck off, brain.
