I brace my hands against the tile wall, head hanging between my shoulders as cold water streams down my neck, soaking through layers of expensive fabrics. My suit is ruined, but I don’t care. My shoes are soaked through, but I don’t care about that, either. My muscles are cramping from the tension locked in my entire body. My jaw is aching from how hard I’m clenching my teeth.
All I can think about is her.
Violet.
Her scent is burned into my lungs, her image seared into my retinas. Those wide eyes, that flush on her skin, the way her fingers grasped the table like she needed to hold onto it or she’d fall over.
The way she looked at me.
Confused. Shocked. But there was something else there, too, something that makes my blood burn hotter despite this freezing water.
Desire. Raw, unfiltered desire.
She felt it. She felt the pull. But why did she look so confused, like she doesn’t recognize what’s happening between us? The shock, I understand. I felt the same way six years ago when our bond first snapped into place. But that bewilderment, that complete lack of recognition…
My wolf surges against my control, snarling and clawing at the cage I’ve built around him. He wants out. Wants to track her down, find her room, break down the door if necessary. Wants to claim what’s ours, complete the bond that has been gnawing at us for six years.
“No,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
A knock sounds at my bedroom door, just loud enough to hear over the spray of water.
I don’t move. Don’t answer.
Another knock, more insistent this time. “Mr. Darius?”
James. Of course it’s James. “Go away,” I call out, my voice rough.
“Your father is asking for you, sir.”
“Tell him I’m busy.”
A pause. “He says it’s urgent.”
“I don’t care.”
Silence.
I assume James has left. I run my hands through my soaked hair, gripping the strands hard enough to hurt. The physical pain does nothing to ground me. Nothing cuts through the chaos raging in my head.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Those hazel eyes, locked on mine, pupils blown wide. That plain dress clinging to curves that weren’t there six years ago. The way her mouth opened like she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
The way she looked at me like I was something she couldn’t quite comprehend but desperately wanted to.
My body responds instantly to the memory, heat flooding me despite the cold water. My cock stirs, hardening against the soaked fabric of my pants. I curse under my breath, pressing my forehead against the coldtile again.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
She’s my stepsister. The quiet girl who used to follow me around the house with those big, trusting eyes. The one who dropped that tray of dishes at the age of fourteen and looked up at me with such mortification that I couldn’t help but kneel beside her and help clean up the mess.
The one who smiled at me like I hung the moon whenever I showed her the smallest kindness.
I remember the first time I saw her. She was small and painfully shy, hiding behind her mother during the introduction dinner. Her hair was longer then, falling past her shoulders in waves. She barely spoke above a whisper all evening, flinching every time her mother’s sharp gaze landed on her.
I felt something change inside me that night. There was suddenly a protective instinct that I couldn’t explain. I wanted to shield her from her mother’s cutting remarks, from the way the other pack members looked at her with obvious contempt.
She was weak, they whispered. Couldn’t shift. Would never shift. What good was a wolf who couldn’t access her animal?
But I saw something else. Resilience in the set of her petite shoulders. Determination in the way she lifted her chin when she thought no one was looking.
