She makes a small noise but doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at me.
I grab a towel from the bathroom and run it under warm water. When I return, she’s exactly where I left her—face down on the couch, naked, her torn jeans in a pile on the floor.
“Violet.” I kneel beside the couch, my hand resting lightly on her hip. “Let me clean you up.”
She tenses, her fingers clutching the cushion tighter. “I can—”
“Let me.” My voice is firm but soft.
She eases her grip slightly, and I take that as permission.
I’m gentle as I wipe between her thighs, cleaning away the evidence of what we’ve done. She flinches at first, then slowly relaxes under my touch. There’s a little blood on the towel when I pull it away, and the primal half of me roars with satisfaction.
I knew it. I was her first.
“Are you hurt?” I ask quietly.
She shakes her head but still won’t look at me.
I toss the towel aside and scoop her up into my arms before she can protest.
“Darius…” Her voice is small, uncertain.
“Bedroom,” I say simply, carrying her down the hallway.
She doesn’t fight me. Just tucks her face against myshoulder, her body still trembling slightly. Whether from cold or shock or something else, I can’t tell.
I lay her down on my bed and pull the blanket over her. She immediately curls onto her side, wrapping the blanket around herself like armor.
I climb in behind her, pressing my chest against her back. She’s rigid at first, but slowly, gradually, she melts into me.
For a few perfect minutes, the world is quiet. Peaceful.
Her breaths even out. The trembling stops. I run my fingers through her hair and press kisses to her shoulder, her neck.
She makes another soft sound—not quite one of content, but not of distress, either.
Then, I feel it: the moment reality hits her.
Her body goes stiff in my arms. Her breathing hitches, turning shallow and quick.
“Violet—”
“What did we do?” Her voice breaks as she tries to pull away. “Oh God, Darius, what have we done?”
The panic in her voice makes my chest tighten. She starts trembling again, more violently now, her hands clutching at the blanket.
“Hey.” I tighten my hold on her, refusing to let her retreat. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay! We’re siblings. Stepsiblings, but still…Your father, my mother—”
“Breathe,” I command, rolling her onto her back beside me. She’s shaking, and her face has gone pale. “Look at me and breathe.”
But she’s spiraling, her eyes wild with fear and confusion.
I should feel guilty. Should regret every second of what just happened between us.
But as I pull her into my arms and feel her heart pounding against mine, I can’t find it in myself to care that I have quite possibly ruined everything.
