And so would Sebastian.
If only he’d accept that his precious faith was designed to subdue the masses into compliance. Religion is aweapon. A fantastical, emotionally manipulative narrative used by generations of corrupt, narcissistic men claiming to ‘speak’ on behalf of an invisible, all-seeing entity called ‘God’ who dictates black and white morality to keep followers in line. It serves to push agendas that target the vulnerable and naive to secure power and wealth.
Bottom line: it’s a fucking cult.
So, I’ve taken it upon myself to open his eyes— for purely selfish reasons, of course.
Sliding off the bed, I pad out of my room, package tuckedunder my arm. My footsteps make no sound on the stair runner, my fingertips skating along the railing as I descend and head toward the kitchen.
The silence in this house is stifling.
Dad and Candice went to some art function for FMU an hour ago; they won’t be back until after midnight. Within minutes of them leaving, Seba took off on his nightly run, abandoning me with my thoughts.
A very dangerous thing.
Because when alone with this inextricable black tar woven through my DNA, heeded warnings, promises of punishment, and embedded shame melt away.
It’s taken hold of you…
Her voice fades into a distant echo as soon as I see Sebastian.
Heaving breaths bounce off the counter he splays his hands on, rivulets of sweat carving paths beneath the gold cross pendant resting against his sternum, between his pecs, through a dusting of chest hair as they merge into the valleys of his abs and collect on the waistband of his gym shorts.
His head turns.
Lips part.
My stepbrother’s eyes sweep my frame, bare except for a pair of wrinkled sleep shorts, lingering on my thighs for one… two… three?—
Back to his fingers pressing into the cool marble.
I smirk.
“Have a nice run?”
He grunts.
Sauntering past his averted gaze, I open the fridge to a wash of fluorescent light and cool air. The weight of his stare lands between my shoulder blades. Slides down the curve of my spine. Lower. My nipples tighten. Sebastian's pants roar in the quiet kitchen.
“I don’t get the appeal of it.” I grab a container of hummusand elbow the fridge closed, setting the package down on the island across from him. His attention returns to his hands.
“Of what?”
Popping the lid off the hummus, I shrug. “Of running.”
He shakes his head, droplets of sweat flinging from the ends of his hair.
“It’s conditioning.”
“Seems more like torture.”
I remove a plastic bag from the package. Tear it open in one long strip.Satisfying.
Finally, his head snaps up.
Brown eyes widen in horror as I pluck out a wafer.
And swipe it through the hummus.
