Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
AMELIA
Water cascades over my skin, beating my shoulders and my back, as I stand under the wide rainfall shower head, the glass enclosure fogging with steam and heat.
The bathroom is a sanctuary of white marble and chrome, the lavender-scented soap is pure luxury, but I’m distraught, my heart a tangled mess of guilt, desire, and despair.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, my hands braced on either side of me, water streaming down my face, mingling with the tears I can’t hold back.
How did I let it get this far? The near-kiss in the kitchen only hours ago—Max’s hand on my hip, his lips a breath from mine—replays in my mind, vivid and relentless.
A moment that nearly broke us. I know he’s not my brother, not bound by blood, but he thinks he is, and we almost kissed, teetering on the edge that would shatter his world.
Then…
My body betrays me, a restless heat surging between my legs, and I’m horrified by the images that flood me—Max fucking me, his hands pinning my wrists over my head, his mouth hot and demanding, his body driving into mine with a hunger that matches my own.
I imagine his lips on my throat, his fingers tracing every inch of my body, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin.
My breath hitches, and a soft moan escapes as my hand slips between my thighs, unthinking.
But for the first time since he abandoned me, I stop, my fingers tremble as I press my palms flat against the tile.
Real shame burns through me. Yes, I’m horny.
Yes, I’m terrible, horribly conflicted. Yes, the desire is a fire I can’t douse, not yet, maybe never, but I can’t give in now, not when it risks Max’s family.
Sara’s trust, but mostly Jason’s innocence.
I shut off the water, and the sudden silence is deafening. I step out and towel off with slow, deliberate movements. My reflection in the fogged mirror is a blur, and now that my hair is wet, I can no longer see my new self—the transformation made possible by Sara’s kindness.
All I can see is the woman who still carries the same ache.
I slip into a soft gray tank top and cotton shorts, the fabric cool against my flushed skin, and pad downstairs with my laptop. I need a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves down, to quiet the storm inside me.
The house is dark, the hallway sconces casting faint pools of light.
I don’t switch on the light. There is enough moonlight pouring in through the French doors.
I move quietly in the empty kitchen, filling the kettle with water, the soft gurgle a soothing sound.
I set it on the stove, the flame flickering blue, and pull a teapot, a cup and saucer from the cabinet.
I pop a couple of tea bags inside the pot and wait.
As the kettle hums, I sit at the breakfast nook, the cushioned bench soft beneath me, and open my laptop and blue light illuminates my face and hands.
I scroll through my emails—notes from my publisher, a friend’s condolence message—but my mind drifts, Max’s face lingering, his confession from last night echoing: If I cross a line, please stop me.
The kettle whistles, sharp and insistent, and I pour the boiling water into the teapot, the chamomile flower’s earthy scent rising, wrapping around me like a fragile calm.
I sip the tea, its warmth spreading through me, but it does little to ease the ache, the tension that’s off the charts.
Footsteps break the silence, too heavy to be Jason’s, and my heart lurches as Max appears in the doorway, bare-chested, his sweatpants low on his hips, his dark hair tousled from trying to find sleep that he clearly didn’t find.
His blue eyes meet mine, surprise flickering in them, and my pulse races.
“You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, his voice low and troubled. He steps into the kitchen, the moonlight silvering his skin, highlighting the planes of his chest, the faint shadow of that tattoo on his arm.
I shake my head, my fingers tightening around the cup.
“No,” I say, my voice soft, strained. “Just… needed… er… tea. Want some? There’s still plenty in the pot.
” I gesture to the teapot, a weak attempt at normalcy, and he nods, moving to the counter, his presence filling the space, making it hard to breathe.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, already pulling a mug from the cabinet, his movements easy but tense, like he’s holding something back.
“It’s really good with some honey,” I say, my eyes returning to the laptop, pretending to focus on an email, but I’m hyperaware of him—his bare skin, the way his muscles shift as he pours tea, the quiet clink of the spoon as he stirs in honey.
He sits across from me, the nook’s table a fragile barrier, and I feel his gaze, steady and intense, pulling at me like a tide.
He turns his head towards the wide windows. “Did you know tonight is the night of the harvest moon?”
“Ah. No wonder it looks like a big and bright lantern in the night sky.”
“Are you working?” he asks, nodding at the laptop, his voice casual, but his eyes are intense, searching.
I close the screen, the soft click loud in the quiet. “Just emails. Nothing urgent.” I sip my tea, needing a distraction, and seize on a safe topic. “Tell me about your company. How’d you build it? I mean, I’ve read the magazines, but… I want to hear it from you.”
He leans back, his mug cradled in his hands, a wry smile tugging at his lips, softening the tension in his jaw.
“It wasn’t easy,” he admits, his voice low, thoughtful.
“Started small, just me and my laptop, hustling for clients. Long nights, bad coffee, deals falling through, wolf at the door. But I kept at it, found a niche in e-commerce, and built a platform that caught on. Got lucky with some investors, scaled fast. The wolf slinked off and now it’s…
big.” He shrugs, but there’s pride in his eyes, a quiet fire, and I feel it, a warmth at his success.
“That’s incredible, Max,” I say, my voice genuine, my eyes meeting his, and for a moment, it’s just us, sharing a truth that feels safe. “And that is also an incredibly brief summary.”
He laughs out. “Want me to tell you the details? It could take all night.”
“Are you willing to?”
His eyes bore into mine. “I’ll do anything for you, Amelia. Anything.” The words hang between us. Explosive.
I look down, my finger tracing the cup’s rim, and my voice is a whisper. “Anything?”
“Anything,” he says quietly.
I stand suddenly and head towards the sink to wash my cup, needing to move, to break the spell. Max follows, his mug in hand.
“Let me,” his voice firm, reaching for the sponge. I laugh, a nervous sound, and nudge him aside, our hands brushing, a spark that jolts me.
“I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s stubborn, grabbing the cup, and I struggle and the cup slips, a sudden clatter as it hits the ground and shatters into jagged pieces that glint like broken stars. We freeze, staring at the wreckage.
Sara’s cup is broken.
I broke Sara’s cup.
The breakage takes on momentous meaning and my breath catches, tears welling, a sob breaking free.
I sink to my knees, gathering the shards, my fingers trembling, and the tears spill, hot and relentless, because it’s not just Sara’s cup—but the cup is me and our relationship too, broken and unfixable, a mirror of everything I’ve lost.
“Amelia,” Max says, his voice rough, kneeling beside me, his hand on my shoulder, warm and steady. “It’s just a cup. It’s okay.”
I shake my head, my voice choked, the lie spills out.
“It’s not the cup. It’s… Dad. Everything’s broken, Max.
So many things can’t be put back together.
” The words are half-true, a shield for the real pain—the love I can’t reclaim—but they’re enough of an excuse for me to crack open, my sobs raw in the quiet.
He pulls me into his arms, his embrace fierce, his bare chest warm against my cheek, and I cling to him, my tears soaking his skin.
The broken cup lies scattered at our feet, the shards glinting like fragments of our past. All around us are stark shadows. His warmth is a comfort, but it’s also a danger, a blaze I’ve fought to keep at bay.
A sound escapes him, soft, ragged. No more than a whisper, but I feel the shift.
The warmth is turning into fire.
His lips brush my forehead, a soft, fleeting touch, so gentle it steals my breath.
I tilt my head back, unthinking, my tear-streaked face catching the light, my eyes meeting his.
His are dark and stormy. The world narrows, the kitchen fades—the shattered cup, the moonlight, the hum of the fridge—all dissolving until it’s just us, Max and me, suspended in a moment too fragile to hold.
His gaze drops to my lips, a flicker of hesitation, of self-loathing, and I see it—the battle raging in him, the brother he’s supposed to be warring with the man who wants me so desperately he can’t control himself.
My heart pounds, a frantic beat, and I know I should pull away, should stop this before it begins.
There are a thousand reasons to, but my weak body betrays me.
I lean closer, drawn by a pull I can’t resist.
His hand moves, slow, trembling, cupping my cheek, his thumb grazing my skin, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that cracks me open. “Amelia,” he whispers, his voice raw, breaking on my name, a plea and a warning wrapped in one.
His breath is warm, scented with the honey and chamomile tea, and it brushes my lips, a ghost of a touch that sends a shiver down my spine.
My hands are still around his waist, my fingers digging into the soft cotton, and I feel the tension in him, the restraint, the line he’s fighting not to cross.
His lips hover over mine, so close I can feel the heat of them, the barest whisper of contact, and time slows, each second stretching into an eternity.
My breath catches, a soft gasp, and I tilt my head, just a fraction, my lips parting, an invitation I don’t mean to give.
His eyes search mine, dark with need and guilt.
It’s war inside him.
Then, I see the exact moment he breaks, the restraint shattering like the cup at our feet.
With a growl, his mouth swoops down and finds mine, a ravenous kiss that steals away my breath.
His lips are hot and demanding, a devouring hunger that consumes me whole.
There is not even an attempt at gentleness—it’s ferocious with desperate yearning, a decade of want poured into the press of his mouth, the sweep of his tongue.
It's pure fire.
I melt into him, my body alive, electric, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart under my palms. His tongue explores, fiery and deep.
Everything it touches it claims for itself, and I respond, a soft moan vibrating against his lips, my fingers curling into his skin, anchoring me to this man I’ve loved and longed for in equal measure.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted—his taste, his heat, the way he kisses me like I’m the only thing that matters.
And it’s everything I’ve feared—the line we’re crossing, the truth I can’t share, the betrayal of the family he’s built.
For a heartbeat, I’m lost, drowning in him, in us, my body pressing closer, my hips brushing his, the friction sparking a fire I can’t contain.
His hand slides to my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me deeper, and I’m falling, spiraling into a place where nothing exists but this kiss, this need.
The ache between my legs.
But reality crashes through, Sara’s face flashing in my mind—her kind smile, her trust, her home opened to me like I was her sister. Guilt surges, a cold wave that chokes me, dousing the fire. My hands push against his chest, my breath ragged, my lips tingling, swollen from his.
“Max, no,” I gasp, my voice breaking, raw with panic and shame.
He staggers back, his eyes wide, horrified, his face paling in the cold light of the moon.
“Amelia, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice raw, trembling, his hands raking through his hair, tugging at the strands like he’s trying to punish himself. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have—”
He steps back, his chest heaving, his eyes glassy with shame, horror etched into every line of his face, believing he’s crossed the unforgivable line with his own half-sister.
I shake my head, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, my arms wrapping around myself, my tank top damp against my skin. I can’t speak the truth—that he’s not my brother, he never was, that the kiss was as much my fault, my want, as his.
But the guilt isn’t about him—it’s about Sara, her hospitality, her friendship.
I betrayed her. My weakness, my failure to stop this before it began.
I feel dizzy and sway on my feet. His hand reaches out instinctively to help me, but I quickly grip the table corner.
My throat is too tight for words, so I nod in acceptance of his apology.
It does nothing to ease the ache, the shame, the love that burns in me, even as I stand there, broken and in disgrace.