5. Sterling
STERLING
T he woman I had been obsessing over, watching, waiting for, planning around, was now my stepsister.
Fuck.
The board was going to have a field day with this.
Did that stop me from wanting to paint her pussy walls with my cum?
Hell no.
It only made me hungrier.
I wanted to recreate our first time all over again, force her back into that moment when she was trapped with me, helpless, and begging. I needed her to understand there was no escaping me. That no matter how far she ran, no matter how hard she fought, she belonged to me.
She always had.
It didn’t happen overnight. The first few days after the wedding, she disappeared, ghosted everyone, including her job.
But I was patient. I pulled strings. Had her fired.
Had her landlord file a fake notice. Let the chaos do what I couldn’t.
Make her desperate. And when she finally called Tara, begging for a favor, I offered her the only place that would still open a door. My suite.
When she arrived at my suite, she didn’t even look around. Good. Let her be afraid. Let her feel how fast her world had shrunk. Every exit in her life had been sealed. Every lifeline cut. All roads led to me.
Her father and my mother’s marriage was a necessary evil. Positioning Zara within my grasp wasn’t coincidence. It was a strategy.
Kingsley Consortium was more than a front. It funneled my unclean money into clean accounts. It kept my empire liquid, and my men loyal. No money, no loyalty. No loyalty, no power.
So I’d play the role.
The board wouldn’t accept an open claim on her. Too old-school. Too full of crusty men, still jerking off to rules they wrote in 1975. A taboo relationship like this would fracture the empire I was destined to rule.
And I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Her father had already pimped her out to Chadwick, trying to recoup some of the money he lost in bad business deals with the upper elite at the club.
That arrangement died when I got involved, but the damage lingered.
They looked down on him, the club members.
He owed dues, broke business promises, and threw away his money, just trying to fit in.
Now, he was trying to use my Zara. John Johnston never wanted a daughter. He wanted leverage. And now, she was mine to use.
Behind closed doors? That was different.
She stumbled back from me, eyes wide, searching for a way out. There was none.
“Zara,” I growled, stalking her until she fell onto the bed. “You’re mine now, hummingbird.”
She didn’t know I’d been calling her that for years.
It started freshman year. Clear View Preparatory School. She was tucked in the back of orchestra rehearsal, violin trembling in her hands, like it was keeping her alive.
Nobody looked at her.
But I did.
She was awkward. Quiet. Overlooked. Her body was too soft, her gaze too empty.
Then she looked at me.
No fear. No desire.
Just indifference.
And something in me cracked open.
That night, I imagined her differently. Smiling. Touching me. Kissing me in the backseat of my car. In my head, she was already mine. Every day, I built a new version of her who loved me back.
Even when I tormented her in real life. Even when she flinched when I walked by. In my fantasies, she always came back.
Because if she didn’t love me, what the fuck had any of this been for?
Freshman year, spring quarter. The first warm day after months of gray, and Clear View Prep’s quad was a kaleidoscope of pastel cardigans, and polished loafers. I’d just scored top marks on the econ midterm. Ego high. Power higher.
Zara sat alone, on the stone bench outside Watson Hall, violin case balanced on her knees, curls coaxed into a neat puff.
New-money girls always tried their hardest to look effortless, and she almost pulled it off.
Almost. Her skirt was second-hand Prada, a good cut, but the hem needed letting out.
Tiny tells like that fascinated me. Little cracks in the mirror.
She was practicing fingerings on her thigh, mouthing the notes. Soft. Focused. Untouchable.
And I wanted her attention on me.
So I took it.
I tossed my leather duffel at her feet, hard enough to make the latches thud. “Move,” I said, loud enough for half the courtyard to hear.
She blinked up, her dark eyes clear, a question forming. Then that flash of recognition. Oh, it’s him. The other black kid they pretend is one of them.
Instead of sliding to the side, she stayed rooted. “Plenty of benches,” she murmured. Voice calm. Too calm.
Something in my chest flared with heat and hunger, and the sudden need to see her bend.
“What, scholarship girl can’t follow directions?” I let the word scholarship ring, and the crowd snickered on cue. I felt their laughter ripple through me, addicting. Power measured by how small I could make her.
She lifted the violin case like a shield. “Don’t call me that, I’m not even on a scholarship.”
“So what should I call you? Temporary? That new money will dry up as fast as your daddy likes to spend it.” I smirked, leaning closer, so only she could hear the next part. “Or would you rather I call you mine?”
Her throat bobbed. Just once. She said nothing.
But her fingers, brown, graceful, tightened on the handle until her knuckles blanched. No tears. No retreat. Just that stubborn silence.
For one sharp second I hated her for it. For refusing to break, the way the others did. For holding that spine, like it was a gift from God and not a liability.
Then the bell rang, scattering the audience. She rose, slow, measured, and walked away without a word, shoulders straight as a yardstick.
I watched every step.
And the strangest thing? Pride curled in my gut, right next to the cruelty. Pride that she wouldn’t cower, even when I wanted her on her knees. Pride that she carried both our histories on her back, and still refused to shrink.
I told myself it was annoying.
But the truth lodged deeper.
Every day after, I looked for her first. Before my friends. Before my grades. Before my own reflection. I looked just to feel that flash of bright, human anger she aimed at me like a blade.
I think that was the moment I knew.
If the world wouldn’t bend her, I would.
I tried to shake off the onslaught of memories, but it was always like this when I thought of her. I couldn’t help myself. When I was in the Alps, surrounded by glass and silence, it wasn’t the snow that haunted me.
It was her.
The sound of her laugh. The stretch of her neck when she defied me. The fire in her eyes, when she pretended not to see me.
I kept a photo I wasn’t supposed to have. Stolen from Clear View Prep’s security. She was mid-laugh, hair wild, hips round. Not traditional beauty.
Real beauty.
Mine.
My little hummingbird.
That’s what I called her in my head.
A sin with legs. A punishment I never wanted absolution from.
I stopped fucking other women. Their taste was wrong. Their bodies didn’t fight like hers did.
I got violent in training. Broke a jaw. Punched a wall. Blamed grief.
It wasn’t grief.
It was rage. Hunger.
And underneath it all: obsession.
I was coming back.
To torment her. To fuck her. To ruin what was left.
Or maybe all three.
She would be mine. Again. Always.
“N-no. I’m not yours. Stay away from me, you maniac,” she spat, voice weak.
I must’ve said that part out loud. I inhaled deeply. The sound thrilled me. Her fear. Her fire. The contradiction. Her scent hit me hard, fear laced with something sweeter.
She was wet.
Her body remembered what her mouth denied.
I chuckled, letting the scent flood my brain. “Then why can I smell your excitement, baby?”
Her cheeks flushed.
I gripped her wrists, locking them over her head, and tore her clothes with one hand.
Smooth, dark skin revealed itself, inch by inch.
She gasped, spine arching. I bit her neck, hard.
She screamed. I bit again.
“I’ll break you if I have to,” I whispered. “But you’re not leaving me. Not ever.”
Her eyes blazed, defiant even as she panted beneath me.
“Say it.”
She shook her head.
“Say you’re mine.”
She didn’t.
Not yet.
Her hips rocked against me. Seeking friction. Seeking release.
“You need my cock, don’t you, hummingbird?”
“Fuck you,” she hissed.
I closed my eyes, conjured the version of her in my mind, gasping consent, begging for me.
“With pleasure,” I whispered.
My cock slammed into her cunt, and I groaned.
I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve stopped.
But the beast in me was louder than logic.
I fucked her harder. Rougher. Her fists beat against my chest. Her cries turned to echoes.
In my mind, she begged me to breed her.
And I obliged.
“I’m going to make you a mother,” I moaned. “I’ll fuck a baby into you, hummingbird.”
I came inside her, hips bucking.
She sobbed beneath me. I kissed her cheek. Her jaw. Her lips.
“Next time, I’ll take that ass,” I promised.
She didn’t respond.
She couldn’t.
Tears streaked her cheeks as I rolled off her.
Blood stained her wrists, where my nails dug in from holding her too tight.
I went to get the wound cleaner.
But when I came back…
She was gone.
The suite was empty.
I stalked into the bathroom and gripped the sink. My reflection stared back, flushed, furious.
I put the cleaner away. Next time, I wouldn’t be so careless. Because there would be a next time. She wasn’t going to run.
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
“Boss?” Frankie answered.
“I want her locked down. No job. No home. No options. She belongs to me.”
“Understood.”
“And my mother?”
“She wants you back at the mansion.”
I smirked.
“Good.”
I called Paul next.
“How hard would it be to ban birth control in Saint Bipal?”
He laughed. “Hard. But doable.”
“She’ll thank me later.”
I hung up, adjusted my cufflinks, and stepped into the hallway. A mirrored elevator waited. My reflection stared back; sharp, well-fed, untouchable. I’d handled her. Now it was time to handle them.
I climbed into my Spyder and sped off.
The board had summoned me. Someone wanted to play power games.
Let them try.
I had business to handle.
But once it was done?
I’d go home to her.
And I’d make sure the only name she remembered was mine.
The suite I’d brought her to had been designed with her in mind. Everything was deliberate; drapes drawn tight, dim lighting, a mattress firm enough to brace impact, and silk sheets cool against skin. There was no clutter. No distractions. Nothing to focus on but me.
I’d had the thermostat turned down slightly before she arrived. Cold enough that her nipples would peak through any fabric. A psychological trick, but effective. Her body would betray her before her lips ever did.
And God, her body.
Every inch of Zara Johnston was crafted to ruin men.
Rich brown skin that swallowed the light, absorbing it like a midnight storm. Wide hips. Strong legs. Breasts that defied gravity. Dark nipples, that stood prominently in the air, every time I touched her. She looked like she was carved out of want. And her fear only sharpened it.
I told myself I wanted to own her. But that was a lie. I wanted her to choose me. Freely. Even knowing the monster I’d become.
I traced every inch of her with my eyes, before I ever laid a hand on her. I wanted her to feel that. To know that being seen by me was its own kind of violation.
She didn’t understand that I’d created a religion around her. That this wasn’t lust. It was devotion.
Back at Clear View Prep, I’d once followed her after orchestra practice. She walked with her violin strapped to her back, coat half-zipped, lips moving to a melody I couldn’t hear.
A group of girls cornered her near the locker room. Called her slurs. Laughed about her ‘hair grease’ and ‘welfare curls’.
She didn’t flinch.
She looked them in the eye, and walked straight through.
And then there she was, before I walked out; spine stiff, wrists bleeding under my grip, body trembling. I replayed her responses time and again in my mind.
Still fighting.
Still mine.
Even in that moment, covered in sweat and my seed, she was fucking radiant.
I didn’t want to just own her. I wanted to collapse into her. To carve out space inside her, until there was nothing left but me.
I would fill her with my name until she forgot her own. Until she wanted what I did. Until there was no fight in her left to give.