Chapter 2 - Xavier
XAVIER
My head throbbed, my neck hurt, yet I couldn't stop myself from standing in front of her door, running my hand over it as if that would somehow open the barrier separating me from the vixen existing just to torture me.
The months I spent in Europe were supposed to calm me down.
They were supposed to help me control my anger.
That fancy motherfucking psychologist was supposed to be a solution for this mess in my mind, and he was—for a little while.
The moment I stepped inside this house, the moment I saw her standing there in the middle of the living room, with those silver eyes following my every move and the soft smile playing on her lips, I knew I was fucked.
Yara Quinn was everything I hated and everything I wanted, mainly because I knew it would fuck with my father to know that I managed to destroy the girl he called his stepdaughter now.
He didn't deserve happiness after what he did to my mother, and I vowed I would do everything in my power to fuck up his life just how he fucked up mine.
William Thornton wasn't an easy man to reach, even if you were his only son, but I saw the way he looked at Yara's mom. I saw how soft he became every time the two of them were around, as if he finally had the family he wanted.
His perfect little Yara, the daughter he never had.
His perfect new wife, so fucking shiny, so fucking fake, making my blood boil just by looking at her.
I played along, greeting them, shaking their hands and smiling so wide my cheeks started hurting not even an hour after I came back home. My father watched every step I made, even took me aside to ask me to show Yara around because she still didn't really know the area or the people here.
Of course I would, I’d said to him, so cheerful, so fucking fake, already anticipating the alone time I would have with my darling new stepsister. She had no idea what she was getting into, and I couldn't wait to show her.
Yara thought she mattered, but even her own mother ignored her presence ninety percent of the time, which wasn't hard to gauge after just a couple of days in the house. I came back at the beginning of the semester, and I knew I couldn't have chosen a better time.
I hated her. I hated those shy smiles, the happiness she seemed to have, the carefree way she walked through life.
I hated this weird fucking feeling in my gut every time she was around, especially when she talked to one of my friends.
They were off-limits, and if you asked me why, I couldn't tell you.
Deep inside I knew the reason why, but it was easier lying to yourself than admitting the truth.
Besides, someone like her should never ever have any contact with my friends, my family, and hurting her would definitely hurt my father.
What made this game even more interesting was the fact that Yara kept her pretty mouth shut.
I liked pushing her, seeing how far she would let me go before she breaks, snaps and runs to my father to complain about me.
I expected it already that first time, but she only looked at me, defiantly, pouting before she ran to her room.
Every time I did something I expected her to run like a good little girl and tell my father what I did, what a monster I am, but she didn't.
She took and took and took, making me insane with the need to hurt her.
It wasn't about making her cry or making her regret coming here anymore.
Whatever happened these last two months fucked with my head even more than my father announcing he was getting married already, and I didn't want this to stop.
Every day and every night was filled with thoughts of Yara Quinn—her pretty silver eyes, those lips begging to be bitten and the silent fury vibrating on the surface of her skin.
She pushed me, every single one of my buttons, and the longer we played this game, the more I think she enjoyed it.
She hated me, that much was obvious, she’d called me a spoiled brat a thousand times by now, but none of her words held the weight they intended to when she looked at me with the inferno burning in her eyes.
"God," I moaned, pressing my forehead to her door. I wanted her.
I wanted my stepsister, and the more she resisted every single one of my attempts to scare her, the hotter she became.
She’d somehow snuck underneath my skin, fucking with my brain, with the entire system and I was doomed. I had no idea if I hated her more because I wanted her or because my father doted on her like the daughter he never had. Her mother was a piece of shit, but Yara... Yara was mine.
My hand landed on the doorknob, a deep groan erupting from me when it turned, showing me that she didn't lock her doors.
I told her, I fucking warned her, but the little lamb didn't listen.
She liked taunting me, fucking with my brain, keeping her door open every time she showered, every time she changed her clothes.
She pretended she was just an innocent eighteen-year old, but I saw her.
I fucking saw what was behind those eyes, even if my father failed to.
I saw the depravity living in those depths, matching my own, and I had no idea if this sick obsession I had with her was only because I wanted to use her, to hurt her, to show her she didn’t matter, or because I wanted her.
Some nights the need overpowered any rational thought, and like an addict craving his next fix, I sought her out. I yearned to see the fire in her eyes, because the only time she showed it was when I played with her.
My room was opposite of hers, and every morning the urge to just cross to her, to pull her to me and show her how much I wanted to bury my cock inside her tight little pussy, was becoming stronger and stronger.
She had no idea what she was doing to me, what level of depravity lived in these veins of mine and what plans I had for her.
But she would know.
Soon.
Because the Harvest was near, so fucking near I could almost taste it on my lips. The only difference was—this time I knew who would be my prize. I knew who would be my bride.
The door opened entirely, while my shadow showed on the illuminated part of the floor, coming from the hallway. There were still a few people lingering around the house, mostly my friends, but none of them would dare to come to this floor without my permission. Especially not toward Yara's room.
My eyes already knew what their target was, who they needed to latch onto, and when they found her, lying on her side and hugging the blanket to her front, for a moment I almost wanted to step outside and leave her alone.
She looked so peaceful, so quiet in the darkness of the night, and I was the bastard wanting to take away the innocence she still had.
But none of us finished this life innocent, and the sooner she knew what she got herself into the better it was.
My father was too old to participate in the Harvest, but I knew that he and my mother ended up together after one of those rituals. It was part of the legacy our college had. It was part of the families who sent their sons and daughters to St. Bipal's University.
Clear View Country Club wasn't the only thing Caleb, Rhett, Ezra, Ryder and I had in common—we were all looking forward to this year’s Harvest, mainly because we wanted to fuck around and not care for one night. But having Yara in my orbit, in my life, I knew who I wanted there.
The Harvest was the best kept secret this town has ever had, and I couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she realized what was happening.
I groaned at the thought of her in white dress, running from me, screaming for me to let her go, even though we both knew I wouldn't let go.
I worried what would happen once I finally had my hands on her.
Once I finally had a taste of her, the nectar that was even now calling to me, begging me to touch.
I closed the door slowly behind me, turning the lock this time and grinning from ear to ear, knowing that she would have nowhere to go, nowhere to run even if she wanted to get away from me.
She was at my mercy, my little lamb, and no one was coming to save her.
Even if my father was here, I wouldn't give a fuck.
He stopped being a person of importance a long time ago, and the only reason I was still here was because he owed me more than I owed him.
The money my mother left me was still locked in the trust fund until I turned twenty-five, or until I got married, whichever one came first.
On another hand, my father owed me for all those years he used me as a punching bag, blaming it later on the alcohol that took a hold of his mind during those moments.
But alcohol didn't force him to cheat on my mother as she lied on her deathbed, asking for him. It also didn’t force him to do other things.
Things that took her far too soon from me.
Alcohol didn't turn him into a despicable human being even while he was sober. He was good at pretending now, putting on a mask for Yara and her mother, pretending to care for me now when he knew it was too late. I knew him better than anyone.
Yara turned on her back, showing me her bare stomach and the panties she wore to bed.
My cock stirred in my pants, begging to be released, to go to her, to show her she belonged to me.
Instead of rushing toward her like a man possessed, I pressed the palm of my hand to my aching cock, groaning silently.
I shouldn't have drank that last glass of whiskey. Maybe then I wouldn't be standing here, ogling my stepsister, ready to do something I definitely shouldn't be doing.
She'd be furious and this time would probably also go and tell my father what happened, but I didn't care. Not right now.
Yara mumbled in her sleep, turning back on her side, and as she did, her hand landed between her legs, followed by a soft moan erupting from between her lips.