23. Arson
Arson
I maintain my grip on her elbow as we climb the stairs, not trusting her not to bolt if given the chance. Her body remains rigid under my touch, the warmth from before gone cold after our confrontation with Aries.
Exactly as I anticipated. The perfect little stepsister, torn between twins. One she’s loved from afar for years, the other she’s drawn to despite everything.
Or perhaps because of everything.
The security door beeps as I punch in the code, shoving it open with more force than necessary. She stumbles slightly as I guide her into our shared living space, but I don’t soften my grip. Can’t afford to show weakness now.
“Sit.” I gesture toward the kitchen table, finally releasing her.
She obeys, perching on the edge of the chair like she might flee at any moment. Good. She should be wary after that display downstairs. After the proposition I laid out with Aries watching. I move to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with mechanical precision.
Cooking has always calmed me, given my hands something to do besides violence. Right now, I need that distraction.
“Are you hungry?” I keep my tone casual as if we’re just roommates having an ordinary evening. As if I didn’t just propose to trade her body for her stepbrother’s freedom.
She doesn’t answer, staring at her hands folded on the table.
“Lilian.” Sharper now. “I asked if you were hungry.”
“No.” The word comes out small, defeated. Nothing like the fire she showed downstairs.
I study her while chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. The knife feels good in my hand—familiar, controlled. Unlike the chaos she brings to my carefully constructed plans.
“You should eat anyway.” I slide the vegetables into a pan, the sizzle filling the silence between us. “Need to keep your strength up.”
Her eyes flick to mine briefly, then away. “Why? So I can...what was it? Trade my body for his freedom?”
There it is—the spark I was looking for. Not completely broken then despite the submissive posture.
“Among other things.” I focus on the food, not looking at her. “Though I’m still deciding whether that offer is on the table. Your performance downstairs was uninspiring.”
A slight intake of breath tells me the barb landed. Good. I need her to be off-balance and reactive. Need to know which Lilian I’m dealing with—the manipulative strategist or the genuinely conflicted girl caught between twin desires.
Because one I can control. The other might destroy everything.
“Pasta or rice?” I ask as if we’re having a normal conversation. As if the air between us isn’t charged with possibility and threat.
Just two people having dinner. Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The kitchen fills with silence save for the hiss of cooking food and the precise rhythm of my knife against the cutting board. She hasn’t answered my question about pasta or rice. Another small defiance to add to the growing list.
I set down the knife and turn to face her fully, leaning back against the counter. Her posture remains perfect—shoulders straight, chin slightly lowered, hands folded. The picture of submission.
Too perfect. Too controlled.
“Look at me,” I command softly.
She raises her eyes, and I search for clues in them. Is she plotting? Calculating her next move? Or genuinely defeated by seeing her precious Aries caged?
“Rice,” she finally says, voice quiet. “If you’re making me eat.”
“I am.” I turn back to the stove, adding seasoning to the pan. “Hard to properly beg with low blood sugar.”
I catch her slight flinch from the corner of my eye. Good. Her emotional reactions feed my beast.
“So.” I keep my tone conversational while my mind races through scenarios. “What exactly are you willing to do to save him?”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. I don’t turn to look at her, giving her the illusion of privacy while she formulates her answer.
“You already know.” Her voice comes out steadier than I expected. “I said anything.”
“Anything is a dangerous word, Lilian.” I plate the food with meticulous care, setting one dish in front of her before taking the seat opposite. “Especially with someone like me.”
Her eyes meet mine across the table. “Someone like you? You mean a monster?”
I smile, pleased by her attempt to provoke me. “Among other things. But monsters can be quite...creative when given free rein.”
“Is that what you want?” She ignores the food in front of her. “Free rein over me?”
“What I want,” I say, carefully spearing a piece of chicken on my fork, “is honesty. So I’ll ask again. What would you sacrifice for his freedom? And this time, be specific.”
She swallows hard, the pulse in her throat fluttering visibly. “My body. My...virginity. My obedience. Whatever you want.”
The words should please me. Should feed the dark hunger that’s been growing since I first saw her. Instead, they land flatly and rehearsed. Like she’s offering herself on an altar—a sacrifice rather than a willing participant.
“Virginity?” I set down my fork. “Now that is interesting. The perfect Hayes daughter, saving herself all these years. For what? Marriage? Or were you hoping Aries would finally notice you weren’t his little sister anymore?”
Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” I say simply. “It matters very much. Because I don’t want a martyr in my bed, Lilian. I want someone who begs for what I give them.”
She takes a deep breath, seeming to center herself. “I’ll do anything,” she repeats, but this time with a heavy sigh that speaks volumes. “Whatever it takes to help him.”
Her tone makes something dark curl in my gut. This isn’t desire. This is sacrifice.
Noble, selfless Lilian offering herself up to save her precious stepbrother.
I push my plate away, appetite gone. “Eat.”
Her fingers toy with the fork, pushing food around without taking a bite. “I’m really not hungry.”
“Fine.” I stand abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. “Let’s skip the pretense then. If you’re so eager to trade your body for his freedom, we might as well begin.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods, rising from her chair with the resigned dignity of someone facing a firing squad. She walks ahead of me to the bedroom, steps controlled. No hesitation. No fear. Just acceptance of her fate. When she reaches the bed, she simply sits on the edge, hands folded in her lap.
“Should I...” She gestures vaguely at her clothes, voice impossibly small.
“Should you what? Strip? Lie back and think of England?” The sarcasm cuts through the room. “Tell me, was this how you imagined your first time? Offering yourself like a virgin sacrifice to the monster under the bed?”
Her lack of response infuriates me further. She simply shifts up the bed, lying back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Go ahead,” she says softly. “I won’t fight you.”
The last remaining shreds of control sever. This passive surrender isn’t what I want. Isn’t what I’ve been fantasizing about since I first pinned her against that wall. I want her fire, her defiance, her reluctant desire. Want her writhing under me, fighting her attraction even as she surrenders to it.
Not this... compliance.
Anger burns in my veins. The need to destroy, to hurt overtakes me. I grab the lamp from the nightstand and hurl it against the wall. The shattering of glass makes her scurry back against the headboard, her blue eyes wide with fear.
“What—”
“Is that what you think this is?” I snarl, snatching a book from the shelf and throwing it to join the shattered lamp. “That you just lie there like a corpse while I take what I want? Some noble sacrifice for your precious stepbrother?” More anger. More rage. I grab another object—a glass paperweight—and throw, watching it explode against the concrete wall with grim satisfaction.
“Arson, stop?—”
“No.” I turn to her, breathing hard. “You stop. Stop this pathetic martyr act. When I decide to fuck you, you won’t be lying there enduring it. You’ll be begging me for it. Desperate for it. So wet you can’t think straight.”
Her cheeks flame, but her eyes hold mine, something shifting in their depths.
“Is that understood?” I demand, voice dropping dangerously.
“Yes,” she whispers, and for the first time tonight, I hear a tremor of something besides resignation in her voice.
“This isn’t a transaction.” I kick the broken glass aside, stalking toward the bed. “This isn’t you paying some price. It’s not a fucking business arrangement.”
Her eyes track my movements, wariness replacing that infuriating resignation. Good. I need her present. Need her feeling every second of this.
“Then what is it?” she asks, voice steadier now.
I grab the edge of the mattress, flipping it partially so she tumbles off with a startled cry. The bedding follows, sheets and pillows scattered across the floor.
“It’s submission,” I growl, yanking her up by her arm. “Real submission. Not this calculated surrender you’re offering.”
She stumbles against me, hands bracing on my chest. “I don’t understand what you want from me!”
“Yes, you do.” I grip her chin, forcing her face up to mine. “You want this as much as I do. Since the moment I shoved my cock down your throat. You’re hiding behind a lie, pretending you’re just doing this for him.” My other hand slides down her back, gripping her hip to pull her flush against me.
“I—” Her breath catches as I deliberately roll my hips against hers.
“Say it.” I back her against the wall, one hand moving to tangle in her hair. “Say you want this. That it’s not just about saving him.”
“Why does it matter?” she challenges, that fire finally returning to her eyes. “If you get what you want either way?”
I laugh darkly. “Because I don’t want what you’re offering. I want your real surrender. Your real desire. Not this pathetic imitation.”
To demonstrate, I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand while the other skims down her body. She shivers under my touch, pupils dilating despite her attempt to remain distant.
“See?” I murmur, lips brushing her ear. “Your body already knows what you’re trying to deny.”
“That’s just physical,” she argues, but her voice has gone breathless. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then why are your nipples hard?” My thumb circles one through her shirt, making her bite her lip. “Why is your pulse racing?
She stays quiet, her chest heaving.
“That’s what I thought.” My hand slides under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body doesn’t lie to me.”
My hand travels higher under her shirt, fingertips brushing the underside of her breast. She makes a small sound—not quite a protest, not quite a moan. Her wrists strain against my grip, but not to escape. To what? Press closer? Pull away? Even she doesn’t seem to know.
Her head falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed as my fingers find her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. The gasp she releases is pure need.
“That’s it,” I encourage, my thigh pressing between her legs. “Stop thinking. Stop calculating. Just feel.”
I release her wrists to tug her shirt up and off in one smooth movement. Her hands immediately come to my shoulders—not pushing away, but gripping like she needs an anchor in a storm. “Beautiful,” I murmur, taking in the sight of her in just her simple black bra. “Even more perfect than I imagined.”
My mouth finds her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as my hands work her bra open. She whimpers when it falls away, leaving her exposed to my hungry gaze.
“Arson,” she whispers, my name a question and a plea.
“Yes?” I drag my fingertips down her sides, feeling her tremble.
“I’m sorry about earlier. About going downstairs.” Her words come between shallow breaths. “About seeing Aries without permission.”
The mention of my brother’s name is like ice water being poured down my back. I step back slightly, though my hands remain on her waist.
“You disobeyed me,” I say coldly. “After I specifically told you to stay upstairs.”
She nods, eyes still dark with arousal but now tinged with apprehension. “Yes.”
“Then you offered yourself up like some virgin sacrifice.” I trace the curve of her breast, watching her nipple tighten in response. “Thinking I wouldn’t notice you were just going through the motions.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“Don’t lie.” My hand slides down her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. “Not when I can feel how wet you are right now.”
I pop the button open, lowering the zipper with deliberate slowness. “I think both those things deserve punishment, don’t you?”
Her breath hitches. “Punishment?”
“Yes.” I slip my hand inside her jeans, over her panties, feeling the heat and dampness there. “I promise you’ll enjoy at least part of it.”
She trembles as my fingers press against her core through the thin fabric. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make you understand the difference,” I tell her, stroking slowly, “between enduring something and begging for it.”
“Take these off.” I tug at her jeans, stepping back to give her space.
Her fingers tremble on the waistband, hesitation warring with desire in her eyes. For a moment, I think she might refuse. But she doesn’t. Instead she slides them down her legs, revealing long, perfect limbs and simple black panties that match her discarded bra.
“Good girl.” I move to sit on the edge of the bed, patting my thigh. “Now come here.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “You’re going to...spank me?”
“Among other things.” I gesture impatiently. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”
She approaches slowly, uncertainty in every step.
When she reaches me, I guide her across my lap, positioning her so her upper body rests on the mattress, her ass perfectly presented.
“Five for disobeying me and going downstairs.” My palm rests lightly on the curve of her ass, feeling her tense beneath it. “Five for the martyrdom act at dinner. And we’ll see how many more it takes for you to be honest about what you want.”
“I don’t?—”
My hand comes down sharply on her right cheek, cutting off her protest. The sound echoes in the quiet room, followed by her startled gasp.
“One,” I count softly, rubbing the pink mark blooming under her panties. “Still want to tell me what you don’t want?”
Her only response is a shaky exhale.
“I thought so.”
Another sharp smack, this time to her left cheek. “Two.”
She flinches, but doesn’t try to move away. My free hand slides beneath her, fingers finding her hot, damp center.
“Getting wetter with each strike,” I observe, circling her clit through her panties. “Still want to pretend this is just a sacrifice for your stepbrother?”
“Please,” she whispers, though whether she’s asking me to stop or continue isn’t clear.
“Please what?” I deliver the third smack, harder than the previous two.
She buries her face in the bedding, muffling a sound that might be pain or pleasure or both. I take the opportunity to tug her panties down, baring her completely to my gaze.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, stroking the reddened skin.
The fourth and fifth strikes come in quick succession, my palm connecting with bare flesh. She cries out, body jerking, but my arm around her waist keeps her pinned in place.
“Halfway there.” I slip my fingers between her thighs, finding her slick and swollen. “Still think this is just physical?”
“No,” she admits shakily, hips pushing back against my hand.
I slide one finger inside her, feeling her tight heat clench around me. “Tell me what you want, Lilian. Be honest.”
“More,” she gasps as I add a second finger, stretching her gently.
“More what? More punishment?” I bring my palm down again on her reddened flesh. “More pleasure?” My fingers curl inside her, finding the spot that makes her moan. “You need to be specific.”
She writhes against my hand, caught between the sharp sting of my palm and the pleasure building between her thighs. “Both. Please. I need?—”
Another smack cuts off her words, followed immediately by my fingers pressing deeper inside her. The combination pulls a broken sob from her throat.
“That’s it,” I encourage, establishing a rhythm of pleasure-pain that has her trembling on the edge. “No more lying. No more pretending. Just honest need.”
Her body quivers across my lap, caught in the merciless rhythm I’ve established. Each smack of my hand against her ass is immediately followed by the curl of my fingers inside her, pain and pleasure intertwined until she can no longer distinguish between them.
“Please,” she gasps, the word muffled against the bedding.
“Please what?” I deliver another firm strike, watching the pink handprint bloom on her perfect skin. “Use your words, Lilian. Tell me exactly what you’re begging for.”
Her hips push back against my hand shamelessly now, all pretense of reluctance gone. “Please let me come. I need—I can’t?—”
“Not yet.” I slow my fingers, keeping her on the edge. “First, admit why you went downstairs.”
She whimpers as I withdraw almost completely, leaving just the tips of my fingers teasing her entrance. “I wanted to see him.”
“And?”
“And I... I wanted to help him.”
“Not good enough.” Another sharp smack makes her cry out. “The truth, Lilian. All of it.”
Her body trembles, hovering on the precipice of release but unable to fall. “I wanted to see if I still felt the same about him,” she finally confesses, voice breaking. “After being with you. After feeling...this.”
The admission sends heat surging through my blood. “And do you? Feel the same?”
“No.” The word sounds torn from her throat. “It’s different now. Everything’s different.”
I reward her honesty by pressing my fingers deep again, thumb circling her clit with precise pressure. “What else?”
“I won’t—” Her breath catches as I find that perfect spot inside her. “I won’t disobey you again. I promise.”
“You will,” I correct her, delivering one final smack to her tender flesh. “But next time, you’ll accept your punishment more gracefully, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she sobs, beyond pride now. “Anything. Please, Arson. Please let me come.”
The sound of my name on her lips, broken and desperate, nearly undoes me. This is what I wanted—not the passive sacrifice she offered earlier, but this raw, honest need.
“Come for me,” I command, fingers working relentlessly inside her, palm pressing against her sensitized skin. “Show me how much you need this.”
She shatters instantly, body convulsing around my fingers as a broken cry tears from her throat. I work her through it, prolonging each wave until she’s gasping for breath, limbs trembling with aftershocks. Only when she goes limp across my lap do I gently withdraw my fingers, savoring her whimper at the loss.
With careful hands, I rearrange her on the bed, watching her face as she slowly returns to herself. Her eyes, when they finally open, hold something new—wonder mixed with confusion, desire tangled with fear.
“That,” I tell her softly, brushing damp hair from her flushed face, “is the difference between enduring and begging. Remember it.”
She nods, unable to form words yet. I’ve finally found a way to silence that clever Hayes mind—to make her feel instead of think.
“Rest,” I murmur, pulling a blanket over her naked form. “Tomorrow, we’ll discuss exactly what your stepbrother’s freedom is going to cost you.”
As I watch her drift into exhausted sleep, I wonder which of us is truly being captured. And why I need her to admit it’s me she wants more than him.