Chapter 6
Zero
The girl's name is something generic. Ashley, maybe. Or Brittany. Could be Jessica. Could be Taylor. I didn't ask. Didn't care enough to commit it to memory.
I don't really care.
She's hot—tight dress, black, hugging every curve, the kind that's designed to be peeled off, legs for days, tan, toned, endless, lips that promised things the second she smiled at me across the bar.
Red. Glossy. The kind that leave marks. And she's willing.
That's all that matters. No games. No pretense. Just mutual desire and mutual use.
"Your place?" she purrs as I unlock my car. Her hand already on my arm. Nails painted the same red as her lips. Sharp.
"Yeah." I don't look at her. Just unlock the door. Black Audi. New. Fast. The kind of car that makes a statement.
She slides into the passenger seat, and I catch her giving my Audi an approving once-over.
Her eyes widen. Impressed. Calculating. Wondering what else I have.
What else I can give her. Rich boy with a nice car and a dangerous edge.
I know what I look like. Dangerous. Exciting.
The kind of mistake good girls make when they want to feel alive.
I know what women want when they look at me.
I drive fast. Faster than I should. The engine roars. The speedometer climbs. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety on the straightaways. The city blurs past. Streetlights streak. She gasps but doesn't tell me to slow down.
She doesn't complain. Instead, she laughs. Breathless. Excited. Her hand finds my thigh.
By the time we pull up to the estate, she's got her hand on my thigh, sliding higher. Her palm hot even through my jeans. Her fingers bold. Squeezing.
"Jesus," she breathes, staring at the house. Her jaw drops. Her eyes go wide. The hand on my thigh stills. "You live here?"
"Yep." I kill the engine. The sudden silence is loud.
"Alone?" She sounds hopeful. Greedy. Already imagining herself in this life.
"Mostly." I get out. Close the door. Walk around to her side.
Close enough. True enough. A lie that doesn't matter.
I park and lead her inside. My hand on her lower back.
Guiding. Possessive. She moves with me. The house is quiet—Dad and Margot are probably in bed by now, their wing is on the other side, far enough that they won't hear anything, and Atlas is likely in his office doing whatever control-freak shit he does until late.
Probably on his third whiskey and his fifteenth spreadsheet. Probably hasn't even noticed I'm gone.
Perfect. No witnesses. No interruptions. No one to tell me to stop.
"Come on," I say, taking her hand and pulling her toward the stairs. My fingers wrap around her wrist. Not gentle. But she doesn't pull away.
She giggles. High-pitched. Breathy. The sound grates but I ignore it. Follows. Her heels click on the marble. Too loud. I don't care.
We hit the second floor, and I'm already hard, my jeans tight, uncomfortable, anticipation thrumming through me, already thinking about bending her over the couch in the fuck lounge—quick, rough, meaningless the way I like it—
I push open the door. The handle turns easily. No resistance. The room should be dark. Should smell like leather and whiskey and sex. Should be ours.
Stop.
Everything stops.
My hand freezes on the door. My breath catches.
She runs into my back. Her breasts press against my shoulder blades. Her hands grab my arms for balance. "What?"
The room is... different. Wrong. All wrong. Everything wrong.
The couch is gone. The leather sectional where we've fucked countless men and women.
Where we used to pass out drunk. Where we'd have our late-night conversations when Atlas couldn't sleep and Bane was having nightmares and I was too wired to rest. Gone.
The bar cart is gone. Our whiskey. Our glasses.
Our space. Gone. The dim lighting we kept it at—gone.
Now it's bright. Soft. Warm. Inviting in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Instead, there's a bed. King-sized. Made. Perfect. With gray linens —expensive, probably Egyptian cotton— and too many fucking pillows. Decorative ones. Useless ones. The kind that exist just to be moved aside.
A desk by the window. Dark wood. Organized. A lamp with a soft yellow bulb. Books on the shelf. Paperbacks. Some with cracked spines. Some with dog-eared pages. A laptop. Old and scratched. Covered in stickers from bookstores and coffee shops. A backpack. Black. Faded. Pins all over it.
This isn't the fuck lounge. This isn't ours. This isn't what it was. What it's supposed to be.
This is Max's room.
Fuck. Fury rises. Hot. Immediate. Consuming.
"Hey, babe, what's wrong?" The girl's hands slide up my back. Searching. Teasing. Trying to pull me back into the moment.
I step away from her touch. Jerk forward. Put space between us. Her hands fall.
"No." The word comes out harsh. Final.
"What?" Confusion. Then annoyance. Her voice sharpens.
"You need to leave." I turn around, already pulling out my phone. Unlocking it. Opening the app. Not looking at her. Can't look at her. "I'll get you an Uber."
Her face shifts from confused to pissed in about two seconds. Her eyes narrow. Her red lips curl into a snarl. Pretty face turning ugly. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
"I'm not in the mood anymore." I'm typing. Entering the address. Requesting the car.
"You were in the mood five seconds ago!" She's yelling now. Voice shrill. Echoing in the hallway.
"Well, now I'm not." I'm already typing in the app. Three minutes away. Good. Get her out. Get her gone. "Car's three minutes away."
"You're serious."
"Dead serious." I don't look up from my phone. If I look at her, I might say something worse. Might do something worse.
She stares at me like I just slapped her. Her eyes are wide. Wounded. Furious. "You know what? Fuck you. I'll get my own ride." She pulls out her own phone. Hands shaking. Whether from anger or embarrassment or both, I don't know. Don't care.
She turns and bolts, heels clicking down the hall. Angry. Stomping. The sound echoes.
"Great. Do that," I call after her. My voice is flat. Empty. Already dismissing her.
She flips me off without looking back. Middle finger high. Defiant. Fuck you too, sweetheart.
The front door slams a minute later. The sound reverberates through the house. Loud enough to wake the dead.
I don't give a shit.
I stand in Max's doorway, jaw tight, fists clenched. My nails dig into my palms. My teeth grind. Fury burning through me like gasoline on fire.
My mood's fucking ruined now. Cock soft. Night shot. All because of him.
All because of him. All because Max Carter exists.
Because he's here. Because he took something from us.
Because he's sleeping in our space. Because we had to give up the one room in this house that was ours—no rules, no expectations, just a place to fuck and forget.
A sanctuary. A release. A space that belonged to the three of us and no one else.
Now it belongs to my fucking step-brother. The interloper. The outsider. The unwanted addition.
I look back into the room. Really look. Take in every detail. Every change. Every violation.
Max is at class. I know his schedule. Know he won't be back for at least another hour. Maybe longer if he stops somewhere. If he hides.
I shouldn't. This is wrong. This crosses a line. This is—
I step inside anyway. Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck all of this.
It smells different in here. The first thing I notice. The thing that hits me immediately.
Wrong.
No…Not wrong. Different. New.
The room used to smell like sex. Sweat and release and perfume and cologne all mixed together. The scent of bodies and pleasure and letting go. Like cologne and sweat and spilled whiskey. Masculine. Dark. Ours. Now it smells clean. Soft. Domestic.
Like fucking laundry detergent —something floral, something fresh— and something sweeter underneath. Faint. Subtle. But there. Definitely there.
I shouldn't be here. Know it. Feel it. The violation of privacy. The line I'm crossing.
Don't give a shit. Not even a little bit.
Now I'm just angry. Tense. Wired. Still pissed.
That girl's perfume is lingering on my shirt —cheap, cloying, nothing like whatever this is— and all I can think about is how this used to be our room.
Ours. The three of us. Our space. Our rules.
The one place in this massive house where we could bring whoever we wanted and not deal with Dad's judgmental looks.
Max Carter took that from us. Stole it. Without asking. Without earning it. Just moved in and claimed it like he has any right to anything in this house.
The bed's made. Neat. Hospital corners. Pillows arranged. Everything perfect. Everything in its place. Like he's a fucking hotel guest instead of someone who lives here. Like he's temporary. Like he doesn't belong.
He's right.
He doesn't.
I move to the desk. My boots are loud on the hardwood. I don't try to be quiet. He's not here. No one will know. Laptop closed. Password protected, probably. No way to access it without breaking in. Boring. Nothing to see there. Nothing to use.
The dresser then. Dark wood. Six drawers. Organized. Neat.
Top drawer. I pull it open. The runners slide smooth. Expensive furniture. T-shirts. Folded like he's got OCD or something. Each one identical. Edges aligned. Perfect rectangles. Color-coordinated. Pathetic. Control freak. Or maybe just damaged. Probably both.
Second drawer. Jeans. Folded the same way. Dark denim on the left. Faded on the right. Everything organized.
Third—I open it. More clothes. Sweatpants. Joggers. Then my hand hits something unexpected.
Something hard under a stack of shirts. Solid. Cylindrical. Hidden.
I pull it out. Wrap my fingers around it. Lift it free.
Orange pill bottle. Bright. Unmistakable. Medical. No label. Nothing. Completely blank. Just blank orange plastic that's been peeled clean. Deliberately. Someone removed the label. Someone wants to hide what these are.