Chapter 3
Liam
FUCK THE RAIN. FUCK this cabin. Fuck Tyler Murphy and his goddamn smirk.
I’d planned to be gone all day—hiking, fishing, anything to put distance between us after what almost happened. But now the weather’s conspired against me, forcing me into this wooden prison with the one person I can’t face.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes yesterday’s memories sharper.
Tyler, in nothing but swim trunks, pressing his wet body to mine.
Tyler, his voice dropping to that low register that somehow reached inside me and twisted.
Tyler, saying things that should have disgusted me, but instead lit a fire I didn’t know existed.
“Such a prissy boy with your perfect grades and manners. But look at you now. Rutting against me like a whore.”
My dick throbs at the memory. I press my palm against it, hoping the pressure will somehow deflate my arousal. Big mistake. The contact only makes it worse, sending jolts of pleasure up my spine, so I yank my hand away.
Twenty-one years believing I was straight, twenty-one years of girlfriends and hookups that never quite satisfied something deep inside me, and now this. A sexuality crisis served on a silver platter by my stepbrother, of all people. My stepbrother. The word sits like poison in my mind.
I turn onto my side, clutching a pillow to my chest like it might shield me from my own thoughts. If I stay here long enough, maybe I can convince myself last night never happened. Maybe I can forget the way he gripped my hips, the way his eyes had darkened when I didn’t push him away.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You want your big stepbro to bend you over right here?”
A groan escapes me before I can stop it. The sheets are too hot, too confining. I shove them off with more force than necessary, exposing my body to the cool air. My sweatpants do nothing to hide my erection.
This is fucking unspeakable. Tyler Murphy is everything I’ve despised since our parents got married. The golden boy athlete who never had to work for anything. The arrogant bully who knows how to get under my skin. My polar opposite and my personal tormentor since we became a family.
So why did his words make me harder than I’ve ever been in my life?
I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of stubble against my palm. Enough of this. I need to get up, act normal, pretend none of this is happening. I yank on a t-shirt and jeans, not bothering to shower. What’s the point? I’m not going anywhere in this weather.
The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I make my way to the kitchen. I can do this. I can act like an adult. I can—
Tyler stands at the counter, one hip cocked against the edge, coffee mug held in his fingers.
He wears nothing but low-hanging sweatpants, his chest bare and defined in ways that remind me he’s spent most of his life playing sports while I buried myself in books.
His light brown hair is tousled, like he’s just rolled out of bed or someone’s been running their fingers through it.
Our eyes meet, and his lips curve into that infuriating smirk. Heat climbs up my neck, and I’m surprised my skin doesn’t smoke. My fingers grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I can feel the gloating radiating from him in waves, see the triumph in his eyes. He knows what he’s done to me.
Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming against the roof like a frantic heartbeat. We’re well and truly stuck here now.
I grab a mug from the cabinet, aware of Tyler’s eyes tracking my every movement. My hands aren’t quite steady as I pour the coffee. I need food too—something to focus on besides him. I pull bread from the breadbox and slather it with peanut butter, not tasting a thing as I chew.
Tyler still hasn’t spoken. I can’t stand it anymore.
“Weather’s shit,” I mutter.
“Mmm,” he agrees, and I hate how even that non-committal sound makes my stomach flip. “Looks like we’re stuck inside today.”
I grab my coffee and sandwich, clutching them like lifelines. “I’ve got work to do,” I lie, already retreating.
I flee to my room without waiting for his response, clicking the door shut behind me with my foot.
I pull my laptop from my bag and stare at the screen, not seeing anything.
For hours, I pretend to work, occasionally taking bites of my sandwich or sips of coffee gone cold.
Rain continues to lash the windows. The light changes as afternoon crawls toward evening.
I check my phone, answer a few emails, scroll through social media.
Anything not to think about Tyler. Anything not to remember the danger in his eyes.
When darkness falls and the rain slows to an unpleasant drizzle, my stomach growls loud enough to break my concentration.
I haven’t eaten since that sandwich this morning.
Maybe Tyler has gone out despite the weather.
Maybe I can sneak into the kitchen, grab some food, and retreat again without seeing him.
The cabin is dark when I emerge from my room. A good sign. I go down the hallway, my socked feet silent on the wooden floors. The living room appears empty in the dimness, and relief washes through me as I flip on the light switch.
My heart nearly stops. Tyler lounges on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, a glass of amber liquid in his other hand. His eyes find mine, tracking my frozen form in the doorway.
“There’s food in the kitchen,” he says casually. “I made pasta.”
I glare at him, trying to determine if this is some kind of peace offering or just another way to mess with me. My stomach betrays me with a loud growl, and Tyler chuckles.
I manage a stiff nod and head into the kitchen. Sure enough, a pot of pasta sits on the stove, still warm. I scoop some onto a plate and sit at the kitchen table, choosing not to join him in the living room. Distance is my only defense right now.
The pasta is delicious, annoyingly so. I shovel it into my mouth, focusing on the simple act of eating rather than the knowledge that Tyler made this.
Footsteps approach from the living room. I tense as he enters the kitchen. He leans against the counter, drink in hand, watching me.
“So,” he starts, swirling the whiskey in his glass, “about yesterday.”
I stab at my food, saying nothing. Maybe if I don’t engage, he’ll drop it.
“You ran away pretty fast,” he continues, undeterred. “After all that build-up.”
“There was no build-up,” I mutter, eyes fixed on my plate. “Nothing happened.”
“No?” His voice drops lower. “Then why are you blushing right now?”
Damn my fair complexion, showing every emotion.
Tyler pushes off from the counter and takes a step closer. “So, what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal?” My voice cracks. “We’re stepbrothers.”
“Step being the operative word.” He moves even closer, and I can smell his aftershave now. “We’re not blood related.”
“That’s not the point.”
He leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear as he whispers, “Don’t tell me you don’t like a little taboo.”
Heat burns through me, pooling low in my stomach. “I don’t,” I protest.
Tyler’s grin widens. “So it was the dirty talk that got you so hot and bothered?” He studies my face with fascination. “I wonder what else you’d like.”
Something in me snaps. I stand, the chair scraping against the floor with a screech.
Tyler’s eyes widen—the first sign of uncertainty I’ve seen from him—before he masks it with that infuriating confidence.
He backs into the living room as I stalk toward him, not sure what I’m planning to do once I reach him.
He raises his whiskey glass. “Want some?”
I should say no. I should return to my room and lock the door.
Instead, I grab the glass from his hand and take a burning sip, the alcohol leaving a trail of fire down my throat.
One sip turns into another, and then another one.
I’m starting to think it wouldn’t hurt to loosen up a bit. There’s nowhere to go, anyway.
We end up on the couch, the bottle of whiskey between us on the coffee table.
Tyler sprawls on the opposite end, one arm slung over the back of the couch like he owns the place. The drumming of rain against the roof fills the silence between us. I take another swig, welcoming the sting.
Tyler raises his glass in a mock toast before downing another shot, his eyes never leaving my face. I look away, focusing on the amber liquid in my glass, swirling it slowly.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, squinting at the screen.
Mom: How’s the bonding going with Tyler? You boys getting along?
A pang of guilt twists my gut. She was so hopeful when she suggested this trip. Convinced we just needed time alone to “sort things out.”
I glance up to find Tyler watching me. “Mom wants to know if we’re bonding.”
Tyler’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “And what are you going to tell her?”
I set my phone down without answering the text. “Look, maybe we should just…try to get along. For our parents’ sake.” The words taste weird on my tongue, but the guilt weighs heavier than my pride. “I’m tired of fighting you every second.”
“You proposing a truce, Liam?” Tyler’s voice carries that same edge of amusement that always makes me feel like I’m missing some private joke.
I straighten my spine. “One condition. You stop with the bullying.”
Tyler’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bullying? Is that what you think I’ve been doing?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Don’t gaslight me. You know what you do.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
“Fine. No more bullying. Scout’s honor.” The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth makes my stomach clench. “What are you suggesting we do, then?”
I drain my glass and stand. “We could play a game or something.” I walk to the shelf with the board games I saw yesterday. “There’s Monopoly.”
Tyler scoffs. “I’m way too drunk for all that strategy and counting.”