3. Selene
SELENE
I lie on my wet bed for eleven minutes after I leave his room, staring at the ceiling, my body still vibrating with the ghost of his cock against my back, his hand on my wrist, his whisper in my neck.
You're mine. Whether you know it or not.
My mother is downstairs. My stepfather is downstairs.
And I'm in my room, wearing damp cotton, my thighs sticky with arousal I can't control, my ass still tender from where he spanked me six hours ago.
I need to shower. I need to change. I need to compose a face that doesn't scream I spent the night in my stepbrother's bed while he held me down and refused to fuck me.
The shower is cold. I stand under it until my teeth chatter, until my nipples ache from the temperature, until I can't feel his hands anymore.
I wrap myself in a towel and stare at my reflection.
My eyes are swollen—not from crying, though I cried, but from lack of sleep, from tension, from the constant state of arousal that feels like low-grade fever.
There's a bruise on my hip from his grip last night.
I press it, watching the color bloom, and feel a pulse between my legs that has nothing to do with the cold water.
I dress carefully. A blue sundress this time, not the yellow one, but a similar cut, similar length, similar style.
I blow-dry my hair until it hangs straight and dark down my back.
I apply mascara, lip gloss, powder. I paint a mask over the girl who pressed herself against her stepbrother in the dark and whispered please.
When I descend the stairs at 7:15 PM, I smell roast chicken and rosemary, the particular scent of my mother's cooking that means she's trying. Trying to be domestic, trying to be maternal, trying to prove that this marriage, this house, this life she's built is real and good and permanent.
The dining room is bright, chandelier throwing prisms across the table, the windows open to let in the post-storm breeze. Stella is at the head, wearing a coral blouse that makes her look younger than fifty, her silver-streaked hair swept up in a clip. She's chattering before I even sit down.
"—and then Barbara said she absolutely would not partner with me for the fall tournament, can you imagine, after all these years, and I said Barbara, if you think you can find someone who knows the Stayman convention better than I do, be my guest, but you'll be back by October, mark my words?—"
"Selene, sweetheart," Richard says, standing as I approach the table. He's wearing a pressed button-down, his silver hair combed back, his smile warm and practiced. "You look lovely. The Hamptons air agrees with you."
"Thank you," I mumble, sliding into the chair across from Silas.
He's already seated. He's wearing a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing the tattoos and the corded muscle beneath.
His hair is still damp from his own shower, combed back but already beginning to rebel at the temples.
He doesn't look at me when I sit down. He cuts his chicken with surgical precision, his attention apparently devoted entirely to the meal.
But under the table, his bare foot finds mine.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. His toes—warm, rough, deliberate—trace the arch of my foot, then slide up my calf, pushing beneath the hem of my dress. I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles white, and force myself to chew the chicken I haven't tasted.
"—and the contractor for the Henderson place completely botched the crown molding, Richard, I told you we should have used Silas's crew from the start, but no, you wanted to give the new guy a chance, and now we're paying for it?—"
"Silas has enough on his plate," Richard says, reaching for the potatoes. "The Southampton project alone is keeping him busy twelve hours a day."
"Fourteen," Silas corrects, his voice neutral, his foot still moving up my leg, his toes now tracing the sensitive skin behind my knee. "Sometimes sixteen."
"See?" Stella beams, as if this is evidence of something virtuous. "Dedicated. That's what I love about this family. Everyone works so hard."
Silas's foot slides higher. His big toe presses against my inner thigh, just below the edge of my panties, and I nearly drop my fork. The metal clatters against my plate, loud enough to make Stella pause mid-sentence.
"Selene? Are you alright?"
"Fine," I manage, my voice an octave higher than normal. "Just—slipped."
Silas finally looks at me. His eyes are ice-blue in the chandelier light, but there's something beneath the ice now, something dark and molten that makes my mouth dry.
He reaches for the salt shaker, his hand large and scarred, the same hand that spanked me and held me and pinned my wrist to the mattress.
"Pass the salt?" he asks, his voice casual, his foot still pressed against my thigh.
My hand shakes as I reach for the shaker. Our fingers brush as I hand it over, and I feel the electricity arc between us, sharp enough to make me gasp. Stella doesn't notice. She's already moved on to the bridge club treasurer's alleged embezzlement.
"Thank you," I whisper, looking directly at Silas. The words form without my permission, shaped by his foot against my skin, by his eyes on my mouth, by the memory of his cock throbbing against my back. "Daddy."
The room goes silent.
Stella's head turns, her coral lips parted in confusion, her eyes narrowing. Richard's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. I freeze, my blood turning to ice in my veins, my entire body rigid with the certainty that I've just destroyed everything.
"She's thanking Dad," Silas says smoothly, his voice warm, his expression shifting into something resembling amusement. "For the house. For letting her stay."
He gestures with the salt shaker toward Richard, who chuckles and sets down his fork.
"Of course, of course," Richard says. "Our home is your home, Selene. However long you need."
Stella's confusion melts into a smile. "That's so sweet," she says, patting Richard's hand. "See? I told you they'd get along famously."
Silas's eyes meet mine across the table. They're not amused anymore. They're black with hunger, with possession, with the promise of punishment for what I just said, what I just risked, what I just claimed in front of our parents.
My phone vibrates in my lap.
I don't look at it. I can't. I eat three more bites of chicken, tasting nothing, feeling Silas's foot withdraw from my thigh, leaving my skin cold and aching.
Stella chatters about the garden, the new hydrangeas, the possibility of a pool next summer.
Richard discusses the Southampton project, the permits, the client who keeps changing the floor plan.
I nod and smile and make sounds that approximate participation.
My phone vibrates again.
I wait until Richard stands to pour wine, until Stella follows him to the kitchen for the lemon tart, before I glance at the screen.
Two texts. Same number. Unknown, but I know.
My room. Ten minutes.
Don't make me wait.
I climb the stairs at 8:17 PM, my legs shaking, my stomach a knot of anticipation and terror.
The hallway is dark, lit only by the night-light Stella installed for "guest safety.
" My mother's room is downstairs, the door closed, muffled laughter filtering through.
Richard's study is just off the hall, the door open, his voice on a phone call about lumber prices.
Silas's door is cracked, light spilling into the hallway in a thin gold line.
I push it open. He's waiting.
He's standing by the window, still in the black shirt, sleeves rolled, the top two buttons undone.
He turns when I enter, and his eyes—those ice-blue eyes that cut through everything—find me immediately.
He doesn't speak. He crosses the room in three strides, reaches past me, and locks the door. The click echoes in my chest.
Then he pushes me against it.
My back hits the wood, his body presses against mine, and his mouth is on my throat before I can breathe.
He kisses the place where my pulse hammering, sucks the skin until I gasp, bites once—sharp, claiming, enough to leave a mark.
His hands slide under my dress, rough palms skimming my thighs, my hips, finding the edge of my panties and tearing them down my legs in one swift motion.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice gravel against my ear. "What you called me."
"Daddy," I breathe, and the word comes out like a confession, like a surrender, like the only truth I've ever known.
He rewards me.
His mouth crashes against mine, his tongue forcing my lips apart, tasting like bourbon and possession. His hands move between my legs, fingers finding me wet and swollen and aching, and he groans against my mouth when he feels how ready I am.
"Soaked," he mutters, his thumb circling my clit with a pressure that makes my knees buckle. "Already soaked for me. Little girl."
I moan, my head falling back against the door, my hips bucking against his hand.
He works me with two fingers, sliding deep, curling to find the spot that makes my vision blur.
I'm tight around him, burning with the stretch, but he's patient—methodical, clinical, his eyes watching my face with an intensity that makes me want to hide and show him everything at once.
"So small," he whispers, adding a third finger, stretching me wider, making me cry out. "So perfect. Made for me. Only for me."
He brings me to the edge—my body coiling, my breath hitching, my fingers clawing at his shoulders—and stops.
I sob, my hips chasing his hand, my body throbbing with denied release. "Please?—"
"You don't come until I say," he commands, his fingers still inside me, motionless, feeling my walls flutter around him. "You don't come until I let you. Understand?"
I nod, tears tracking down my face, my body trembling with the effort of holding back.