Possessive Stepdaddy Breed Me (Possessive Stepfather #6)

1. GEORGIE

GEORGIE

The lecture hall buzzes with the monotonous drone of Professor Martinez's voice—something about market segmentation and consumer behavior—but the words blur into white noise. All I can focus on is the sharp, stabbing pain radiating through my chest, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

Five more minutes. Just five more minutes until dismissal.

My arms fold across my breasts, the pressure both relief and agony. The movement stays subtle, casual—or at least I pray it looks that way to the other students scattered throughout the rows.

Nobody glances my direction. Good.

The fullness has graduated from uncomfortable to unbearable, each heartbeat sending hot, swollen pressure radiating from my nipples outward. Should've pumped during the break between classes. Should've skipped this entire session and dealt with it in the privacy of my car.

But missing another lecture would absolutely destroy my grade, and failing isn't an option. Not when my scholarship hangs by a thread and my bank account has exactly forty-three dollars until next week's paycheck from my part-time tutoring gig.

The ache intensifies, spreading in relentless waves that make my breath catch. My jaw clenches until my molars grind together. Sweat prickles along my hairline despite the aggressive air conditioning that usually leaves me shivering in my hoodie.

Four more minutes.

Three and a half.

Professor Martinez continues his lecture, words tumbling out about competitive advantages and market positioning—concepts that would normally hook my attention, that I'd be scribbling notes about in the margins of my textbook.

Instead, they slide past without purchase. My entire world has narrowed to the burning pressure building behind my ribs and the desperate need to get to my car, lock the doors, and use that stupid breast pump before I leak through my bra.

Again.

Two minutes.

My phone buzzes in my jeans pocket—probably the reminder I set this morning, back when I thought I had enough self-control to wait until after class. The vibration sends a jolt through my nervous system, and the pain pulses harder, sharper, as if my body knows relief is tantalizingly close.

One minute.

"...and that concludes today's lecture. Don't forget the reading assignment for Monday. Chapters seven through nine."

The bell rings.

My body moves before conscious thought catches up. Backpack already sliding onto my shoulder, legs pushing me upright while other students are still processing dismissal.

I speed-walk toward the exit, weaving between desks, my textbook knocking against someone's workspace with a dull thud. An apology forms on my tongue but dies there, unspoken, as I shoulder through the doorway and burst into the hallway.

The first bathroom is occupied. Three girls cluster around the sinks, touching up makeup and laughing about something I don't register through the haze of pain. No empty stalls visible through the gap beneath the door. The scent of raspberry body spray mingles with industrial soap.

My sneakers squeak against the linoleum as I pivot and rush toward the next restroom down the hall, arms crossed over my chest, trying to ease the pressure. Every step sends a fresh wave of discomfort radiating through my body. My shirt feels too tight, my bra claustrophobic.

Second bathroom—even worse. A line of at least four students snakes out the doorway, their chatter echoing off the walls. One glances at me, then away, absorbed in her phone.

"Oh, come on," I groan under my breath, but I'm already turning, already calculating.

The parking lot. My car. The breast pump in the backseat. It'll have to do. No hand expression today.

Evening air hits my face as I burst through the side exit, cool and sharp against my flushed skin.

Most of the campus has cleared out—it's past eight, and the professors who stay late are tucked away in their offices, probably grading papers or catching up on emails.

The lot stretches before me, nearly empty, my beat-up Honda sitting three rows back under a flickering streetlight.

Almost there. Just thirty more feet.

The relief of solitude, of privacy, dangles so close I can taste it.

Twenty feet.

My keys are already in my hand, digging into my palm.

Ten.

Something solid crashes into me from behind. The impact drives the air from my lungs. An arm wraps around my waist, iron-strong and unrelenting, yanking me backward against a body that radiates heat and muscle. My scream builds in my throat, tearing upward?—

But before sound can escape, a cloth presses over my mouth and nose.

Sweet chemical smell floods my nostrils, thick and cloying, coating the back of my throat. Chloroform? Ether? Something worse?

No no no no?—

I claw at the arm restraining me, fingernails scraping fabric. My legs kick out, sneakers scuffing against asphalt, but whoever holds me doesn't even flinch. The grip tightens. Stars burst across my vision.

The parking lot tilts sideways. My backpack slides off my shoulder, hitting the ground with a muffled thud. My keys slip from my fingers.

Darkness swallows everything.

Cold invades my body first—not creeping, but settling in all at once, like I've been submerged in ice water. The ache in my chest follows, a pulsing throb that's somehow worse than before, each beat of my heart sending fresh waves of discomfort through swollen tissue.

My eyelids refuse to cooperate, weighted down like someone's pressed coins on them. I pry them open through sheer force of will.

Concrete stretches beneath me, gray and cracked. Metal walls rise on all sides, rust bleeding through patches of industrial paint. Overhead, dim yellow lights swing from exposed beams, casting shadows that shift and dance.

A warehouse. I'm in a damn warehouse.

Terror shoots through me like electricity. I try to move—hands free, at least there's that—but my skull pounds with each tiny shift of position. The taste coating my tongue is metallic and wrong. Copper pennies left to corrode.

Fragments of memory surface. Walking to my car. The weight of someone slamming into me from behind. That cloth pressed against my face, the sickly-sweet chemical smell flooding my nose and throat until everything went black.

Oh God. Oh God oh God?—

I lurch upward, but the floor tilts beneath me.

Vertigo sends me crashing back down, palms smacking concrete.

The impact sends shockwaves up my wrists.

Rough surface tears at my skin. My chest protests violently, tissue swollen and screaming for relief I can't provide, each bounce and jolt a fresh agony.

Footsteps ring out across the cavernous space. Heavy boots on concrete.

Someone's here. Someone's watching.

My pulse thunders in my ears as a figure materializes from the shadows.

Tall—absurdly tall, towering at least six and a half feet.

Shoulders broad enough to block out the light behind him.

Eyes like storm clouds catch the sickly yellow glow as he closes the distance with steps that are too measured, too controlled. Predatory.

Short hair peppered with gray. Stubble darkening his jaw. Tattoos snake up his neck and vanish beneath his collar—intricate designs I can't make out in this lighting but that scream danger.

He stops. Ten feet away. Close enough that I can see the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his gaze rakes over me like he's cataloging every detail, solving some equation I don't understand.

"Who are you?" The words tear from my throat, shaking despite my best efforts to sound strong. Demanding. "What do you want?"

His expression doesn't change. "Gavin Gates."

The name lands like a punch. He delivers it without inflection, without explanation, like those two words should unlock every answer I need.

Gavin Gates.

THE Gavin Gates?

Holy shit.

Every college student in the city knows that name. Whispered in dorm rooms late at night, voices dropping to reverent murmurs. Mentioned at parties when someone's had too much cheap vodka and wants to sound like they know dangerous secrets.

The most dangerous man in the criminal underworld—though nobody really knows the specifics of what he does, just that crossing him means waking up in a hospital bed if you're lucky. Or not waking up at all.

"Your mom's ex-husband."

The words float through the air between us, refusing to arrange themselves into anything that makes sense. Seconds tick by while my brain tries to force meaning into the sentence. Nothing clicks. Surely I misheard. Surely?—

"What?"

"Ellen Dennings." His voice carries all the warmth of a frozen lake in January.

Each syllable precisely enunciated, devoid of emotion.

Pure statement of fact. "Married her two years ago.

Divorced six months later. Which makes you my stepdaughter.

" A pause, weighted and deliberate. "Or made you. Past tense."

Mom got married?

Two years ago?

A bitter laugh claws its way up my throat before I can strangle it back down. The sound echoes off the warehouse walls, sharp and ugly. "She didn't tell me."

"Doesn't surprise me." Something flickers across his expression—too quick to identify, gone before I can parse it. "She mentioned she had a daughter once. In passing. Never gave details. Never showed pictures. Never even said your name."

Of course she didn't. Why would Ellen Dennings waste breath talking about her disappointing daughter when she could be discussing her latest designer handbag or the exclusive restaurant she just discovered?

On a good month, Mom calls me once, maybe twice if I'm extraordinarily lucky. The conversation lasts five, ten minutes tops before she remembers she has better things to do. More important people to impress with her charm and jewelry and carefully constructed image.

The last time we actually spoke was over a year ago. Thirteen months, if I'm counting. Which apparently I am.