18. Remi
eighteen
Remi
Pain woke me before consciousness did.
It wasn’t even the sharp or alarming type that makes you sit up fast and check for blood.
This was duller and deep with the ache digging into my hips, thighs and lower back.
My inner thighs burned when I turned against the sheets, and between my legs I felt raw enough that my breath got stuck in my throat and bruises bloomed across my skin.
I didn’t need to look to know they were there because could feel them and they throbbed at the thought of him.
I lay there staring at my ceiling with the morning light coming through the window at an angle that told me it was maybe a little past nine.
My body remembered every place he’d touched me, every mark he’d left behind, and I waited for the horror to arrive.
Or maybe the disgust to burn through me and the rage that had carried me through Sunday dinner, Monday’s confrontation and every moment since he walked through Richard’s front door.
It didn’t come though, and I guess that was the problem.
The anger was still there because I could feel sitting heavy, but underneath it was almost…
relief? I don’t even know what to call it.
My body remembered last night in such vivid detail that I should honestly be mad at myself for how the thought of it all has me on the verge of being wet.
Laying on the hood of Lucy’s car and the cold stinging against my back while his hands pinned me down by my wrists.
Rio filling me so damn full I couldn’t breathe around it and how I’d come apart for him twice, shaking and begging him not to stop.
I rolled onto my side and pulled my knees up, wincing at the soreness that flared throughout my body and threatened to make me scream.
My phone sat on the nightstand where I’d thrown it last night after Lucy dropped me off.
There were no messages or calls, just the time glowing in the morning light.
Pretending I’d been swept away, overpowered or caught off guard wasn’t even something I could chalk this all up too because I’d been there and kissed him back with pure fucking need and when he’d asked if I wanted him to stop, I’d told him no.
All I wanted him to do was fuck me harder.
Telling him I hated him while my body arched into his touch and my hands pulled him closer instead of pushing him away somehow made me feel better about the situation.
How did I even get here? What the fuck happened to me.
Last week I had a normal life, streaming, meeting an amazing guy and being utterly happy with my life.
Now, said guy is my stepbrother and as much as I want to question what’s wrong with me, all I feel is surrender.
Eventually I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on my shoulders and back until the bathroom filled with steam.
I scrubbed at my skin like I could wash away the memory of his hands, but the bruises and soreness ceased to fade and when I closed my eyes, I could still feel him inside me.
His voice in my ear telling me I was his like he already knew something I didn’t want to say out loud.
Leggings and an oversized hoodie were going to be all day got of me. I dried my hair and pulled it into a messy bun and went downstairs.
The house was quiet and I knew that meant I was alone. No coffee brewing in the kitchen and no faint sound of conversation from the living room. Vivienne wasn’t humming while she watered her plants or Richard reading the news on his tablet at the kitchen island.
There was a note on the counter in Richard’s handwriting neat and slanted across the page.
Remi,
Vivienne and I had to leave early this morning for a business trip in Seattle. We’ll be back Sunday evening. There’s food in the fridge and money in the drawer if you need anything. Call if there’s an emergency.
Love you,
Richard
Fuuuuuck.
Just me and Rio.
For two days.
Reality hit me slow like I was being submerged in cold water.
No buffer between us or parents to keep us civil.
Vivienne won’t asking cheerful questions over dinner or Richard trying to bridge the gap between his son and his stepdaughter.
Just the two of us in this house with nowhere to hide from what happened last night.
I don’t even know if I’m ready to talk to him.
Half because I’m still upset and half because…
well. I want it again. And I’m certainly not ready to tell my stepbrother that.
Footsteps clicked down the stairs, and the sound was painful to hear. I knew the creak of the bottom step meant he was close and then he was there in the kitchen doorway, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that pulled across his shoulders. He looked almost godly.
So yeah, there went my common sense.
His hair was still messy from sleep and falling across his forehead, and when he looked at me there was no smirk or taunting. Just him, with the calmest face I’ve seen him make thus far.
“Morning,” he said.
I didn’t answer because I didn’t trust my voice yet.
He moved past me to the coffee maker and started pulling things out of the cabinet, grounds, filters, mugs.
His movements were so carelessly easy, like last night hadn’t happened or was just another Monday for him.
He filled the reservoir with water, measured out the coffee, and hit the button and leaned back against the counter to wait.
“You want some?” he asked, glancing over at me.
“Sure.”
“Eggs?”
“I can make my own food.”
“I know you can.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs, butter, and a block of cheese. “But I’m making them anyway, so you might as well eat.”
Okay so now all of a sudden, he cares if I have food. Right.
I watched him crack eggs into a bowl, whisk them with a fork, and melt butter in a pan.
The kitchen filled with the smell of coffee and cooking eggs.
Weirdly enough, things almost felt domestic between us like this was a normal morning in this house.
He moved around the space like he’d been doing this for years instead of days, and I hated how much it got under my skin.
His calm, unbothered presence bothered me more than aggression would have.
He plated the eggs and set one in front of me, then poured two mugs of coffee and slid one across the counter.
“Thanks,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re welcome.”
We ate in silence. Not a loaded silence like the one from Sunday dinner, but quieter.
Easier? He didn’t push conversation or bring up last night.
There were no comments about the bruises I knew were visible on my neck or how I’d sat carefully into the barstool to avoid putting pressure on my sore hips.
“Sleep, okay?” he asked after a while.
“Fine.”
“Hmmm.”
I looked up at him, and he was watching me over the rim of his coffee mug.
“I slept fine,” I said again.
“If you say so.”
He finished his eggs and rinsed his plate in the sink, then refilled his coffee and leaned back against the counter.
We stayed there for another ten minutes not talking and the worst part, the part I couldn’t get around, was that I didn’t hate it.
It didn’t make me want to throw my plate at his head or storm back upstairs while demanding he leave me alone.
I just sat there and drank my coffee trying not to think about how easy this felt.
After the silence started to get awkward, he pushed off the counter and headed for the stairs.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything,” he said.
“I won’t.”
He smiled at that, and then he was gone.
I went back upstairs and tried to stream.
Opened OBS, checked my camera and lighting, and pulled up Dead by Daylight and queued into a lobby.
My chat started trickling in the moment I went live, regulars saying hi, new viewers asking questions, and the usual insanity I could lose myself in for hours.
I couldn’t focus and died in the first two minutes because I missed a skill check I could have hit in my sleep, queued again.
Then I got caught by the killer thirty seconds in because I wasn’t paying attention, queued up again, and ran straight into a dead end and got hooked before I even touched a generator.
“Sorry, guys,” I said to the chat, forcing a smile I didn’t feel. “I’m off today. Let me try one more.”
I didn’t make it through the next match either. I ended the stream early, mumbled something about not feeling great, and logged off before anyone could ask questions, before I sat there staring at my dark monitors with my headset around my neck.
He was two floors below me.
I knew exactly where he was and could picture him in the guest suite, maybe on his phone or watching something. It bothered me that every sound from the lower level made me tense and listen and I couldn’t stop thinking about him even when I was trying so hard to think about anything else.
I tried gaming again and died twice in matches I should have won easily.
Then I tried watching something on Netflix and couldn’t follow the plot.
I resorted to scrolling on my phone and every post blurred together into meaningless noise.
The afternoon dragged on and I stayed in my room because going downstairs meant seeing him and I wasn’t ready for that again yet.
Sitting across from him again and pretending everything was normal when my body still ached from what he’d done to me last night just wasn’t an option I could handle.
By the time evening rolled around, I gave up pretending I was going to do anything productive and sat down at my setup, turned the monitors on, pulled up a match, and put my headset on.
I’m not even going to attempt to try streaming right now, just playing and getting lost in the game to get my brain anywhere but on him.
Three games in there were a faint few knocks at my door.
“It’s open,” I said, without turning around.
The door opened but I kept my eyes on the screen. I could feel him step inside and I kept my hands on my controller and my eyes forward to wait and see what he’d do.
He didn’t say anything, just closed the door behind him.