Chapter 9 #2
Something snaps in his expression. He closes the gap between us in two strides. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist and yanking me forward until I’m pressed against his chest.
“You are not my sister.”
The words come out as a growl, rough and desperate and nothing like the controlled man I’ve come to know.
Then, his mouth crashes down on mine.
Shock freezes me in place. His lips are demanding, hungry, moving against mine with a desperation that steals my breath. One hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back. The other grips my hip, pulling me impossibly closer.
I should push him away. Should slap him. Should do anything but stand here while my stepbrother kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air.
But my body doesn’t agree.
Heat explodes through me, white hot and all consuming. Every nerve ending lights up at once. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like I might spontaneously combust.
And then, something inside me…stretches.
It’s not painful. It’s more like something that has been sleeping, coiled tight in the depths of my chest, is suddenly waking up.
Unfurling. Rising to the surface with a hunger that matches the one burning through my veins.
I don’t understand what it is, this wild thing demanding that I get closer, closer, closer.
All I know is that nothing has ever felt this right, this necessary, this inevitable.
A sound escapes my throat—half gasp, half moan—and I kiss him back.
The moment I do, everything changes.
I become the aggressor, pressing forward, my hands fisting in his sweater. I push him backward across the kitchen, not caring that we stumble, not caring about anything except getting closer, closer, closer.
His back hits the door with a thud that shakes the frame.
I pull at his sweater, yanking it up, desperate to feel his skin against mine. My nails scrape across his abdomen, and he groans into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me.
His hands grip my waist, and for a moment, I feel him resist. He’s trying to hold back, trying to maintain some shred of control.
Then, he gives in with a growl that makes my knees weak.
He flips us around in one smooth motion, spinning me so my back slams against the door this time. His mouth leaves mine; I whimper at the loss, but then his lips are on my neck and I can’t think anymore.
He kisses down the column of my throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. His tongue traces patterns that make me arch against him. When he finds the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, he sucks hard enough that I know it’ll leave a mark.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, it makes heat pool between my thighs.
His hands roam over my body, sliding under my shirt, fingers spreading across my ribs. His hands are rough and warm and everywhere at once. One slides up to cup my breast through my bra, and I gasp, my head falling back against the door.
“Darius.” His name comes out as a moan.
He grunts against my neck in response, his hips pressing forward. I can feel how hard he is, the evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach. It makes me even wetter.
I’m completely soaked at this point. My jeans feel too tight, too restrictive. I need them off. Need his off. Need him inside me with a desperation that borders on insanity.
I’ve stopped thinking entirely. There’s no room for thought. Only sensation. Only this overwhelming need that is consuming every rational part of my brain.
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers hooking in the waistband of my jeans, and I arch into him, silently begging him to go lower.
A phone rings.
The shrill sound cuts through the haze of desire like a knife.
We both freeze.
The phone rings again, vibrating in Darius’s pocket between us. Reality crashes over me in a wave so violent, I feel sick.
I shove him away from me, and he steps back immediately, his chest heaving, his eyes wild. They’re still flashing gold, pupils blown so wide, the brown is almost gone.
He looks feral. Desperate. Hungry in a way that makes my stomach clench.
The phone rings a third time.
He fumbles for it, then presses it to his ear without looking at the screen. “What?” he growls.
I watch his face change. The hunger quickly bleeds away, replaced by a harder expression. His entire body goes stiff.
“I’m not at home, Father.”
Father.
Alaric.
My stepfather.
The man who married my mother.
The alpha whose son I was just kissing.
Panic floods through me, cold and sharp. I step back, my hand flying to my mouth. What have I done? What the hell have I done?
Darius is talking, but I can’t hear the words over the rush of blood in my ears. I can’t process anything except the horror crawling up my throat.
He was kissing me. I was kissing him back. We were pressed against the door like animals, tearing at each other’s clothes, and he’s my stepbrother.
Oh God.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Darius ends the call and shoves the phone back in his pocket. His eyes meet mine, and I realize the hunger is still there, smoldering beneath the surface.
“I have to go.” His voice is rough. Strained.
I don’t answer. Can’t. My hands grip my opposite arms so tightly, I know I’ll have bruises. I don’t trust myself to speak. Don’t know what I’d even say.
He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw working like he wants to say something. Like he’s fighting with himself. His hand reaches toward me, then falls. For a heartbeat, I think he might stay. Might finish what we started.
Then, his jaw clenches and he walks out, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click.
I stand frozen in place.
Five seconds pass. Ten.
My legs give out. I sink to the floor, my whole body shaking.
What the hell was that?
I should have stopped him. Should have slapped him. Should have done literally anything except kiss him back like my life depended on it.
But I didn’t. I kissed him. I pushed him up against the door. I tore at his clothes. I wanted him with a desperation that still terrifies me.
And that thing inside me, whatever woke up when he touched me—it wanted him, too. Demanded him. Like my body knew something my mind couldn’t comprehend.
I cover my face with both hands, pressing my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
We crossed a line that can never be uncrossed. There is no going back from this. No pretending it didn’t happen. No erasing the feeling of his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the sound of his groan when I touched him. No ignoring the desperate, animalistic need that consumed me completely.
I stay huddled on the floor for I don’t know how long. Finally, I force myself to stand. My legs are still shaky, but they hold.
The apartment is too quiet. The silence presses against my eardrums, making everything feel surreal. Like I’m floating outside my own body, watching this happen to someone else.
My eyes land on the present still sitting on my counter. Darius’s housewarming gift.
I should leave it. Throw it away unopened. I should want nothing from him after what just happened.
But curiosity wins out.
My fingers tremble as I tear at the wrapping paper. It falls away in pieces, revealing a plain, cardboard box.
I open it. And stare.
A thin, soft, leather leash, emerald green. Stainless steel bowls with paw prints etched into the sides. A plush dog bed in cream and navy that matches my couch. Squeaky toys, rope toys, a little stuffed duck. Treats in a sealed bag. A collar with a tag that says “Best Friend” in elegant script.
Everything you’d need for a dog.
My hands shake as I dig deeper. There has to be more. An explanation.
My fingers find an envelope tucked beneath the dog bed. I pull it out and tear it open with clumsy fingers.
A note, written in bold, masculine handwriting:
Your new friend is waiting for you at Riverside Veterinary Clinic. She’s ready to come home tomorrow morning. Dr. Mitchell is expecting you at 9 a.m.
Along with the note is a photograph.
A small golden retriever puppy. She can’t be more than eight weeks old, all fluffy fur and oversized paws. Her tongue lolls out in what looks like a smile, her eyes bright and happy.
I sink into the nearest chair, the picture clutched in my trembling hands.
He got me a dog.
Of all the things he could have gotten me—jewelry, flowers, something expensive and impersonal—he got me a puppy.
I’ve always loved dogs. Always wanted one. But my mother never allowed it. Said I was too irresponsible, too weak to care for another living thing.
And somehow, Darius knew. Somehow, he knew this would mean the world to me.
That ache in my chest grows stronger. It hurts. It physically hurts.
Why is he doing all this? The penthouse. The furniture. Now a puppy. And that kiss…
I want to hate him. God, it would hurt so much less if I could just hate him. If I could write him off as another person trying to control me, trying to keep me weak and dependent.
But all he seems to want to do is look after me. And I don’t understand why.
He’s my brother. Stepbrother, technically. Our parents are married. That makes us family in the eyes of the pack, in the eyes of everyone who matters.
Darius is going to be the next alpha. He has no business kissing me. No business spending a fortune on me. No business buying me a puppy like he has any right to know what would make me happy.
He gave me a home. Safety. Beauty. Everything I could want. Everything except the one thing I apparently need.
Him.
A knock sounds at the door.
I jump, the photo slipping from my fingers and fluttering to the floor.
Is it him? Did he come back?
I thought I still had an hour before my guests would arrive. An hour to transform from the girl who just kissed her stepbrother into someone capable of hosting a party.
But I guess I have to go answer the door. I press my eye to the peephole. Two women stand in the hallway.
It’s not Darius. Relief and disappointment war in my chest.