Chapter Two
Vik
Fuck.
Hannah hasn’t even made it through the door, and she’s already driving me crazy.
After she gets out of her Uber, she stares up in wide-eyed disbelief at my house. Her tits jiggle as soon as her feet land on solid ground. I grit my teeth tightly at the sight.
Even if I didn’t want to look, her tank top doesn’t give me a choice. She’s wearing a spaghetti-strap crop top that barely covers her stomach. And don’t get me started on the way it clings to her. The damn thing looks a size too small, given how it squeezes every curve into the perfect place.
It’s almost as if she chose it on purpose to get a reaction out of me. She definitely shouldn’t taunt me.
God, I should be ashamed of myself. Frothing at the mouth for my little stepsister who’s down on her luck. But she isn’t so little anymore, is she? Long gone are the braces and pigtails from our youth, replaced by a woman’s curves.
A slow breath catches in my throat as she reaches the top of the staircase.
This was a terrible idea. Necessary, maybe. But terrible all the same.
I’d have extended the same offer to her, had she not tickled the devil inside me.
The history we share, however brief it may have been in our short years together, proved to me that Hannah was one of the good ones.
Kindness spilled out of her in ways that left me jealous and, no matter how hard I tried to push her away, she’d shrug it off.
Offer me a warm smile and a cup of tea to soothe my troubles when I slipped into one of my… episodes.
I open the door, deciding that reliving the sting of the past is for another day.
“This place is incredible,” Hannah says. It almost makes me smile.
“Good. Maybe you’ll get more use out of it than I do,” I say, ushering her inside.
She steps past me and her warm brown eyes light up to the point of twinkling as she inspects my home.
Its open-plan design doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
A furnished living room I never use adjoins a dining room that shares a similar fate.
A counter separates us from the kitchen, and a door leads out one side of that to the laundry room and eventually, the backyard.
On the other side, there’s even less to see.
Bookshelves are stocked with novels I’ve never read.
There’s a fireplace I’ve never lit and a bar that has bottles of liquor older than the house and still sealed.
A few pillars run across the floor in a line, holding up the ceiling above our heads and, behind the bar, a glass double door leads to the back patio.
Everything you could ever need, all in one place.
“Goodness.” Hannah drops her bags and drifts through my home. I get a whiff of her sweet, strawberry-scented shampoo as she passes.
Goodness indeed.
I can’t pull myself away from her, as she inspects the art hanging on the walls and the accessories decorating the shelves.
She studies them, the way an archeologist would study rare antiquities from some long-dead civilization.
Every glance, every gentle touch bring a smile to her plump, luscious lips.
She is intrigued, perhaps even perplexed, by how I live now, given we once shared the same three-bedroom suburban house a long time ago.
Watching her, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s so delicate, one wrong move could break her.
“You could have brought more of your things,” I say, bathing in the alluring scent that has engulfed the room. “I have enough space for it.”
“Would’ve, but...” Her voice echoes and then trails off as she passes by the living room and goes into the dining room. Her thin, long fingers drag across the polished wooden table as she moves ever closer to the kitchen. “I didn’t have much more to bring.”
How long has she been suffering?
I collect her things off the floor and bury the thought. It’s not my place to cast judgment on her situation and, had she needed me sooner, she’d have reached out then.
“Let me show you to your room,” I say, to avoid any further discomfort.
Two wings separate the main hall from the bedrooms. Down the west wing are my room, a home office, and a library. Opposite are four guest bedrooms, one identical in size to the master bedroom and the others smaller.
I don’t have guests, but I had grand designs for friendship when I bought the place.
If not friendship, then love and family.
I envisaged children running around with bright smiles, getting the best childhood I could offer.
I heard gleeful cries echoing down the halls, while their mother and I flicked through TV channels and laughed together.
But my private pursuits have dashed any dreams of normalcy. I’m driven by a task, and will not rest until I’ve seen it completed.
“You live alone?” Hannah asks, peering into the guest rooms as we pass by them. They are all fully furnished, but none have ever seen any visitors.
“I do.”
“No wife, girlfriend or mistress I ought to know about?” she jabs, smirking at me. “Don’t want to get in the way, y’know?”
“Until you arrived, my home was a virgin,” I say.
A light shade of pink rises on Hannah’s cheeks instantly. It doesn’t stay long, before a deep red consumes it. She snickers at me and turns away, hiding the reaction.
Neither of us speaks until we reach her room at the end of the hall.
Tall windows line the walls facing the front and back gardens, exposing the sea of green grass that surrounds my home like a moat.
The room itself comes equipped with a bed, a walk-in closet, an en-suite bathroom and the usual range of cupboards and shelves.
I emptied them all before her arrival, so she could store whatever she brought. Regrettably, I now realize that was unnecessary, considering the empty-handed state she’d arrived in.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Hannah’s eyes nearly burst out of her skull. “This room is bigger than my old apartment.”
“Before you get too comfortable, Hannah, we should discuss the ground rules.”
My statement snaps her out of her wonderment, and she stares at me, rigid and stiff. I’ve always believed it’s best to get the hard part out of the way as soon as you can.
“I don’t employ staff, so I’ll ask that if you make a mess, you clean it up. We’ll share the rest of the chores. Cooking, cleaning, general common-sense duties.”
She nods.
“But I’ll have to insist you stay away from my bedroom, office and laundry.”
“Your laundry?” She cocks a brow. “Don’t get me wrong, I totally understand you want privacy. But you washing your undies isn’t really new to me.”
She giggles, a sound so sweet my cock hardens instantly. So does every muscle in my body.
Christ, she’s my fucking stepsister. That should make her off-limits. We grew up together. I saw her grow into a teenager, met her boyfriends, hell, I even drove her to homecoming dances and house parties.
Now I’m entranced by her. The sway of her hips with every step she takes. I imagine her full lips pressed against my skin. Every inch of her being rouses something inside of me and taunts and tempts me to take a step closer.
“I’ll wash my stuff separately.” I don’t indulge her whimsy or the very short trip down memory lane.
I abandoned that life for a reason.
She may find it strange, but there are certain things I must remain discreet about. And whereas my undies, suits and ties are just that, there’s also another part of me that I can’t expose to her, not yet. The easiest way to avoid that is by cleaning my own clothes.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I bite the inside of my cheek to shut off the stimulating sensation it has on the parts of me that shouldn’t be aroused around her. I drag it out and scan the screen, before a smile creeps over my face.
Movement.
A single word should not fill me with so much joy. Especially not one so innocuous. It could mean anything. Yet, it manages to quell the thrill, excitement and depravity Hannah’s arrival lit inside me.
Because that single word means it’s time.
That tonight’s the night.
Heads will roll if they must, but questions will be answered.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Hannah, I have an important meeting with some potential clients, who want to invest in my cybersecurity services. Please, make yourself at home.”
I exit with the same enthusiasm Hannah showed on first entering my home, almost sprinting from her room to my office.
Inside, I rush over to my desk and snap my six-monitor set-up to life. They open with eighteen live camera feeds, all focused on the same street. Two capture a single front door.
The piece of shit I’m watching rarely leaves his house, so this is a monumental occasion.
It’s the first clear shot I’ve had of him in far too long.
I stare at my screen for so long my eyes start to hurt, and then I finally get a glimpse of him.
He is old, decrepit, and wearing a tartan sweater and a flat cap like some old British lord.
I last saw him over a week ago and that wasn’t anything to write home about, either.
He had pulled the blinds open instead of his maid, and peered through the windows at someone passing on the street.
Could’ve made a move then. Could’ve made one any time in between.
But patience is a virtue I must hold onto closely in these matters.
One wrong slip will send ripples out to the rest. That would be fine, if I wanted them to know I’m coming, but it would be a terrible mistake when I was trying to draw them out.
I track him through the surveillance cameras for two blocks.
He ambles along with an awfully cheery disposition, despite his limp.
I don’t worry when he vanishes from the last monitor.
After all, security and surveillance are my claim to fame, and were long before the tech products made it so much easier.
So survey I will. Through a trusted friend in this venture, if I must.
In almost orgasmic glee, I slide open the top drawer of my desk and pull out a silver M1911. I tuck it into my belt cautiously, then pull my shirt over it. Hannah could’ve drifted from her bedroom, and I don’t want her seeing anything she shouldn’t.
And as I once more crush the overbearing urge to salivate over her, I leave my home in a hurry.
It looks as if all my prayers have been answered, all at once.