Chapter 13 – Finn – Cracks in the Glass #2
Julian has her robe off in record time. I’d consider appreciating the quick work he makes of the clothes beneath it—first, her shorts and then her shirt—if I didn’t hate his fucking guts. As it is, every shred of my attention finds itself dominated by the glimpse he grants me of her naked body.
Fuck.
Ariane’s naked, her body sprawled beneath him, and it’s the first time I’ve seen her like this.
She’s fucking breathtaking. All glorious curves and smooth skin, glowing in the faint light filtering through the window.
Her full breasts rise and fall with her heaving breaths, and he rears back from her parted legs—and I can see her, all of her, her slick cunt exposed in a way that makes my chest tighten.
She’s beautiful, more than I imagined, and it’s almost too much to take in.
My eyes pore over her, lingering on the delicate lines of her body, the way her hips curve, the glimpse of her core that feels like a secret I shouldn’t be stealing.
Julian doesn’t let me have the view for long.
Before I know it, he’s on top, moving in missionary already, his body positioned at the bottom of the bed. His grunts are low, animalistic, breaking the quiet of the room. He’s not big, his average fucking dick barely seems to fill her, and the thought makes my jaw clench.
She deserves more, deserves someone who’d worship every inch of her, not this half-assed rutting.
Ariane’s quiet, barely making a sound, her face turned slightly to the side, eyes half-closed.
She’s not lost in it, not like she should be.
Her hands rest loosely in the crooks of his elbows, not even gripping or pulling him closer.
It’s mechanical, like this is just another part of her routine.
Fuck. She deserves to be destroyed.
He leans down, kissing her mouth, and I want to shove the door open, drag him off her. His lips don’t belong there, not on hers, not claiming what isn’t his. My fists ball at my sides as he moves lower, mouthing at her tits, his mouth sloppy and undeserving against her perfect skin.
She doesn’t arch into him, moan, or give him anything. Good. She shouldn’t.
He’s not taking the time to savor her, to explore her the way her body demands, slow, careful, and fucking reverent.
He doesn’t eat her out, doesn’t trace her curves with his tongue, doesn’t worship her like she’s a goddamn temple.
He’s just taking from her and it’s not enough. Not for her.
I can’t tear my eyes away, even as the sight burns me down to the marrow. Her beauty is a blade I turn inside myself, watching someone else move inside her through this crack in the door.
I hate him for touching her, for being where I should be, for not giving her what she needs. My hands tremble, itching to rip him away, to show her what it means to be truly wanted. But I stay rooted.
Before long, Julian comes and his body collapses on top of her like dead weight, I back away like I’ve been shot.
What the fuck am I doing? Watching my step-sister getting fucked by her fiancé? A better person would feel some guilt but I’m not a better person.
I swallow a noise and force myself back whence I came. Back down the fucking stairs, spurred by adrenaline and contempt.
My hands curl by themselves. The first hit I throw is at the newel post. Knuckles into oak.
Pain lances, bright and righteous. It doesn’t fix a thing.
I do it again. My skin splits. Blood beads quick and honest, then spills, slick, warm, proof that I am still here and not the thing I keep pretending to be. It doesn’t make me feel any better.
Back at the bar, I open my fist over the sink and watch the pink thread through clear.
The cut’s ugly, blooming fast where the second knuckle kissed varnish.
I rinse it, pull a dish towel, squeeze, watch the fabric go from white to rust like an artifact of a smarter man’s restraint.
The house smells like copper now, like the inside of a mouth. Fitting.
Upstairs, a bedspring creaks, faint and distant, one room and a lifetime away.
Footsteps in the hall above. A soft thump. Water running for three seconds and off again like someone realized they’d be heard. A low male murmur. Her answer, higher, thin.
His shoes hit the runner. He doesn’t see me when he comes down because I’m sitting in the shadows.
He adjusts his cuffs at the bottom of the stairs and looks at himself in the skinny hall mirror Eleanor bought to make the space look longer.
He tries on an expression, concerned, brave, and purposeful, and walks down the corridor like halls applaud him.
The front lock tongues shut like a swallowed insult.
His car whispers into the night with the humility of a man who wants to be seen as humble.
I go to the powder room, pop the medicine cabinet, find a First Aid tin from a decade ago and a newer one from Eleanor’s era.
The old gauze is yellowed; the new antiseptic wipes burn like fuck.
I take care of the cuts until my eyes water for a reason I can lie about later.
I tape two knuckles like a boxer between rounds.
Back on the bottom step, I light a cigarette because I’m committed to the bit and my chest is a cage full of wasps. The first drag is punishment. The second is prayer. Smoke climbs the chandeliers in a ribbon and disappears into money.
Footsteps sound overhead again. Bare and hesitant.
The restraint is killing me. I want to go upstairs and fuck her. Properly. Until she’s screaming and begging for mercy. Until she knows what sex should be like. Not the performance Julian gave.
The sound of her footsteps carries to the balcony above the foyer; a shadow leaning over the rail and doesn’t see me because I’ve gone absolutely still, statue-still, predator-still.
She lingers there, looking at the dark as if it might answer.
It doesn’t. She goes back to her room with the little half-fall of someone too worn out to lift their feet all the way.
The door clicks shut with the soft finality of a kept promise that hurts.
“Fuck,” I groan to nothing at all.
I pour the bourbon I didn’t drink onto the roses until the petals darken like bruises. Then I pour another and hold it this time, just hold it, because if I drink it, I’ll probably use the curbed inhibitions to go upstairs and fulfil every desire I harbor.
I remind myself I’m not a teenager. I remind myself I have a company to run, enemies to starve, a father to keep alive, a mother’s ghost to answer to. The reminders don’t do shit. The part of me that’s been pacing since the dock steps forward and plants a flag.
I go to the kitchen and rinse blood from the towel until the water runs clear and the fabric looks like something that might pass muster in Eleanor’s world.
I drape it over a chair to dry, because tidiness is the only apology the house understands.
The clock over the stove coughs up a quarter hour.
The lake outside looks like it could eat a man and not leave a ripple.
I make a circuit because patrol is the only religion I still practice.
Side door: locked. Back sliders: locked.
Garage: shut. Study: lamp off. I pass the shadow box I cracked for my mother’s keys and slide them into my pocket like a talisman.
The metal knocks my thigh with each step—a metronome for bad decisions.
In the library, I sit on the edge of the desk and dial Eric. He picks up on the first ring because he knows my money pays his rent and because I rarely call at this hour unless I’m willing to move mountains.
“Boss?”
“One thing,” I say. My voice is calm which is even more dangerous. “One: I want a private security sweep of Julian Hartford by morning. Discreet. His donors, his staff, his extracurriculars. If he’s got a skeleton, I want the dental records.”
“On it.”
I hang up.