Scarlett
Ilock the door the second I slam it shut, chest heaving like I’ve just run miles. My back slides down the wood until I’m crouched on the floor, head buried in my hands.
I can still feel him.
The roughness of his hands on my hips.
The hard length of him grinding up against me.
The sound of his voice in my ear when he told me I was the reason he couldn’t forget.
Shame scorches through me — hot and sick — twisting my stomach until I want to crawl out of my own skin. My thighs are still damp, my panties ruined, and the more I shift, the more it betrays me.
I’m soaked because of him. Because of my stepbrother.
I choke on the word, the acid of it burning my throat. Brother. That’s what he is — what everyone thinks he is. The dutiful son. The protector. The one who looks out for me. But that’s not who he was in that car.
That’s not what he is when he looks at me like he wants to tear me apart.
I crawl onto the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and whisper the words into the dark as if they might save me.
‘It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.’
But it did. And no matter how many times I try to lie to myself, I can still feel the way my body moved against his, the way I whispered filth into his ear just to punish him — and how it only punished me instead.
Downstairs, I hear the low murmur of voices. Mum. Dad. And Kai.
My stomach knots tighter. They think he’s looking after me. They think he’s keeping me safe.
If they only knew.
If they knew what I’ve already let him do.
I curl tighter into the sheets, fists tangled in the blanket, but the house won’t let me forget. The voices drift up from downstairs — muffled, but clear enough to slice through the floorboards.
Mum’s laugh. Dad’s low hum of approval. And Kai’s voice — steady, calm, perfectly controlled.
Like nothing happened.
As if he isn’t the reason my thighs are clamped together, slick and aching, with shame burning through me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the words filter up anyway, fragments I can’t unhear.
‘…she’s lucky to have you…’
‘…keeping her safe…’
‘…steady influence…’
My stomach twists until I think I’ll be sick. Safe. Steady. Protector. They’ve no idea what he’s done — what I’ve done. They don’t know I was on his lap tonight, grinding down on him like I couldn’t stop, whispering filth in his ear that I can’t take back.
A sob builds in my throat, but I swallow it down, biting the pillow to keep quiet.
Safe.
The word echoes cruelly in my skull. He isn’t safe. He isn’t steady. He isn’t my protector.
He’s the reason I can’t breathe. The reason I can’t look at myself without burning. The reason my body betrays me every time he gets too close.
I dig my nails into my arms until they sting, whispering into the dark like a prayer, like a curse.
‘He’s not my brother. He’s not my brother. He’s not my brother.’
But the voice in my head doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like his — low, rough, certain.
You’re mine.
And I hate the way it makes me shiver.
The voices fade; the house settles into quiet again, but my head won’t stop screaming. Every thought is too loud, every memory sharper than the last. His hands on me. His voice in my ear. I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.
Tears sting my eyes before I can hold them back. I bury my face in the pillow, but it doesn’t help — the sob rips through me anyway, raw and broken. My whole body shakes as I press my hands over my mouth, desperate not to let anyone hear.
I hate myself. I hate the way my body responded — the way I shivered when he pressed me down, the way I soaked through my panties for him. For my stepbrother.
Another sob tears out, harsher this time. I curl tighter, fists tangled in the blanket, biting down until my jaw aches, but the harder I fight it, the worse it gets.
Shame drowns me. Guilt claws at me. But beneath it all, something hotter, something darker, twists cruelly in my chest. Want.
And that’s what finally destroys me.
The tears come harder, soaking the pillow, my chest heaving until I can barely breathe. I whisper the words into the dark, over and over, as if they might save me.
‘I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.’
But even as I choke on them, another voice presses in — low, rough, unrelenting.
You’re mine.
And I cry harder, because deep down, I’m terrified it’s true.