Page 68 of Jealous Stepbrother
I want to strangle him. My throat works as I lean in and whisper, low enough for only her to hear, “It was just my period, Mom.”
Relief flickers across her face—embarrassment too—but at least the worry softens from her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, a tremor in her hands as she reaches for me. “We’ll talk during the week, yes? Maybe I’ll come into town and we’ll have lunch. Just us girls. Promise me.”
I nod, throat dry. “Of course.”
But her eyes linger, uneasy, as if she knows there’s more under the surface, something she can’t quite put her finger on.
The silence as we gather our things feels like it’s pressing down from the ceiling.
Victor hugs me stiffly, and stares at Asher like a man trying to calculate the exact moment his son became a stranger to him.
By the time we step outside, the tension clings like tar.
Asher opens the passenger door for me to slide in, but Mom approaches him after he shuts the door. I don’t hear what she says to him but his lips thin, then he nods solemnly and mutters something back.
“What did she say?” I ask as he steps on the gas and roars down the driveway.
His smile is tight. “I’ll give you three guesses, baby.”
I don’t want to guess.
I don’t want to think.
I don’t yearn for the past, for the way things were, because Asher isn’t back there with me. But I’m terrified of what the future holds. Whether we’ll be allowed to… be.
The ocean roars behind us, the house looms at our backs, and my pulse is wild with the knowledge that things are hurtling toward a breaking point.
That the world won’t let us keep this secret much longer.
That sooner rather than later, someone is going to demand answers we can’t afford to give.
Asher
The humof the tires and the steady rhythm of her breathing should calm me.
They don’t.
She’s curled in the passenger seat, bare legs drawn up under the blanket.
We’ve stopped once so I could pull her into my arms, kiss away that worried look on her face. We ended up almost fucking. I only stopped because getting arrested isn’t part of my evening’s plan.
But my arms yearn to hold her, making me wish we’d used a car service instead of driving.
Because the other thing driving does is make me think.
And as she dozes off, I keep replaying last night. Her face, her voice, the way her body fit over mine, the shock in her eyes when I told her exactly how far I’d go for her. Raw.
Primitive.
I saw it hit her, saw the flicker of fear behind the heat.
Maybe I scared her.
I tell myself I don’t care. That I meant every word and she’ll learn to live with it. But here I am, caught in the rare clutches of panic.
I tip my head back against the leather headrest.
What would make her happy?
