Page 84 of Jealous Stepbrother
“Yes,” I sob, because it’s the truth, ugly and beautiful all at once. “Yes, Asher, I feel it. I love you. God, I love you so much!”
His thrusts deepen, slow and punishing, like he’s carving the words into me. His hand slides down, finds mine and pins it above my head, our fingers tangled so tight it hurts.
“Then don’t ever leave me again. Don’t you fucking dare. I won’t survive it, Scarlett.” His voice breaks. “You hear me? I won’t.”
Every word shatters me, remakes me. I cling to him as if I can hold his soul inside his body with my bare hands. “I won’t. I won’t leave. I promise.”
His eyes—God, those eyes—glow with something fierce and broken and infinite. He kisses me then, a kiss like punishment and sacred vows, and moves inside me harder, faster, deeper, until the world dissolves.
When I come, it’s with his name on my lips, a cry and a vow all at once. And when he follows, burying himself deep, spilling his devotion into me, he collapses with a hoarse whisper against my mouth.
“You’re mine, Scarlett. Not just tonight. Not just this life. Always. And I will fucking come for you, wherever you go.”
And though my tears are hot and endless, through bliss and fire, I know one thing with brutal, breathtaking clarity.
I will defy heaven and earth to hang onto this forbidden love.
EPILOGUE ONE
HOT DOG TEST
Scarlett
Three months later
The lightsof the runway still pulse in my veins like electricity, the roar of applause echoing in my ears.
House of M’s new collection is a triumph—our triumph.
My sketches and his vision, our blood and sweat stitched into every inch of silk and velvet and sequins. And when Asher takes my hand and pulls me out on stage beside him for the final bow, the world erupts.
Cameras flash and my cheeks ache with smiling.
In the very first seats on the front row, Victor and Mom rise, smiling with complicated pride. When Asher wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me against him, they don’t frown or protest.
Hell, they even step forward. Mom kisses my cheek and Victor gives a grudging nod that feels like absolution-adjacent.
A blessing, of sorts.
I’ve accepted that our love will always prompt question marks in people’s minds. Luckily Asher gives zero fucks. And me… I’m learning to care less and less each day.
Later, when the champagne’s gone flat and the crowd thins, my love leans down, murmurs against my temple, “You were amazing and beautiful and sexy tonight, baby. You deserve a present. What do you want, princess? Name it. Anything.”
What spills out is ridiculous, anticlimactic. “A hot dog. Greasy. From a bodega cart.”
He groans like I’ve stabbed him through the heart. “Jesus Fucking Christ. Of all the decadent things in this city, you pick that?”
“Yes,” I laugh, clinging tighter to him. “That’s what I want. Right now. Will you give your baby sister what she needs?”
His eyes darken and his breathing grows choppy. “Al-fucking-ways. Let’s go.”
He takes me. Buys me the greasiest hot dog in Manhattan, grumbling the whole time while I devour it like it’s Michelin-starred cuisine, watching me with a mix of disgust and awe, as though he’ll never understand the things that make me happy but will give them to me anyway.
Then, while I’m licking mustard off my thumb, he kisses the corner of my mouth.
“Wait here,” he rasps, then disappears into the pharmacy next door.
I blink when he emerges with a small white bag. “What did you buy?” I ask, baffled.
