Page 4 of Claimed By my Stepbrother
“Well, you deserve it, honey. It’s been an exciting day.”Not the wordI’duse…“Now, come on. Rowan doesn’t tolerate tardiness.” That makes me wonder what the consequences are for things he doesn’t tolerate.Has she found out the hard way yet?
My dance recital at school is quickly approaching and I can’t wait. Dancing is my anti-depressant—it makes me feel more alive than anything else I’ve tried. When music plays, my body moves instinctively, and I’m free. And, it’s a great workout, allowing me the opportunity to enjoy baking.Carbs are a girl’s best friend, after all.
For two days now, I’ve avoided unpacking because once my things are put away, this situation will feel official. I know it’s inevitable and terribly inconvenient living out of the boxes lining one wall of my new room, but I just can’t face the reality that this is my life now.
Rowan has been conspicuously—and blissfully—absent since our first dinner as a family. Mom says he’s busy working in preparation for taking time off for them to go on a honeymoon. I don’t intend to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’ll take whatever time away from Rowan that I can get.
I start an upbeat playlist on my phone and reluctantly begin opening boxes, dancing around the room putting things away, my mind wandering to the future. I graduate next month and, despite my excitement, I really have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. I’ve always dreamed of opening a dance studio, but that requires money—a lot of money that I don’t have. And, despite Rowan giving me a credit card at dinner, I doubt he’s willing to bankroll a business. Then there’s the fact that I would never accept his money. No, I’ll just work hard at local studios, gaining the knowledge and skills I need to accomplish it on my own.
My phone beeps with a text, and I stop dancing to look at it, realizing that I’m parched, and a light sheen of sweat is coating my skin.Apparently keeping the apartment at a balmy seventy-four degrees is another ludicrous Rowan expectation.
After quickly responding to Ivy’s question about the recital, I set my phone down on the dresser and go to my door, opening it just enough to peek my head out into the hall to see if the coast is clear to go get a glass of water in the kitchen and avoid any awkward conversations.
Not hearing any movement, I tiptoe down the stairs, looking around to make sure I’m alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I move toward the kitchen, freezing when I hear Rowan’s voice as I stealthily pass his office, deciding to listen in case I hear something useful.
Rowan’s frustration is clear, and I assume he’s speaking with someone on the phone when I hear another low voice interrupt him. The words are garbled through the cracked door, but I’m too intrigued to leave.
“Since you’re here, you could take a minute and meet Emilia and her daughter,” Rowan growls angrily. “Not like they won’t be your family soon, Son.” From my position by the door, I can hear the disingenuous cheerful tone, and I can only imagine the smile he has plastered onto his face to obscure the grimace.
“Sorry, Pops. No can do. Boss called a sit-down, and we gotta go,” the stranger says, seemingly trying to change the subject. His gruff voice causes my skin to prickle as I hold my breath in.
“Another fucking meeting,” Rowan sighs. “Alright, alright. But, I want you to meet them later.”
“Sure. I can’t wait to meet your gold-digging new family.”What the what? He doesn’t even know us yet! Asshole!
“It’s not like that,” Rowan argues dispassionately.
“Whatever. Come on. We’re gonna be late.”
I back away from the door, running silently back up the stairs before they can catch me listening. I suspected Rowan was bad news before, but now I’m sure. As my grandma would say,there’s something hinky going on here.
Chapter three
West Side Story
Knox
Astheoldadagegoes, fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. That’s not how it works in the underworld—there are no second chances. It’s survival of the fittest.
And when the game is life or death, there’s no incentive to play fair. My family lives beyond boundaries and rules, keeping the odds always in our favor. Of course, it doesn’t stop rivals from trying to overpower us. But when they move against us, they sign their own death warrants.
Over the years, we’ve been villainized for acting on instinct to protect what’s ours. The way I see it, there’s a thin line between good and evil, and it’s easily blurred. Cruel can be kind, lies can be white, honesty can be brutal, and rights can be wrong. It’s really all about perspective. And intent.
To an outside observer, my life may seem ideal. But in reality, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m inextricably bound by the actions and decisions that my father, Rowan, has made. He’s done nothing but wreak havoc on my life, leaving pain and destruction in his wake.
Now, I barely sleep, obsessed with anticipating his next move. Exhaustion plagues me, but the will to survive and conquer pushes me through each day. It’s been so long since I’ve slept soundly that numbness has settled over me, and I’m unable to feel anything but the emptiness consuming me.
When I can’t stand the silence of my penthouse, I go to the gym I installed in one of the spare bedrooms. There, I punish my body until it’s near the breaking point.
Uncle Arman has called a meeting. This can’t be good—it’sneverfucking good. Just once, I’d like to come to work and hear good news.
We arrived early, and now I’m stuck with the presence of Rowan’s dark cloud around me. It’s oppressive, like an omen of dark things to come. I worry about the power of genetics, feeling like I constantly have to fight against my own inherited nature. But, I’ll be damned if I become anything like the man who raised me. If it wasn’t for my uncles, I might’ve turned out exactly like him. I owe them everything for sparing me that fate.
The day he told me he was getting married—again—was the last straw. I knew then that someone has to put a stop to his behavior. Rowan is the last person who should be in a relationship—let alone getting married.
Rowan uses relationships as a crutch for his emptiness and a validation for his prowess. The beautiful women on his arm and in his bed serve exactly three functions until he callously disposes of them. They escort him to functions, making him the envy of his colleagues. They serve as willing participants to whatever depraved carnal urges may delight him at the moment. And, their shortcomings offer him a justification for his bouts of psychotic anger.
Rowan has perfected the charming, doting boyfriend persona over the years, and now, he can continue the charade, nearly perfectly, for quite a while before his true colors begin to show. He still maintains his physique, and his wardrobe is bespoke, from his suits to his fucking swim trunks.
