Page 20 of Fractured Loyalties

Twenty

IVY

Roman went straight to his room as soon as we got back to the estate.

I should be relieved he hasn’t come to bother me, but instead, I’m… frustrated.

And now I can’t sleep. Not with my heart doing high-voltage palpitations, not with the echo of Roman’s voice in my ear, and not with the way my whole body still aches with want and shame and some ugly, mutating thing that isn’t quite either.

He said he’d break things for me… And I think I want that thing to be me.

“Something is wrong with me,” I mutter under my breath, running my hands over my face as I lie and stare at the ceiling. The house is so quiet that it’s a negative. My room is black, lit only by the digital clock’s red stare and the wash of moonlight from the window.

I want him. The thought echoes like a disease in my mind, and I fight it for all of five minutes.

Then I get up.

I slip out of bed and pad across the floor, not even bothering to put on slippers. My breath fogs in my chest as I pause at my own door, listening for anything, any creak or shuffle. But there’s nothing. No one is creeping in on me tonight.

Though the memory of that creepy silhouette causes me to shudder.

I open the door, ignoring the part of me that’s screaming this is a bad idea. I step into the hall, bare feet against the chilled floors.

Roman’s room is in the opposite wing, and I make the walk as quietly as possible. I count each step, trying to trick myself into thinking it’s just a walk, just a midnight wander, and not a headlong sprint into whatever fire he’s set in my blood.

His door is closed when I reach it. I stand in front of it, my pulse climbing through my throat, my knuckles whitening on the brass handle.

Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’ll be furious if I wake him. Maybe this is a terrible idea.

I don’t care. I twist the handle, and the door opens without a sound.

Inside, the room is black except for a sliver of blue light from the window and a soft yellow glow that pulses from a desk lamp on the far side of the room.

The walls are painted matte charcoal, and the furniture is all heavy, dark wood.

There’s a king-size bed, unmade, and on it a tumble of high-thread count sheets.

But he’s not here. Not anywhere in here.

Still, I step inside and shut the door behind me, my heart jackhammering. The whole room is saturated in his smell, and that’s enough to send a wave of arousal coursing through my body.

I’m so fucked in the head.

But he came to pick me up, listened to me, and then made me feel accepted. It’s as if maybe there’s something more to him.

And I want to know what it is.

I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with his space’s oxygen, and I look around again.

The desk lamp is the only real source of light.

I gravitate to it because I need something to keep my mind occupied.

As I get closer, I see there’s a mess on the desk—papers, pens, a cracked phone, and… What the fuck?

Photographs.

Stacks of them, a hundred maybe, arranged in loose spirals that radiate out from the desk’s center.

I pick up the closest one, expecting… a party or something.

But it’s me .

A jolt of shock and something else thrums through my body suddenly as I flip through the pictures.

Holy fucking shit.

There’s me at school, me at the mall, and me existing in all the spaces I never thought Roman could be—even before I knew him, and back when he was just the estranged stepbrother who meant nothing.

He’s been stalking me for years.

I stare at the pile, at all the other versions of myself Roman has collected and obsessed over. I can’t tell if I’m sick with fear or something else… I feel something like… flattery.

I shuffle through more of them, unable to stop myself.

There are photos of me from middle school, summer camp, and even from my last house with my dad.

The quality is low, sometimes almost pixelated, as if they were shot from afar and then zoomed in on, sharpened, and reprinted until every pore is visible.

This is absolutely insane.

A dry sound ekes out of my throat. My fingers start to tingle. I should run. I should tell someone? But all I can do is gawk, transfixed by the evidence of my own importance.

It’s like… It’s like I’m the center of his universe.

“What are you doing?” A deep, gravelly voice startles me, and I bump into the desk before spinning around to see Roman.

“Um…” I swallow hard, taking in the sight of him and digging my nails into the wood.

Roman’s shirtless, his hair is a mess, and his sweatpants ride low on his hips.

His chest and abs are defined enough to look violent in the slant of lamplight.

His mouth is set in a line, but his eyes—those impossible fucking eyes—are hungry and sharp.

Right now, they are locked on me, and it’s almost as if he expected me to be right here, right now.

He doesn’t say a word at first. He just leans against the doorframe, folding his arms.

“Find anything interesting?” he says at last, and his voice is nothing but a threat.

The air is suddenly electric between us. But I’m not scared… or disgusted. I just… want him.

And I think he knows it.

Roman watches me for a full three seconds before closing the door. He doesn’t come toward me at first. He just stays there, his arms folded and his eyes still fixed on me.

“What is all this?” I make a slight gesture to all the pictures lying behind me on the desk’s surface.

Roman raises an eyebrow. “A shrine, obviously.” He steps closer, his bare feet silent on the carpet. “What did you think you’d find in here, Ivy? Playboys and protein shakes? I’m not like most guys in this town.”

He moves with deliberation, and I don’t realize I’m trapped until he comes within a couple of feet of me. My mouth goes dry as I stare at him, trying to gauge just how fucked I am.

“How long?” I manage.

He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing. “Since before you knew my name.” A humorless smile cuts his mouth. “Since the day your mom showed up here.”

“That’s sick,” I say, but it sounds hollow. The part of me that should be running is locked up. All I feel is the charge in the air that makes my skin prickle.

Roman’s eyes trace my body. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“Fuck you.” Because I do like it. Too fucking much.

“You’re in my room, going through my things, in the middle of the night. Wearing my favorite pair of pajamas.” His gaze drops to my legs, bare except for the hem of my sleep shorts. “And the thing is, Ivy, you’re not mad. But I bet you’re wet.”

Roman closes the last bit of distance. His hands are cold as he takes the photo from my fingers and lays it back on the desk.

“Do you want to know why I did it?” he whispers, his breath hot against my cheek. I can’t move. “Do you want to know what it felt like, watching you sleep for the first time? Knowing you were right there, and I could have anything I wanted, and you’d never know?”

My heart threatens to punch through my chest. “You’re a psycho.”

He grins wolfishly. “Maybe… But you still want me, don’t you? You like the way I make you feel.”

I open my mouth to argue, but something washes over me—the same thing that led me here. I grab his jaw and pull his mouth to mine. He lets out a groan as he kisses me, rough and invasive, one hand at the base of my skull, and the other dragging up the back of my shirt to splay over my spine.

I bite his lip as hard as I can. He growls in response, his fingers tightening in my hair, while his other hand slides down to the waistband of my shorts. He lifts me onto the desk in one swift motion, scattering a bunch of the photos to the floor.

“You’re fucking crazy,” I breathe out, but I’m already wrapping my legs around his hips, my hands knotted in his hair.

“You broke into my room,” Roman says against my mouth, kissing me in between. “You want this as bad as I do.”

I shake my head, but he pushes my chin up, baring my throat for his teeth.

“Tell me you want it,” he says, his breath a demand.

“I shouldn’t,” I whisper.

“But you do.”

I nod, because who am I to argue anymore?

He yanks my shorts down and off, his fingers grazing my skin so hard it burns. I expect him to fumble with his own pants, but he doesn’t. He just pins me back with one hand and lines up with the other, his cock so hard it brushes my inner thigh, already leaking.

“I wanna hear you tell me you want this,” he rubs his head through my slit, causing my body to shiver. “Tell me, Little Lamb.”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes, I want you.” I rock my hips toward him. “ Please. ”

He grunts with satisfaction and shoves into me in one single, vicious stroke.

“Oh my God, Roman,” I cry out, the sound desperate and whiny. He pumps into me, slowly at first, then punishing, the desk creaking under our rhythm. His hand moves from my hair to my throat, not choking, just holding. I can’t breathe for a second when he squeezes, but it only turns me on more.

All I can feel is Roman. His other hand bruises my hip, and his mouth is on my jaw.

“Good girl,” he growls. “You take me so well. So fucking well.”

His words are like fucking magic. I clench around him, shuddering with every thrust, as the pleasure builds in my core. The photos that scattered under my ass scrape against my skin, a thousand tiny reminders that he’s been watching me, owning me, since before I even knew he existed.

And it only makes me love this moment more.

He fucks me as if he’s trying to erase all the other people in my head, as if I’m it. And maybe I am it for him.

“Fuck, Ivy,” he groans, his head tipping back, but his eyes still holding mine. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. ”

His voice is too much, and my body launches into an orgasm. It’s violent, a total whiteout that makes me forget my name—so I scream his instead.

“There it is,” he groans out as my pussy pulses around him, clenching his cock inside of me. “I’m gonna blow.”

He growls low and buries his face in my shoulder before he empties himself inside me, his hips grinding deep until the tremors stop. Then for a moment, there’s nothing but the hiss of our breathing, the smell of sex, and the sound of a dozen photos fluttering to the floor as we pull apart.

Roman steps back first, wiping the sweat from his brow. I slide off the desk, my knees barely working, and he reaches out to steady me. He grabs my shorts and in total silence, helps me step into them before pulling them up for me.

“Are you going to tell anyone you’re fucking your stepbrother?” he asks, his big hands still on my waist.

“Are you?” I shoot back as I peek upward, holding his eyes.

He grins, his lower lip bleeding slightly. “Not if you don’t. But you do need to get back to your room. Let me take the risk of walking these halls, not you. Ivy… This place… This place isn’t safe.”

The warning in his voice has my heart skipping a few beats, but I just nod, edging toward the door. My legs are unsteady, and I worry that the second I step out into the hall, I might lose it.

Roman’s hand clamps on my wrist as I reach the handle. “Wait… Ivy, one more thing.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

His face darkens, sending an eerie wave of fear through me. “If you ever tell anyone about those pictures, I’ll make sure they find worse things in your room. Understood?”

I nod. He lets go and backs up a few steps.

Maybe we aren’t so close.

I open the door and step out, closing it behind me. The hallway is dark and cold. My heartbeat is still in my ears. I make it halfway back to my room before the lights snap on…

While I’m still in Roman’s wing.

I freeze. Irena is at the end of the hall, her bathrobe cinched tight, her face a perfect mask of suspicion and disdain.

“What are you doing out here?” she says, her eyes narrowing at me.

I try to swallow, but my throat is tight. “I… I couldn’t sleep.”

Irena’s eyes flick to somewhere behind me, then to the shorts I’m wearing, then back to my face. “Were you in your brother’s room?”

My skin pricks. “I just… I needed help with chemistry. We have a test tomorrow.”

She stares at me for a beat, then waves me onward. “Well, I highly doubt he would be much help. Get to bed. Now. ”

“Yes, ma’am,” I dip my head and rush past her, almost breaking into a jog to put as much distance between us as possible.

I keep up the pace the rest of the way to my own room and collapse on the bed, still smelling Roman’s sweat and his need on my skin.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second.

I should be terrified. I should be angry and repulsed. I should be plotting a way out.

But all I can do is picture the look on his face when he saw me with the photos, when he pinned me to the desk, and then when I gave in.

I think I want to be his obsession.