Page 45 of Heartless Stepbrother

The realization hit, cold and hollow.

He was right.

I had seen it, the way my mother adored him already, the way Marcus looked at his son like he was proud of the man he’d become. Perfect. Polished. Untouchable.

His gaze pinned me harder than any touch. “Go ahead, princess. Try to warn them. Tell them what a monster I am. All it’ll do is make you look jealous, ungrateful… unhinged.”

He smiled, low and deliberate, and the sound of his amusement wrapped around me.

“And when they look at you like you’ve lost your mind, it’ll only make my job easier.”

The music ended. The applause rose and then faded into the next song, slower this time, deeper, a heartbeat stretched through soft piano chords. He didn’t let go. His fingers flexed against my waist, a silent command, keeping me moving when all I wanted was to step back and breathe air that didn’t belong to him.

His words crawled beneath my skin, lodging deep like splinters I couldn’t pull free.It’ll only make my job easier.

Easier to ruin me. Easier to twist everything I said, every breath I took, until I looked unhinged while he stood there calm, charming, perfect.

The perfect son.

The perfect monster.

My pulse tripped against my throat, but I forced my chin up. “You really think everyone’s that blind?” I asked softly, though the tremor in my voice betrayed me. “That they’ll believe you over me?”

He looked at me like I’d handed him something precious. “They already do.”

His hand slid lower on my back, not enough for anyone watching to notice, but enough to make heat flush through me, confused and unwanted. His fingers pressed through the thin fabric of my dress, guiding me effortlessly through the rhythm, every step a reminder that he was in control. That he could make me move, speak,breatheto his tempo.

I tried to step back, but he held me still, his hand at my waist firm, possessive, almost gentle if it weren’t for the steel beneath. The music wrapped around us, slow and heavy, and no one noticed the battle happening in plain sight, his dominance, my defiance, the tension that burned between us like a fuse.

He lowered his mouth just close enough for me to feel the whisper of his words against my ear. “Keep fighting me, Luna. It makes it that much more fun.”

The breath caught in my throat. My pulse betrayed me, traitorous, frantic, loud enough, I was sure, for him to hear it.

His eyes locked on mine, slow, deliberate, and the intensity of his stare sent a shiver straight through me. It was impossible to look away, impossible to ignore.

“You make it so easy.” His tone was soft, intimate, the kind that slipped beneath skin and stayed there. “The way you blush. The way you try to look away but can’t.”

I stiffened, but his hand guided me again, fluid, effortless, the perfect dancer in a perfect performance for people too blind to see the rot beneath the gold.

The world around us blurred, laughter, music, the shimmer of light on champagne flutes. All I could feel was him. His heat. His voice. The danger that clung to every inch of his restraint.

My fingers curled against his shoulder, not to hold on, but to push him away. Still, I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because underneath all the heat and humiliation, one truth burned through the noise.

If I wanted to survive him, to beat him, I couldn’t be the trembling girl he toyed with. I’d have to be smarter. Colder. Meaner.

He wanted a war?

Then I’d learn to fight like a Maddox.

The music swelled, the final notes curling through the air like smoke. His hand lingered a moment too long as the song faded, the touch almost reverent, though I knew better. It wasn’t tenderness. It was possession disguised as grace.

He leaned in, his voice just above a whisper, carrying the weight of amusement and challenge. “Funny thing,” he murmured, his eyes locked on mine with that infuriating intensity. “You keep saying you hate me, but here you are. Still dancing. Still letting me touch you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to stay.”

Once, I would’ve flushed and stammered, lost between anger and confusion. But not now. Not after everything he’d said.

I met his gaze head-on, pulse steady, voice low enough that only he could hear. “Maybe I’m just getting good at pretending,” I said. “Isn’t that what you Maddoxes do best?”