Page 23 of Jealous Stepbrother (Jealous & Possessive #4)

brOTHER, OH brOTHER

Scarlett

W hen the storm finally breaks, when his body stills over mine, I expect guilt to come crashing in like it always does.

But it doesn’t. Not right away.

His hands gentling and his mouth brushing soft kisses over my face, my throat, my hair keeps every terrible thing in the world at bay.

He eases me down onto the old couch in the corner of the boathouse, stalks out, and returns a minute later with a blanket that he tucks around me after he places me in his lap.

I rest my head on his shoulder and his hand lingers on my hips, tracing slow circles that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with keeping me grounded.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

I nod, but my throat is raw. My body’s still humming, my soul torn in two.

“Why does that turn me on?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t need me to explain. I see it in his dark and merciless eyes. His obsession.

It’s the reason he pushes me to call him brother instead of stepbrother.

He shrugs. “It’s like women who call their lovers daddy . It kicks up something primal inside me. Something the world insists is forbidden.”

Yeah, and Asher planted that seed in me four years ago. A seed of taboo that sprouted against my will, and with every demand to call him brother, it grows stronger roots. Branches. Twining into the deepest part of me. Wrapping around the core of my most forbidden desires.

And heaven help me, my pussy turns into a faucet every time I utter the word.

He smiles like sin itself because of course he knows how it makes me feel. “I see you, darling Scarlett. You want to hate yourself but you can’t, can you?”

“Shut up,” I whisper.

He laughs, thick and low, so sexy I stop breathing.

I tuck myself into him despite every rational bone in my body screaming to run. His arm drapes around me, his lips brushing my temple.

For a few stolen minutes, we’re nothing but warmth and breath and the illusion of belonging.

But outside this boathouse, the storm waits.

As do our parents.

As does the truth we can’t hide forever.

And sooner or later, the house in Montauk will stop sighing and start spilling our secrets.

“We have to go,” he murmurs.

I groan and shake my head. “Not yet.”

He sighs. “Okay, baby. Five more minutes.”

“Thank you.”

I let myself drift in the warmth of his arms, listening to the muted crash of the ocean and the slow, steady rhythm of his heart under my ear. It feels safe here, in this cocoon of salt air and shadows.

Here I can fool myself that the rest of the world has dissolved and it’s only us.

But reality has sharp teeth. It always comes back to bite.

Less than twenty minutes later, we’re walking up the front steps and my stomach is tight with dread.

Asher’s hand grips mine with easy confidence. And when I try tugging free, he just tightens his hold and shoots me a warning look.

Inside, the air feels different, heavy and ominous.

They’re waiting in the living room.

Victor is standing by the window, jaw set so tight I can see the muscle ticking. Mom sits on the edge of the couch, twisting her wedding band, her face pale, eyes shimmering like she’s barely holding herself together.

They know.

Or at least they think they know something.

When my mother’s gaze lands on me, it’s all I can do not to crumble.

“Scarlett, sweetheart,” she whispers. “What happened?” Her voice is thin, too soft, as if she’s terrified of the answer.

I dart a look at Asher, but his expression is granite. Cold. Untouchable.

I tug my hand free and this time he lets me go… reluctantly. I cross the room and throw my arms around her neck, burying my face in her shoulder.

“It was a misunderstanding, Mom. Just a misunderstanding.” My voice cracks, but I force a smile when I pull back.

“Just like the park incident was a misunderstanding?” Victor demands, scathingly skeptical.

Annette frowns. “Scarlett…”

“Isn’t as free as she thinks she is,” Asher cuts in smoothly, striding to where I’m standing next to Mom, his gaze locked on me like a silent dare. “I had to remind her of that.”

“What does that mean?” Victor demands.

“Exactly what I said, Dad,” Asher grates out.

The words hang between us like a dropped match in a room full of gas. My skin prickles, knowing everyone in the room heard the double edge to it, but no one— not even Victor —dares to push.

Mom’s eyes search mine, desperate for more, for something that will make sense of the unease pressing into the corners of the room.

Before I can think of what else to say, Asher cuts in, voice like a blade. “We’re leaving.”

Victor’s gaze flicks to him, sharp, furious. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve got a long drive back to the city,” Asher says flatly, his hand recapturing and clamping tighter around mine. “No point dragging it out. Besides, Scarlett needs to catch up. She fell behind this week.”

Annette blinks. “Really? Why?”

Asher doesn’t answer. He just lifts an eyebrow in my direction, all cool authority, waiting.

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 hum of 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?

The question is a problem I’ve never had to solve before. I don’t do happy for anyone. But for her, I’d try. God help me, I’d try.

The city lights flicker in through the tinted glass as we pull into the underground garage. She stirs when I lift her, arms instinctively looping around my neck.

“Shh,” I murmur against her hair. She’s warm, pliant, smelling like salt and her faint floral shampoo. “We’re home.”

Upstairs, I don’t bother with the guest suite. I had her things moved into my room when we were away. My bed’s where she belongs from now on.

I set her down, and she blinks up at me—sleep-drowsy, but there’s something else there too. Resignation. And apprehension.

“You’re really never letting me go, are you, Asher?”

I stand over her, brushing her hair from her face. Clench my belly and tell myself there’s hope in that question, not fear. “No, princess. I’m not.”

She turns away from me, hugging my pillow like it might protect her. Her breathing evens out after a while, her body softening into the mattress.

I take the chair beside the bed.

I should leave. I don’t.

Because watching her sleep should be harmless. It’s not.

Every minute that passes makes the need sharpen. It’s new, this visceral fucking feeling. I want her safe, want her happy, and so deep in my world that no one could pry her out without losing fingers.

And somewhere in that stillness, a new kind of fear takes root. Not the fear of losing my company or my reputation. Something worse.

I’m in love with my stepsister.

Fact.

And this weekend has only proven that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her—cut throats in the shadows, twist the truth until it fits, reshape the life we’ve been handed into one that serves us .

But alongside that vow is the razor-edge truth I can’t ignore.

It might not be up to me.

She could walk.

She could choose a path less fraught with forbidden bullshit drama.

So the real question is… how far am I prepared to go to make sure she never does?