# Chapter 4: Family Dinner

The clasp of my dress catches under my fingers, stubborn and cold. I tug it again, breathing slow, trying to steady the erratic rhythm of my heartbeat. In the hallway mirror, Marcus stands behind me. I don't need to see his face to know exactly how his jaw is clenched, how his dark eyes are fixed on my reflection with that familiar, suffocating intensity. His knuckles press into my shoulders, not quite touching, hovering just above the fabric of my black silk dress. He's not fixing the clasp. He's checking me.

"Relax, Ivy," he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges like he's been chewing on glass all day. "You're trembling."

"I'm fine," I lie, finally clicking the clasp into place. I turn in the mirror, and his gaze drops to my mouth. It lingers there, heavy and deliberate, before dragging up to my eyes. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric and dangerous. I've felt it building for weeks. The tightness in his chest when I smile at someone else. The way his fingers dig into my wrist when I try to pull away. The way he watches me sleep. He's holding on by a thread, and I can feel it fraying.

"Dinner's in five," he says, stepping back just enough to give me space, though his hand trails down my arm, possessive, claiming. "Smile. Play your part. Our parents are already suspicious enough."

I nod, swallowing hard. "I know how to act normal."

His lips curve, but it's not a smile. It's a warning. "Good. Because if you don't, I won't be responsible for what happens when we leave this house."

The threat hangs in the air, sweet and poisonous. I follow him down the hall, heels clicking against the hardwood, trying to ignore the way my pulse hammers in my throat. We've done this before. Family dinners. Pretending we're just step-siblings. Pretending I don't wake up gasping from dreams of his hands on me. Pretending he doesn't own every breath I take.

The dining room is bathed in warm lamplight, all polished mahogany and crystal glasses. Our parents sit at the head of the table, already poured and waiting. Mom looks up, smiling softly. Dad raises his glass in a quiet greeting. They're blissfully ignorant. They never see the war happening right under their noses.

"Everyone ready?" Mom asks, pouring water into my glass. Her eyes flick to Marcus, then to me, and for a fraction of a second, something unreadable passes across her face. Maybe she knows. Maybe she suspects. But she says nothing. She never does.

We take our seats. Silverware clinks. Conversation flows like water over stones—polite, superficial, safe. I keep my voice light. I keep my posture straight. I keep my eyes off Marcus even when I feel his knee brush against mine under the table. He doesn't pull away. He stays there, a silent anchor, a quiet claim.

Then the front door opens.

The sound carries through the house, heavy and familiar. I don't need to look to know who it is. My stomach drops. My breath catches. Leo.

My ex.

He walks in like he owns the place, laughing at something Dad says, shaking hands, completely unbothered by the fact that he wasn't invited. He's all easy smiles and relaxed shoulders, everything Marcus isn't. Everything I used to think I wanted.

"Ivy," Leo says, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. He's at the end of the table now, leaning in, his eyes locking onto mine. "Didn't know you'd be here. Good to see you."

I force a smile. "Leo. Hi."

His gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate, and I feel it like a physical touch. My skin prickles. I look away, focusing on my water glass, but I can feel Marcus's presence beside me shifting. The air grows heavier. Colder.

"Sit down," Dad says, gesturing to an empty chair. "We were just about to start."

Leo pulls out the chair. The scrape of wood against floor echoes too loudly. I keep my eyes on my plate. I don't want to look. I don't want to remember the way he used to say my name. The way he used to touch me. The way he left.

Marcus doesn't sit.

He stands. Slowly. Deliberately. His chair scrapes back, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He walks around the table, his steps measured, his presence radiating something dark and coiled. He stops beside my chair. His hand rests on the back of it, fingers curling over the wood like he's ready to strike.

"Marcus?" Mom asks, confused. "You're not joining us?"

"I don't eat when he's in the room," Marcus says, voice flat, devoid of warmth. His eyes don't leave Leo. "He makes me nauseous."

The table goes dead silent. Dad's fork hovers halfway to his mouth. Mom's smile freezes. Leo's eyebrows shoot up, but he recovers quickly, chuckling like it's a joke. "Rough past, huh?"

I close my eyes. This is exactly what I was afraid of. Marcus doesn't share. He doesn't tolerate. He consumes. And right now, he's fixated on the one thing that still holds a piece of me that I didn't mean to give him.

"Ivy," Leo says, ignoring Marcus entirely. He turns his attention to me, leaning in slightly. "We should catch up. Sometime. For old times' sake."

My stomach turns. "No thanks, Leo. I'm good."

His jaw tightens. Just for a second. I see it. I've seen it before. The moment the mask slips.

Marcus's hand drops from the back of my chair. His fingers find my thigh instead, sliding up under the silk, resting just above my knee. His thumb presses down, hard. A warning. A promise. I don't move. I can't. The heat of his palm through the fabric burns through me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shivering.

"You heard her," Marcus says, voice low, venomous. "She's not interested in catching up. She's not interested in any of you."

Leo's gaze flicks to Marcus's hand on my thigh. His eyes narrow. "Is that right? Because I don't recall being told she's with anyone."

The silence that follows is suffocating. Mom clears her throat. Dad sets his fork down. The air is thick with unspoken words, with tension that's about to snap.

Marcus doesn't blink. He doesn't back down. His grip on my thigh tightens, just enough to make me gasp. I bite my lip. He feels it. Of course he does. He always feels everything.

"I'll take her outside," Marcus says, not looking at anyone but me. His voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of a command. "Fresh air. We'll be back in a minute."

He doesn't wait for permission. He doesn't ask. He just stands, pulling me up with him. My legs feel unsteady. His hand slides from my thigh to my waist, gripping me hard, pulling me against his side. I can feel the heat of him through my dress. Can feel the tension in his muscles. Can feel the barely restrained rage rolling off him in waves.

We walk out of the dining room. The floorboards creak under our steps. I don't look back. I don't have to. I can feel Leo's eyes on us. I can feel my parents' confusion. I can feel Marcus's obsession burning into my skin.

We reach the hallway. The back door is at the end. Marcus doesn't open it. He turns me, pinning me against the wall, his body caging me in. His hands bracket my face, thumbs pressing into my cheeks, forcing me to look at him.

"Look at me," he demands, voice rough, barely holding on.

I do. His eyes are dark, swirling with something feral. Something broken. "You don't look at him," he whispers. "You don't speak to him. You don't let him touch you. You're mine, Ivy. Say it."

My breath hitches. "Marcus—"

"Say it," he growls, his voice cracking. His forehead presses against mine. His breathing is ragged. "Say you're mine or I'll drag you out of here and remind you where you belong."

I should pull away. I should tell him he's insane. I should remember that we're step-siblings. That our parents are inside. That this is wrong, dangerous, a line I swore I wouldn't cross.

But I don't.

Because when his mouth crashes into mine, I don't fight it. I melt into it. His kiss is brutal, demanding, swallowing every sound I try to make. His tongue pushes past my lips, claiming, tasting, owning. I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, low and guttural, lifting me off the ground like I weigh nothing. I cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me up against the wall.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe. His voice is a ragged whisper against my mouth. "You're done acting. You're done pretending. We're going to the garage. You're going to let me remind you who you belong to. You're going to let me mark you where you can't hide it."

I don't answer. I don't need to. My body answers for me. I nod, my fingers tightening in his hair.

He sets me down. His hand slides to my waist, gripping me hard, and he pulls me down the hallway, out the back door, into the cold night air. The garage door is already open. He knows I left it unlocked. He knows everything about this house. He knows me.

He throws me inside, not roughly, but with enough force that I stumble. He follows me in, closing the door behind us. The garage is dark, lit only by the sliver of moonlight cutting through the high windows. Workbenches line the walls. Tools hang in perfect rows. His black truck sits in the center, polished to a mirror shine.

He locks the door. The click echoes in the quiet space.

Then he's on me.

His mouth crashes into mine again, harder this time. No hesitation. No restraint. He spins me around, pressing me against the hood of the truck. The metal is cold against my back, but his hands are burning. He grips my hips, pulling me back against him, his body caging me in. I gasp into his mouth, feeling the hard line of his arousal pressing against my lower stomach.

"Look at me," he demands again, his voice rough, edged with something desperate.

I turn my head. His eyes are black with hunger, with possession, with something so dark it scares me. And I love it. I hate that I love it.

"I'm going to take my shirt off," he says, already moving. He peels the fabric over his head, tossing it aside. His chest is bare, muscles tense, veins standing out along his forearms. His hands slide down my back, fingers digging into my waist, pushing me back against the truck. "Then I'm going to peel this dress off you. And I'm going to fuck you until you forget his name. Until you forget your own. Until the only thing you know is my hands on you. My mouth on you. My cock inside you."

His words hit me like a physical blow. My breath catches. My hips jerk forward instinctively. I don't hide it. I don't pretend I'm not affected. I let him see it. Let him know I'm his.

He curses, low and vicious, and his hands are at my dress before I can speak. The zipper hisses down. He pushes the fabric off my shoulders, letting it pool at my waist. His hands are everywhere, rough, claiming. He pushes my underwear down, stepping out of them, then kicks them away. He doesn't bother with his pants. He just yanks his boxers down, freeing himself.

I gasp at the sight of him. Thick. Hard. Veined. Already leaking at the tip. My pussy clenches, wet and aching. I've watched him before. In dreams. In stolen moments. But seeing him like this, exposed, waiting for me, it unravels something deep inside me.

"Touch me," he commands, his voice rough. "Show me you want it. Show me you're mine."

My fingers tremble as I reach for him. He grips my wrist, holding me in place. "Not yet. Wait until I tell you."

He steps back, just enough to give me space, but not enough to let me escape. His hands slide back onto my hips, fingers digging in. "This dress is going to stay on until I take it off myself. Until I'm inside you. Until you're begging me to stop. And when I give you what you need, you're going to look at me. You're going to say my name. You're going to let me hear you."

I nod, breathless. "Yes, Marcus."

He smiles. It's not kind. It's not gentle. It's the smile of a man who's finally stopped fighting the inevitable. "Good girl."

His hands slide up my body, over my ribs, under my dress, until they're at my breasts. He cups them through the silk, thumbs brushing over my nipples. I arch into him, a moan escaping my lips. He pinches them, hard, and I cry out. My back presses against the truck, my legs trembling.

"Fuck," he growls, leaning in. His mouth finds my neck, biting down just hard enough to mark. I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He sucks the skin, leaving a bruise that'll last for days. Maybe weeks. Maybe forever. He's marking me. Claiming me. Letting everyone know.

His hands slide down, under the dress, between my legs. He pushes the fabric aside, his fingers sliding into my underwear, finding me already wet, already dripping. I cry out, my head falling back against the metal.

"So fucking slick," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "For me. Always for me."

He curls his fingers, stroking me through my underwear, not pulling them aside yet. He knows I'm sensitive. He knows I need time. But he also knows I'm desperate. I'm aching. I'm his.

"Take them off," he orders, pulling his hand away.

I fumble with the elastic, pulling them down my legs. He steps back, just enough to see me. His eyes darken. "Beautiful. Perfect. Mine."

He doesn't waste time. He lines himself up with my entrance, the broad head pressing against me, stretching me. I gasp, my nails digging into his arms. He doesn't push in. He waits.

"Look at me," he demands again.

I do. His eyes are burning. His jaw is clenched. He's holding back by a thread.

"I'm going to fuck you," he says, voice rough, desperate. "I'm going to stretch you open. I'm going to fill you up. And you're going to take it. All of it. You're going to take my cock like you were made for it. Because you were."

He thrusts forward.

I scream.

He's too big. Too hard. Too much. He pushes through me in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. My back hits the truck hard. My head falls back. My eyes fly open. He's inside me, stretching me, filling me, claiming me in the most primal way possible.

"Fuck," he groans, his forehead dropping to mine. "Ivy. Fuck. You feel so good."

He doesn't let me adjust. He starts moving. Hard. Fast. Each thrust bottoms out inside me, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl. I cry out, my fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms. He grips my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The other stays on my hip, holding me in place.

"Mine," he growls, each word a punch. "You're mine. Say it."

"Marcus," I sob, my hips bucking to meet his. "Yes. I'm yours."

He smiles, dark and satisfied. "Again."

"I'm yours," I repeat, louder, my voice breaking. "Only yours."

He thrusts harder. The truck vibrates beneath us. The metal is cold, but his body is burning. His cock drags against my walls, pulling gasps and moans from my throat. I'm drowning in him. In the sound of skin slapping skin. In the rough rhythm of his hips. In the way he's taking me apart.

"Look at me," he demands again, his voice rough, barely holding on.

I force my eyes open. His are wild. Obsessive. Devouring. He's losing control. I can feel it in the way his thrusts grow erratic. In the way his grip on my wrist tightens. In the way his breath hitches.

"I'm close," he gasps, his voice cracking. "Ivy, I'm close. You feel so fucking good. I'm going to fill you. I'm going to mark you. I'm going to make sure you never forget."

"Marcus, please," I beg, my voice breaking. "I'm close. I need you. Please."

He groans, a raw, desperate sound. "Come for me. Now. Let me feel you."

I shatter.

My body locks. My pussy clenches around him, milking him. I scream, my head falling back, my back arching off the truck. He follows me over the edge, groaning my name as he bottoms out inside me, pumping hot cum deep into my womb. He holds me there, trembling, breathing ragged, his forehead pressed to mine.

We stay like that for a long time. Just breathing. Just feeling. The garage is quiet except for our ragged breaths. My legs are shaking. My wrists are sore from where he pinned them. My dress is still bunched around my waist. His cock is still buried inside me, softening but still stretched around me.

He doesn't pull out. Not yet. He just holds me. His hand slides from my wrist to my face, thumb brushing over my cheek. His eyes are dark, but the feral edge is gone. Replaced by something heavier. Something that looks suspiciously like devotion.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice rough but softer now. "Ivy. I can't… I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop touching you. I can't stop watching you. You're in my head. In my chest. In my fucking bones."

I swallow hard. "I know."

He closes his eyes. "I have to tell you something. Before… before it destroys us. Before I lose what's left of my sanity."

My breath catches. "What?"

He opens his eyes. They're burning. "I've loved you since we were sixteen. Since the day you moved in. Since the day you smiled at me in the kitchen and I knew I'd never let you go. I've watched you grow up. I've watched you date him. I've watched you smile at him. And I hated him. I hated you for it. I hated myself for wanting to break his hands. For wanting to take you right here in this garage and remind you who you belong to."

My heart stops. "Marcus…"

"I'm a monster," he whispers, his voice cracking. "I know I am. I know it's wrong. I know it's twisted. But I can't stop. I won't stop. You're mine. You've always been mine. And if you leave me, I'll burn the world down to get you back."

I don't pull away. I don't speak. I just press my forehead to his. I let him feel my heartbeat. Let him feel the truth.

"I'm not leaving," I whisper. "I haven't left. I never will."

He exhales, a shuddering breath. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest. He holds me like I'm something fragile. Something precious. Something he's terrified of losing.

"Then stay," he murmurs against my hair. "Stay. Let me ruin you. Let me own you. Let me keep you."

I nod, my fingers tangling in his hair. "I will."

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb brushes my lips. His eyes are dark, but there's something else in them now. Something that looks like hope. Something that looks like surrender.

He lifts me off the truck, his hands still gripping me, still claiming me. He doesn't bother with the dress. He doesn't bother with the underwear. He just carries me out of the garage, back into the house, back to the dinner table, back to the lie.

But it doesn't feel like a lie anymore.

It feels like a promise.

And as he leads me back into the dining room, his hand never leaving my waist, I know one thing for certain.

Marcus is done pretending.

And I'm done running.