The wedding is in fourteen days.

Fourteen.

The number sits on my chest like a slab of concrete. Every breath is a negotiation. Every blink is a reminder that I am a woman walking straight into a gilded cage. My father’s ring. His name. His world. The perfect, polished, suffocating future I traded for security.

I tell myself I’m fine.

I tell myself I don’t dream about him.

I tell myself Declan is a ghost. A bad chapter. A four-year-old wound that finally closed.

I lie.

The classroom is quiet when I leave it. Late afternoon light stretches across the linoleum, painting long gold bars across the empty desks. I straighten my blazer. Smooth my skirt. Breathe. My fingers tremble. They always do when I’m trying to convince myself of something.

I step into the hallway.

The air changes.

It’s not a sound. It’s a pressure. A shift in the atmosphere that makes the hair on my arms rise. I know that feeling. I’ve lived in it. I’ve bled in it.

I don’t look up.

Not yet.

The footsteps behind me are heavy. Measured. A Marine’s stride. I know the cadence because it echoed in my nightmares for half a decade. Boots on hardwood. Boots on gravel. Boots outside my window in the dead of night, when I was sixteen and too terrified to sleep.

I stop.

Turn.

He’s there.

Declan.

He hasn’t changed. Not really. The jaw is sharper now. The scars deeper. The uniform is gone, replaced by black jeans and a charcoal henley that strains across his chest. His shoulders still carry the weight of something I never got to understand. His eyes are the same. Dark. Bottomless. Hungry.

He stops three feet from me.

Close enough to smell. Salt. Leather. Something uniquely him. Something that unravels my spine.

He doesn’t smile. He never does. But his gaze drags over me like a physical touch. Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

“You’re avoiding me,” he says.

His voice is lower now. Rougher. Like gravel dragged over glass. It scrapes straight to my core.

I lift my chin. Keep my voice steady. “I’m busy, Declan. This is a school. People talk.”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. His eyes drop to my mouth. Hold there. Then flick back up.

“Let them talk,” he says. “They don’t own you.”

“I didn’t say they did.”

“You don’t have to.”

He steps closer. The hallway narrows around us. The clock on the wall ticks. Someone laughs down the corridor. The sound feels miles away.

He reaches out. Doesn’t touch me. Just hovers his hand near my waist. A question. A warning.

I should step back.

I don’t.

My body remembers him before my mind can catch up. The heat. The gravity. The way he makes the air feel thin. The way he makes me feel seen. Not the perfect daughter. Not the future bride. Me. Raw. Real. His.

His fingers finally brush my hip. A single point of contact. Electric.

I gasp.

He notices. Of course he does.

His thumb drags a slow line over my skirt. Low. Higher. Close to the curve of my thigh.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re here.”

“Good.”

The word hangs between us. Heavy. Final.

He leans in. Just enough that his breath ghosts over my ear. “Two weeks, Riley. Fourteen days. And you’re standing in a hallway pretending I’m a stranger.”

I turn my head. Our noses almost touch. His scent floods me. I want to bury my face in his neck. I want to run.

“You don’t get to say my name like that,” I whisper.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re already mine.”

His eyes darken. The hunger turns feral. “I never stopped.”

A teacher rounds the corner. Declan’s hand drops. He steps back. The space between us feels like a wound.

He turns without another word. Walks away. His shoulders are rigid. His stride is controlled. But I see the tension in his back. I see the way his jaw clenches.

He’s fighting himself.

I’m fighting myself.

And we’re both losing.

***

My apartment is quiet when I get home.

Too quiet.

I lock the door. Double check the deadbolt. Hang my bag. Kick off my heels. Breathe.

My hands are still shaking.

I walk to the kitchen. Pour a glass of water. My reflection in the window stares back. Pale. Wide-eyed. Lying.

I set the glass down.

The floorboards creak behind me.

I don’t turn around. I know that sound. I know it in my bones.

“Don’t,” I say. My voice is thin. Frayed. “Just… leave.”

He doesn’t.

His arms wrap around my waist from behind. Solid. Unyielding. His chest presses against my back. His chin rests on my shoulder. His breath is warm against my neck.

I should push him away. I should turn. I should scream.

I melt.

Just an inch. Just enough for him to feel it.

He groans. Low. Rough. A sound ripped from somewhere deep. His hands tighten on my hips. Pull me back against him.

I feel him.

Hard. Heavy. Already straining against his jeans.

My knees buckle.

He catches me. Holds me. One arm locking around my middle, the other sliding up to cradle my jaw. He turns me around. Lifts me. Sets me on the counter without breaking eye contact.

His knees part my legs. He doesn’t care about the skirt. Doesn’t care about the line. He just wants me.

“I told myself I wouldn’t come,” he says. His voice is wrecked. “I drove past this building three times. Stood in the parking lot for an hour. Listened to the hum of the streets. Told myself you’d be safer without me in your life.”

His thumb strokes my cheekbone.

“I lied.”

I shake my head. Tears prick my eyes. I hate myself for them. I hate him for them.

“You can’t just show up,” I whisper. “You can’t just… do this.”

“Do what?”

“Destroy me.”

His eyes flash. Pain. Rage. Love. A volatile cocktail that nearly undoes me.

“I’m not destroying you,” he says. “I’m claiming you. I’m coming home.”

“Home?” I laugh. It’s shaky. Broken. “I’m getting married, Declan. In two weeks. To a man who loves the idea of me. Not the reality. Not the girl who cries in the shower. Not the woman who hates the sound of heels on hardwood. Not the one who’s been drowning since you walked out.”

His jaw locks. His grip on my jaw shifts. His thumb presses just under my lower lip.

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. “You think I haven’t felt it? Four years of watching from the dark. Four years of knowing you’re surrounded by people who don’t see you. Don’t hear you. Don’t fucking touch you like you matter.”

His voice breaks.

“I’m here now.”

I close my eyes. The resistance is a wire. Taut. Snapping.

He’s right.

God, he’s right.

And that terrifies me more than the wedding does.

I open my eyes. Look at him. Really look. The scar along his collarbone. The tension in his shoulders. The raw need in his eyes. The way he looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from the edge.

I reach up. Touch his chest. Feel his heart hammering against my palm.

“Four years,” I whisper.

He covers my hand with his. Presses it harder. “Yeah.”

I swallow. My throat is tight. My chest is caving in. The denial. The fear. The years of silence. They shatter like glass.

“I waited four years for this,” I say.

The words hang in the air. Heavy. Final. Irreversible.

His eyes close. A shuddering breath escapes him. When they open, the restraint is gone.

“Say it again,” he growls.

“I waited four years for this.”

He curses. Something dark. Something primal. His hands slide down. Grip my thighs. Lift me higher. I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking. Without hesitation.

His mouth crashes onto mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s a collision. A reckoning. His lips claim mine like he’s been starving. Like he’s been drowning. Like I’m the only air he’s allowed to breathe.

I moan into his mouth. Arch into him. My fingers tangle in his hair. Pull him closer. Harder. Deeper.

He groans. The sound vibrates through my chest. His tongue sweeps into my mouth. Slides against mine. Tastes me. Owns me.

I’m wet. So fucking wet. The friction of his jeans against my core sends a jolt straight to my spine. I grind against him. Needing more. Needing everything.

He breaks the kiss. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to speak.

“Take it off,” he says. His voice is rough. Commanding. “Now.”

I don’t hesitate. My fingers work the buttons of my blouse. Shove it off my shoulders. Let it pool on the floor. His eyes devour me. The lace bra. The swell of my breasts. The dark nipples tightening under his gaze.

He doesn’t touch them. Not yet. He drags his hands down my sides. Over my waist. Under my skirt. Up my thighs. His palms are calloused. Hot. Heavy.

He lifts the skirt. Pushes it up. Bunches it at my hips.

His fingers find my panties. Soaked through. He presses. Just once.

I cry out.

His hand stills. His eyes snap to mine.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re dripping for me.”

I nod. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think past the heat pooling low in my belly.

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband. Drags them down. Off. Toss them aside.

His hands are on my bare skin. Sliding up my thighs. Parting me. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait. He needs to feel me. Needs to know.

His fingers slip inside.

I gasp. Back off the counter. Wrap my legs tighter around him.

He groans. His thrust is shallow at first. Testing. Then deeper. Faster. His thumb finds my clit. Circles. Presses. Rubs.

I’m trembling. My head falls back. My eyes squeeze shut. It’s been too long. It’s been too much. The sensation is overwhelming.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open.

He’s watching. Every micro-expression. Every shiver. Every broken breath. His pupils are blown wide. His chest is heaving. His cock is straining against his jeans. He’s hard. So fucking hard. And he hasn’t even touched it yet.

“You’re so fucking beautiful when you break,” he says. His voice is raw. “I waited four years to hear you sound like this.”

He pulls his fingers out. Slides them to my mouth.

“Suck,” he says.

I do.

His fingers taste like salt. Like me. Like him. Like us. His eyes close. A low sound vibrates in his throat. He watches me take him. Watches me worship him. Watches me unravel.

He pulls his fingers out of my mouth. Wipes my chin with his thumb. “Good girl.”

The praise hits me like a physical blow. My core clenches. My wetness floods his hand. He groans.

He drops to his knees.

The counter creaks under my weight. My hands grip his shoulders. His henley rides up. I feel the ridges of his stomach. The scar tissue along his ribs. The heat radiating off him.

He doesn’t undress me. He doesn’t need to. His hands are on my thighs. Pushing them wider. Parting me. Baring me.

He looks at me. At my pussy. At the slickness coating my lips. At the way I’m shaking.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “I’ve dreamed about this. Every night. Every day. I’d close my eyes and picture you right here. Under me. For me. Begging.”

His tongue drags up my center.

I scream.

It’s loud. Unfiltered. Raw. My back arches. My fingers dig into his shoulders. My hips buck against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop. He drinks me in. Sucks hard. Licks deep. His tongue maps every fold. Every sensitive ridge. His hands grip my thighs. Hold me open. Hold me still. Hold me his.

I’m unraveling. Thread by thread.

“Declan,” I gasp. “Please. I need—”

“Let go,” he murmurs against my clit. “Let me take it. Let me make you feel it. You’re mine now. Say it.”

I sob. Nod. “Yours. God, I’m yours.”

He doesn’t wait. His tongue presses hard. His fingers slide inside me. Two. Then three. Curling. Hitting that spot over and over. The rhythm is punishing. Perfect. His mouth never stops. Sucking. Licking. Draining me dry.

I shatter.

The climax hits like a freight train. My legs lock. My back bows. My hands tear at his hair. I scream his name. Over and over. My cunt spasms around his fingers. My body shakes. My vision whites out. I ride it out. Breathe through it. Collapse against him.

He catches me. Holds me. Doesn’t stop until I’m completely still. Until my breathing evens out. Until I can feel my fingers again.

He stands. Pulls me with him. My legs are jelly. He lifts me easily. Sets me back on the counter.

His hands go to his waistband. Unbuttons. Unzips. Pushes his jeans down. Kicks them off.

His boxers follow.

He’s naked.

And he’s magnificent.

Thick. Heavy. Veined. Already leaking at the tip. His balls are heavy. Dark. Taut. His cock twitches in the air. A drop of pre-cum beads at the tip.

He steps between my legs. The counter creaks. The friction of his skin against mine sends another jolt through my core.

He lines himself up.

The tip presses against my entrance.

I gasp. “Declan—”

“I’ve got you,” he says. His voice is rough. Certain. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He pushes in.

Slow. Deliberate. Letting me adjust. Letting him adjust. Letting us both feel it.

The stretch is intense. The fullness is overwhelming. My eyes squeeze shut. My hands grip his arms. My nails dig into his skin.

He’s deep. So fucking deep. He hits my cervix. I cry out.

He stills. Brows furrowing. “Too much?”

I shake my head. “No. Just… god. Just fill me. Please.”

He groans. Drives in deeper. To the hilt. Our bodies meet with a wet slap. The sound echoes in the room.

He leans down. Cages me with his arms. His forehead rests against mine. His breath is hot. Shattered.

“I waited four years,” he whispers. “Four years of silence. Four years of watching you walk away. Four years of telling myself I was doing the right thing by letting you go. By protecting you. By pretending I didn’t feel you in my bones. Every. Single. Day.”

His hips roll. Just an inch. The friction makes me whimper.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” he says. “I’m not leaving. I’m not backing down. You’re getting married in two weeks? Fine. I’ll sit in the front row. I’ll watch you walk down that aisle. I’ll let you say those words. And then I’m taking you home. Because you’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

I shake my head. Tears spill over. “I can’t. I can’t do that to them. To him.”

“Then don’t,” he says. His voice is hard. Final. “But don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself. You’re shaking. You’re wet. You’re screaming my name. Your body knows what your mouth is too scared to say.”

He pulls back. Just enough to look at me. His eyes are dark. Possessive. Vulnerable.

“I’m not asking for forever,” he says. “I’m asking for tonight. For this. For you to let me love you the way you’ve been starving for. Just tonight. Let me fuck you. Let me make you forget his name. Let me remind you who you belong to.”

My chest hitches. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The wedding. The ring. The lies. They feel distant. Hollow.

He’s real.

He’s here.

He’s hard. He’s deep. He’s mine.

I nod. “Okay.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands grip my hips. Pull me forward. Meet him halfway. The movement sends a jolt through my core. My walls clench around him. He groans.

He starts to move.

Slow at first. A deep, rolling thrust. Then another. And another. The rhythm builds. The friction is perfect. The wetness slicks us together. The sound of our skin colliding mixes with my gasps. His groans. The creak of the counter.

He picks up the pace.

His thrusts become harder. Deeper. Relentless. His cock drags against my walls. Hits my sweet spot. Over and over. My head falls back. My fingers clutch his shoulders. My nails break skin. He doesn’t flinch. Just drives deeper. Harder.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open.

He’s watching me. Every twitch. Every shiver. Every broken breath. His jaw is locked. His eyes are feral. His chest is heaving.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s me. That’s yours. Only yours. No one else touches you. No one else tastes you. No one else gets to hear you scream like this.”

I nod. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think past the heat. The pressure. The need.

He grabs my hips. Pulls me hard against his pelvis. The impact is brutal. Perfect. My back arches. My legs tremble. My core clenches around him.

He’s close. I can feel it. The tension in his thighs. The way his thrusts stutter. The way his balls draw up tight.

I want him to come. I want to feel it. I want to take it.

“Declan,” I gasp. “Please. I need you inside me. Now.”

He curses. His hand slides up. Cocks my breast. Sucks my nipple hard. The sharp pain sends me over the edge.

My cunt spasms. My walls clamp down. My body locks. I scream. The climax rips through me. Violent. Unstoppable. My inner muscles milk him. Pump him. Drive him over the edge.

He groans. A raw, guttural sound. His hips jerk. His thrusts turn erratic. He buries himself to the hilt. Holds me down. Holds me still.

And then he comes.

Hot. Thick. Pounding. His cum floods my cunt. Fills me. Claims me. I feel every pulse. Every spurt. My body trembles through it. My breath hitches. My fingers dig into his back.

He stays inside me. Chest heaving. Forehead resting against mine. His hands still grip my hips. His cock still twitches inside my core.

The silence is heavy. Thick. Saturated.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just breathe. Feel him. Feel us.

He finally pulls back. Just enough to look at me. His eyes are soft now. The feral edge is gone. Replaced by something tender. Raw. Terrifying.

He presses his lips to my forehead. Then my cheek. Then my mouth. Slow. Reverent.

“You’re sure,” he murmurs. Not a question. A plea.

I nod. My voice is wrecked. “I’m sure.”

He smiles. Just a fraction. Enough to ruin me.

He pulls out. My cunt gapes. Dripping. Empty. Aching. I shiver. He catches me. Lifts me off the counter. Holds me against his chest.

He dresses quickly. Efficient. But his hands linger on my waist. On my hip. On the back of my neck. Like he’s memorizing me.

I pull on my blouse. Skirt. Panties. My fingers are still shaking. My body still hums. My mind is reeling.

He steps back. Gives me space. Gives me time.

I turn. Look at him.

He’s watching me. Always watching me.

The phone on the counter buzzes.

I jump. Declan’s eyes narrow. His hand instinctively moves to his pocket. I shake my head. Pick it up.

The screen reads: *Father*.

I answer. Put it on speaker.

“Riley,” my father’s voice crackles. Smooth. Controlled. Perfect. “I’m finalizing the guest list. I need your confirmation on the seating chart by tomorrow evening. Also, your fiancé and I discussed the pre-nup adjustments. I’ll have the revised draft sent to your lawyer by morning.”

I freeze.

Declan goes still.

My father’s voice continues, casual. Oblivious. “Oh, and I wanted to mention… I’ve extended an invitation to your brother. He’s flying in from overseas next week. I thought it would be nice for the family to be together. He’ll need a room at the estate, of course. Just confirm you’re comfortable with it, darling.”

The room tilts.

I look at Declan.

His face is pale. His jaw is locked. His eyes are dark. Dangerous.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

The words hang in the air. Heavy. Final.

*Your brother.*

The line goes dead.

I lower the phone. My hands are trembling. My breath is shallow. My mind is screaming.

Declan steps forward. Closes the distance. His hand cups my jaw. His thumb strokes my cheek. But his eyes are cold. Feral. Shattered.

He leans in. Whispers against my ear.

“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is, Riley.”

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

I can only stare at him.

Because the wedding is in fourteen days.

And my stepbrother is coming home.