**Chapter 3: Mine Again**

Sunlight cuts through the gap in the curtains. Sharp. Unforgiving.

I keep my eyes closed.

I count my breaths.

In. Out.

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself it’s just physical. Just a mistake. Just one night of weakness and heat and terrible decisions.

The guilt settles in my chest like lead. Heavy. Cold.

It’s worse than the heat. Worse than the way my body still hums from last night. Worse than the fact that I know exactly how his hands feel on my skin. How his mouth tastes. How he looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

He’s my stepbrother.

The word hits me again. Another wave of nausea. Another reason to get up. To leave. To pretend this never happened.

I open my eyes.

The bed is empty.

But the sheets are still warm. Still hold the imprint of his body. The heavy, dark stain of his sleep, the faint smell of him mixing with the cotton. Cedar. Smoke. Something fundamentally male.

I sit up.

The duvet slips to my waist. My skin is sticky. My thighs ache. My core throbs with a dull, persistent reminder of what he did to me. What I let him do.

The bathroom door clicks.

I freeze.

He steps into the room. Towel around his hips. Water dripping down his forearms. Dark hair slicked back. Those eyes. That fucking stare.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at me.

Like he’s mapping me. Like he’s memorizing every tremor, every flush, every shaky breath. Like he’s claiming me all over again without touching me.

I pull the sheet higher. My pulse hammers in my throat.

“You’re awake,” he says. Voice rough. Low. Still threaded with sleep.

I swallow. Nod once. Can’t speak. Not yet.

He walks over. Slow. Deliberate. The water from his hair drips onto the hardwood. Each step sounds like a heartbeat.

He stops at the edge of the bed.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lower. To my collarbone. To the faint red marks he left last night. My breath catches.

“You’re trembling,” he says.

I am.

I don’t answer.

He leans down. One hand braced on the mattress beside my hip. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that I can smell him without the sheets to hide it.

“Look at me, Riley.”

I lift my eyes.

His jaw tightens. Something flickers in his gaze. Something raw. Something he doesn’t say out loud.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I whisper. The words taste like ash. “I didn’t plan it. I shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t…”

He cuts me off with a single finger under my chin. Forces me to hold his gaze.

“Stop.”

His voice is quiet. Firm. Final.

“You don’t get to apologize.”

“I should,” I say, voice cracking. “It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. We’re—”

“Family.” He finishes it for me. The word drops like a stone. “Yes. We are.”

I close my eyes. The weight of it presses down.

He releases my chin. Straightens.

But he doesn’t step away.

He stays right there. Watching me. Waiting.

I pull the sheet up. My hands are shaking. I can’t stop them.

“I need to leave,” I say.

His expression doesn’t change. But something behind his eyes darkens.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“I have to.” I swing my legs over the edge. The floor is cold against my bare feet. I keep my eyes on the wood. “I can’t stay here. Not after last night. Not like this. It’s a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake. And I need to fix it.”

He lets out a slow breath.

When he speaks, his voice is different. Harder. Sharper. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask. The kind that doesn’t negotiate.

“You fix it by standing up and walking out that door, or you fix it by staying in this bed and letting me remind you who you belong to.”

My head snaps up.

He’s looking at me like I’m a threat. Like I’m a wound. Like I’m the only thing that matters in a world that’s been burning since the day I was born.

I push to my feet. My legs wobble. I brace myself against the dresser.

“I don’t belong to you.”

His laugh is dry. Hollow.

“No,” he says. “You don’t. Not yet.”

He steps closer.

I should back away. I should run. I should shut the door and lock it and pretend I’m not unraveling at the seams.

Instead, I watch him.

He moves like a predator. But there’s nothing predatory about the way his hands reach for me. He cups my face. Thumbs pressing into my cheekbones. His touch is firm. Anchoring.

“I’ve wanted you since the day you moved in,” he says. Quiet. Raw. “Since the day you walked into this house in a sundress and smiled at me like you didn’t know the damage you’d do. Like you didn’t know what you’d break.”

My breath hitches.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper.

“You do now.”

His forehead rests against mine. Eyes closed. Shoulders dropping. Just for a second. The mask slips. I see it. The exhaustion. The guilt. The desperate, feral need that’s been clawing at him for months.

“I tried to stay away,” he says. “I told myself you were off-limits. That you were too young. Too bright. Too innocent. That I’d protect you from the dark. Not drag you into it.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I say.

“I know.” He opens his eyes. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He steps back. Drops his hands.

But he doesn’t let me go.

He grabs my wrist. Firm. Unyielding.

I yelp. He feels it. His grip loosens instantly. But he doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says.

“I’m not—”

“Riley.”

The way he says my name. Like a prayer. Like a threat. Like a promise.

I shake my head. “I need space. I need to think. I need to—”

“You need to stop running.”

He tugs me forward. Not harshly. Just enough. I stumble. He catches me. Pulls me against his chest. I feel his heartbeat. Fast. Hard. Matching my own.

His arms wrap around me. One hand on the back of my neck. Fingers tangling in my hair. The other braced at my lower back. Holding me in place.

“You don’t get to leave,” he says against my ear. Voice low. Shuddering. “Not after I’ve tasted you. Not after I’ve felt you unravel in my hands. You don’t get to pretend you don’t want this. You don’t get to pretend I don’t need you.”

I close my eyes. Tears prick. Hot. Urgent.

“I’m terrified,” I whisper.

“I know.” He presses his lips to my temple. “I am too.”

He pulls back. Looks down at me.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lower. To my chest. To the way my breath is still coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

“Shower,” he says.

I blink. “What?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just takes my hand. Leads me down the hall. Toward the bathroom. Toward the steam that’s already building under the door. Toward the sound of running water.

I don’t fight him.

I don’t want to.

He pushes the door open. The heat hits me like a wall. Thick. Heavy. Fragrant with his soap. With him.

I step inside. The tile is warm. The mirror is fogged. My reflection is a ghost. Bare. Trembling. Still wearing the faint bruise of his hands on my skin.

He shuts the door.

The lock clicks.

I turn.

He’s already at the controls. Adjusting the temperature. The water hits the tile. Slicks the glass. Pours down in a steady, heavy stream.

He doesn’t look at me. Not at first.

He strips off the towel. Drops it.

I should look away. I should pretend I’m not memorizing every line of him. Every scar. Every ridge of muscle. The way his body tells a story I haven’t earned the right to read yet.

But I don’t.

I watch.

He steps into the shower.

The water hits his shoulders. Cascades down his chest. Over the thick line of his stomach. Down his hips.

He turns to face me.

His cock is already hard. Thick. Dark-tipped. Swollen with blood. Already leaking. Already ready for me.

My mouth goes dry.

He reaches out. Takes my wrist. Pulls me under the spray.

I gasp. The water hits my skin. Cold at first. Then warm. Then nothing but heat.

He doesn’t give me time to adjust.

His hands are on me. Everywhere. Sliding up my thighs. Gripping my waist. Pulling me flush against his body.

I feel him. All of him. Hard. Heavy. Unyielding.

He presses me back against the tile. The water pounds between us. Drowns out everything but his breathing. My breathing.

His mouth crashes into mine.

I moan into his mouth. He swallows it. Devours it. His tongue sweeps in. Demanding. Possessive. Like he’s reclaiming something he never let go of.

I melt.

I’ve never melted like this. Not for anyone. Not before.

My hands slide up his chest. Over the scars. The tattoos. The sweat-slicked skin. I grip his shoulders. Hold on.

He groans. Low. Raw.

His hand slides down. Past my ribs. Past my hips. Down to my thigh. Up. Under.

I’m already wet. Soaked. His touch should surprise me. It doesn’t.

His fingers slip inside me.

I cry out. The water masks it. But he feels it. He feels every tremor. Every hitch. Every desperate little clench.

“Fuck,” he curses. Voice breaking. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

I nod. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

He pulls his fingers out. Slow. Deliberate. Leaves me aching. Leaves me begging.

He turns me around.

I brace my hands on the tile. The water pounds my back. My thighs. My ass.

He steps behind me.

His chest presses against my back. His hips press against my ass. I feel his cock. Hard. Thick. Already pressing against me through the water. Already leaking.

I shiver.

He grabs my hair. Gently. Firmly. Tilts my head back. Presses his mouth to my neck.

“You’re mine,” he says. Not a question. A fact. “Say it.”

I close my eyes. Tears mix with the water. “I’m yours.”

He groans. Deep. Shuddering.

His hand slides down. Fingers parting my slit. Spreading me open. Finding my clit. Rubbing. Circling. Fast. Hard.

I gasp. Arch back. Press into him.

“Again,” he says. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper. Voice shaking. “I’m yours, Declan. Please. I’m yours.”

He curses. Something dark. Something desperate.

His fingers dive inside me. Two. Three. Curling. Pumping. Hitting that spot. Over and over. I’m slick. Soaked. Dripping down my legs.

He leans down. Bites my shoulder. Hard enough to bruise. Soft enough to make me whimper.

Then his mouth is on my neck. Sucking. Marking. Claiming.

I’m falling apart.

I don’t care.

I want him. I’ve always wanted him. I just didn’t know how to name it. Didn’t know how to survive it.

He pulls his hand out.

I whine.

He turns me around. Lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the far wall. Presses me against it. The tile is cold. The water is hot. The contrast makes me gasp.

He steps between my legs.

His cock drags over my slit. I’m dripping. Soaking him. He groans. Eyes rolling back.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do.

His gaze is burning. Feral. Desperate.

He lines himself up. Presses the tip against my entrance.

I’m swollen. Ready. Aching.

He pushes in.

I cry out.

He’s thick. Stretching me. Filling me. Hitting places I didn’t know existed. I clamp down around him. Feel him twitch. Feel him pulse.

He stills. Breathing ragged. Forehead pressed to mine.

“Fuck,” he curses. Voice breaking. “You feel so fucking perfect. God, Riley. You feel like home.”

I shake my head. Tears streaming. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in. “You’ve always been. Even when I fought it. Even when I told myself I’d never touch you. You were mine. Long before I claimed you.”

He pulls back. Then drives in.

I scream. Or maybe I just gasp. I can’t tell. The water drowns it. But he feels it. He feels every second.

He starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust stretching me. Filling me. Claiming me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. Hold on.

He grips my thighs. Lifts me higher. Angles his hips. Drives deeper.

I’m taking him. All of him. Every inch. I’m drowning in him. In the heat. In the weight. In the raw, unfiltered need radiating off him.

He groans. Low. Shuddering.

His hands slide down. Grab my ass. Squeeze. Pull me down.

He hits deeper. Harder. Faster.

The shower rattles. The mirror fogs completely. I don’t care. I’m only aware of him. Of his cock. Of his mouth. Of the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from tearing this house down.

He leans in. Bites my lower lip. Sucks. Hard.

I cry out. Back arch. Nails dig into his shoulders.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I do.

His eyes are dark. Burning. Possessive.

“I’m not stopping,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever. You try to leave, I’ll follow you. You try to run, I’ll catch you. You try to pretend this doesn’t own me, I’ll ruin you until you stop lying.”

I sob. Nod. “I’m not running.”

He curses. Thrusts harder. Deeper.

I’m close. So close. My core is clenching. My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps. The water pounds my skin. My hair sticks to my face. My body is trembling.

He feels it.

His pace changes. Faster. Harder. Relentless.

He grabs my wrist. Presses it against the tile. Holds it there.

“Cum for me,” he says. Voice rough. Commanding. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel it. Let me know you’re mine.”

I break.

It hits me like a wave. Like a detonation. My body locks. My core clenches. I scream his name. Over and over. Shaking. Falling. Drowning in the pleasure. Drowning in him.

He follows.

A guttural groan tears from his throat. His hips stutter. He buries himself to the hilt. Holds me there.

I feel him pulse. Feel him spill. Hot. Thick. Deep inside me.

He stays buried. Breathing ragged. Forehead pressed to mine. Eyes closed.

I’m trembling. Still shaking. Still dripping. Still full of him.

He doesn’t pull out.

He holds me. Tight. Against the wall. Under the spray. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I wrap my arms around him. Hold on.

“I can’t lose you,” I whisper. Voice wrecked. “I can’t.”

He opens his eyes. Looks at me.

The vulnerability is there. Raw. Unfiltered. Terrifying.

“You won’t,” he says. Voice low. Certain. “Not while I’m breathing.”

He finally pulls back. Just an inch. Enough to look at me.

His hand slides down. Cups my ass. Squeezes.

Then he steps back.

I whimper. Empty. Aching. Still leaking him.

He doesn’t let go.

He just turns off the water.

The silence is sudden. Heavy.

He wraps his arms around me. Pulls me against his chest. I feel his heartbeat. Slow. Steady. But still racing. Still charged.

He presses his lips to my forehead.

“We’re not done,” he says.

I nod. Can’t speak.

He turns me around. Looks down at me.

His gaze drops to my mouth. Then lower. To my chest. To the way I’m still clinging to him.

Then his phone buzzes.

On the counter.

The sound cuts through the steam like a knife.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

It buzzes again.

He glances at it.

His expression changes.

The warmth vanishes. The vulnerability hardens into something colder. Something dangerous.

He picks it up.

The screen lights up.

I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t.

But I do.

The name on the screen makes my blood freeze.

**MOM**

My breath stops.

Declan’s jaw locks. His fingers tighten around the phone. Knuckles white.

He looks at me.

His eyes are dark. Shattered.

“Don’t answer it,” he says. Voice barely a whisper.

I can’t speak.

He sets the phone down. Steps back.

But he doesn’t let me go.

He just stares at me.

And for the first time, I see it.

The fear.

Not of me.

Of what comes next.

The hook isn’t just the phone call.

It’s the look in his eyes.

The one that says he’s already bracing for impact.

The one that says whatever is about to happen, it’s going to change everything.

And I’m still trembling in his hands.