Page 36 of The Reckoning
ARIES
Steam fills the bathroom, clouding the mirror and fogging the glass shower door. The hot water pounds against tile, creating a steady percussion that almost—almost—drowns out the sound of my own thundering heartbeat.
Lilian stands before me, her skin pale and perfect in the harsh bathroom light. The shirt lies discarded on the floor between us, a crumpled flag of surrender in a war I didn’t realize we were fighting until I’d already lost.
Arson is already in the bathroom, leaning against the wall with calculated nonchalance, arms crossed over his chest as he watches us with those eyes—my eyes, our eyes—that reveal the darkness that sets us apart. His presence should be intrusive, should kill any desire I feel, but instead, it adds a dangerous edge to every sensation, a forbidden thrill I refuse to examine too closely.
I shouldn’t want her like this. She’s my stepsister, for God’s sake. We grew up together, sharing family dinners and holiday celebrations, and inhabiting the same spaces for years. That’s the thing, though—desire doesn’t adhere to social conventions. It’s simply raw and undeniable and impossible to ignore any longer.
“You’re staring,” she says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice despite her bold stance.
“I’m appreciating,” I correct, allowing my gaze to travel slowly over her exposed form. “There’s a difference.”
Arson shifts against the wall, his presence a constant reminder of the bizarre arrangement we’ve agreed to. I ignore him, focusing instead on Lilian, on the way her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat and the slight tremor in her hands as she reaches for the button of my jeans.
“Let me,” I say, capturing her wrists gently. “You’re shaking.”
“Not from fear,” she assures me, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
The admission sends heat coursing through my veins, a possessive satisfaction that I try, and fail, to suppress. I want her to want me—only me, not him. Not the monster wearing my face who stole my life and now seeks to steal her, as well.
But those aren’t the terms she set, and I’m in no position to renegotiate. Not when I’ve spent years pushing her away, denying what was between us for the sake of propriety, for her protection, for a dozen reasons that seem meaningless now.
I step back, stripping my shirt, letting it fall to join hers on the floor. Her gaze tracks the movement, lingering on the places where captivity has left its mark—the protruding ribs, the less defined muscles, the pallor that comes from months without sunlight.
“You’re thinner,” she observes, her eyes filled with a compassion I don’t want or deserve.
“Still strong enough,” I reply, the edge in my voice sharper than intended.
I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her to see me as damaged, weakened by what my brother did to me. I want her to see me as I was before—confident, capable, and in control. Even if I’m not that man anymore. That man was a construct, a carefully craftedHayes heir built to his father’s specifications. This new version of me—more raw, more angry, more honest—is still taking shape, formed in the crucible of captivity and betrayal.
She steps closer, her hand reaching up to trace the line of my jaw, the touch so gentle it makes something in my chest ache. “I know you are.”
The simple affirmation, the acceptance in her gaze—it unravels me in ways that hours of isolation and psychological warfare couldn’t. I lean into her touch, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability before the walls come back up.
The shower continues to run, filling the small space with warmth and humidity. Without breaking eye contact, I reach down to strip off my jeans she already unbuttoned, pushing them down along with my underwear in one fluid motion.
Her gaze drops briefly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Now who’s staring?” I ask, the tension breaking slightly as her smile widens.
“Appreciating,” she counters, using my own words against me.
I step into the shower, extending a hand to help her in after me. The hot water is a shock against my skin, washing away days of tension and anxiety. Lilian steps in behind me, closing the glass door, sealing us in our own private world of steam and heat.
Except it’s not private, not really. Arson remains at his post by the door, his gaze a tangible weight on my skin. I turn to face Lilian, watching as water cascades down her body, plastering her hair to her scalp and trailing in rivulets between her breasts. The sight steals my breath, makes my hands clench at my sides with the effort it takes not to reach for her immediately. The scar along her sternum is a reminder of what we’re fighting for.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, the words inadequate but sincere.
Her eyes meet mine, vulnerability and desire warring in their depths. “So are you.”
I close the distance between us, pressing her gently against the cool tile wall. My hands find her waist, her skin slick and warm beneath my palms. Her arms wrap around my neck, drawing me closer until there’s no space left between us, just heat and want and the pounding of the shower masking the sound of our accelerated breathing.
When I finally kiss her, it’s not gentle. It’s not careful or controlled or any of the things I’ve been trained to be. It’s desperate and demanding, years of denied desire breaking free all at once. Her response is equally fierce, her fingers tangling in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
I press her harder against the wall, one hand sliding down to lift her thigh, opening her to me. She gasps into my mouth, the sound more intoxicating than any alcohol I’ve ever consumed.
“Aries,” she breathes, my name a plea on her lips.
