Page 26 of You Were Always Mine
The sound of his voice in my ear when he told me I was the reason he couldn’t forget.
Shame scorches through me — hot and sick — twisting my stomach until I want to crawl out of my own skin. My thighs are still damp, my panties ruined, and the more I shift, the more it betrays me.
I’m soaked because of him. Because of my stepbrother.
I choke on the word, the acid of it burning my throat. Brother. That’s what he is — what everyone thinks he is. The dutiful son. The protector. The one who looks out for me. But that’s not who he wasin that car.
That’s not what he is when he looks at me like he wants to tear me apart.
I crawl onto the bed, bury my face in the pillow, and whisper the words into the dark as if they might save me.
‘It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.’
But it did. And no matter how many times I try to lie to myself, I can still feel the way my body moved against his, the way I whispered filth into his ear just to punish him — and how it only punished me instead.
Downstairs, I hear the low murmur of voices. Mum. Dad. And Kai.
My stomach knots tighter. They think he’s looking after me. They think he’s keeping me safe.
If they only knew.
If they knew what I’ve already let him do.
I curl tighter into the sheets, fists tangled in the blanket, but the house won’t let me forget. The voices drift up from downstairs — muffled, but clear enough to slice through the floorboards.
Mum’s laugh. Dad’s low hum of approval. And Kai’s voice — steady, calm, perfectly controlled.
Like nothing happened.
As if he isn’t the reason my thighs are clamped together, slick and aching, with shame burning through me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the words filter up anyway, fragments I can’t unhear.
‘…she’s lucky to have you…’
‘…keeping her safe…’
‘…steady influence…’
My stomach twists until I think I’ll be sick. Safe. Steady. Protector. They’ve no idea what he’s done — what I’ve done. They don’t know I was on his lap tonight, grindingdown on him like I couldn’t stop, whispering filth in his ear that I can’t take back.
A sob builds in my throat, but I swallow it down, biting the pillow to keep quiet.
Safe.
The word echoes cruelly in my skull. He isn’t safe. He isn’t steady. He isn’t my protector.
He’s the reason I can’t breathe. The reason I can’t look at myself without burning. The reason my body betrays me every time he gets too close.
I dig my nails into my arms until they sting, whispering into the dark like a prayer, like a curse.
‘He’s not my brother. He’s not my brother. He’s not my brother.’
But the voice in my head doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like his — low, rough, certain.
You’re mine.
And I hate the way it makes me shiver.
