Stepbrother's Lust: A Forbidden Mafia Romance

Rose’s POV

I hadn’t showered in two days.

I knew that because my phone had been sitting on the nightstand for long enough to tell me exactly how much time had passed, even though I had stopped caring about the hour.

The curtains were still drawn. The room was dim despite the afternoon light outside, and the only brightness came from the faint glow of my phone screen whenever it lit up with another notification.

I didn’t reach for it.

I just lay there, curled beneath the covers, staring at nothing.

My hair was tangled around my face, my eyes were swollen from crying, and the pillow beneath my cheek was damp. Every time I thought the tears had finally stopped, another one slipped free and rolled down my face, disappearing into the fabric.

I felt exhausted.

Not the kind of tired that came from not sleeping enough.

The kind that settled somewhere deeper.

The kind that made even getting out of bed feel like a task I couldn’t bring myself to complete.

I swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling.

What had I done?

The question had been circling my head for what felt like forever.

What had I done wrong to deserve this?

I couldn’t find an answer.

I’d tried.

God, I’d tried.

I’d replayed every conversation with Reagan, every interaction, every little thing I’d said around him, searching for the moment I’d somehow crossed a line I hadn’t realized existed.

Maybe I’d annoyed him.

Maybe I’d said something wrong.

Maybe I’d misunderstood something.

But no matter how many times I went over it, nothing explained the way he’d been treating me.

Reagan had always been weird.

I knew that.

He was cold when most people were warm, quiet when most people filled silence, and somehow capable of making the simplest conversation feel like a challenge. He could be arrogant, irritating, impossible to read, and sometimes so emotionally unavailable that talking to a wall would’ve been easier.

But this?

This was on another level.

I turned my face further into the pillow, squeezing my eyes shut.

I still couldn’t understand how we’d gone from what happened between us to this.

Those kisses.

My chest tightened at the thought.

He’d surprised me with them, more than once, and each time he’d left me confused about what they meant. There had been no proper conversation afterward. No real explanation. No apology.

No accountability.

We’d simply moved on.

Or, at least, he’d acted like we had.

As though he hadn’t crossed a boundary.

As though he hadn’t left me standing there trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

As though it was something so insignificant that it didn’t deserve to be mentioned again.

Maybe that was what hurt the most.

Not even the kisses themselves.

The fact that he had never acknowledged what he’d done.

What if I wanted an apology?

The thought came quietly.

What if I wanted him to admit that he’d done something wrong?

What if I wanted him to look at me and say he was sorry?

Was that really too much to expect?

I wiped at my cheek with the back of my hand, but another tear replaced the one I’d removed.

Instead of doing any of that, he’d somehow managed to become worse.

More distant.

More difficult.

More hurtful.

Every time I thought I’d finally figured him out, he did something that made me realize I understood him even less.

And now he wasn’t even looking for me.

That thought hurt more than I wanted to admit.

It had been days.

Days since everything had happened.

Days since I’d seen him properly.

And he hadn’t come.

Not once.

Maybe he didn’t care.

Maybe he’d never cared.

I stared at the empty space beside me on the bed.

That was stupid.

Of course he didn’t care.

If he did, wouldn’t he have come?

Wouldn’t he have at least asked whether I was okay?

Wouldn’t he have noticed that I had disappeared into my room and refused to come out?

I pressed my lips together, trying to stop them from trembling.

I hated that I was waiting for him.

I hated that some pathetic part of me still expected the door to open.

That he’d walk in with that unreadable expression and say something irritating.

Something that would make me angry.

Something that would make me want to cry.

Anything.

At least then I’d know he had noticed.

Instead, there was nothing.

Just silence.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

I flinched.

The screen lit up beside me.

Sierra.

I stared at her name.

For a few seconds, I considered answering.

Sierra would probably know something was wrong. She always noticed things I tried to hide. She’d ask questions, and I’d probably lie. She’d ask again, and eventually I’d break down.

I couldn’t do that.

Not now.

I let the phone continue ringing.

The vibration stopped.

A few seconds later, it started again.

I turned my face away.

"Sierra..."

My voice barely existed.

Another tear slid down my cheek.

"Please leave me alone."

The phone continued ringing.

"I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk to anyone right now."

The words came out as a whisper, so quiet that no one but me could have heard them.

The call eventually ended.

The screen went dark.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I pulled the blanket higher over myself.

I didn’t want to talk.

I didn’t want to explain.

I didn’t want anyone asking me what was wrong when I wasn’t even sure how to answer.

Because how was I supposed to explain this feeling?

How was I supposed to tell someone that I felt like something was wrong with my family, that everyone seemed to know more than I did, that strange things kept happening around us and nobody would give me a straight answer?

How was I supposed to explain that I felt like we were being watched?

Like something was coming?

Like everyone was pretending everything was normal because admitting otherwise would make it real?

And then there was Reagan.

I closed my eyes.

How was I supposed to eat when I felt like this?

How was I supposed to sit downstairs with everyone and pretend everything was fine when I couldn’t even understand what was happening around me?

How could I eat when I felt like this family was hiding something?

How could I eat when I felt like this family was being hunted?

How could I eat when the one person who had somehow become impossible for me to ignore treated me like I didn’t matter?

My throat tightened.

I hated him.

At least, I wanted to.

It would’ve been easier if I could hate him.

But every time I tried, I remembered all the moments when he hadn’t been terrible.

The quiet ones.

The ones where he looked at me like he was paying attention even when he pretended he wasn’t.

The small things he did without acknowledging them.

The way his presence could fill a room without him saying anything.

I hated that I remembered those things now.

Because they made this hurt more.

If he’d always been cruel, maybe I would’ve understood.

But Reagan wasn’t always cruel.

That was the problem.

Sometimes he was almost gentle.

Sometimes he made me feel safe.

And then he’d turn around and make me feel like I was the most inconvenient person in his life.

I wiped my face again.

The tears wouldn’t stop.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

I froze.

For a moment, I thought it might be him.

My heart gave a stupid little jump before reality caught up with me.

It wouldn’t be Reagan.

It hadn’t been Reagan.

It wasn’t going to be Reagan.

"Rose?"

My mother’s voice came through the door.

I didn’t answer.

There was another knock.

"Rose, sweetheart?"

Still nothing.

Her voice became slightly firmer.

"Rose, you’ve been in that room for days."

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"I know you’re in there."

I didn’t respond.

There was a brief silence before she continued.

"You’ve refused to come downstairs. You haven’t eaten properly, and the last time I came up here, you told me you had some snacks."

I heard the concern beneath the slight sternness in her voice.

"But is that all you’re going to eat?"

My lips trembled.

I turned my face into the pillow again.

She waited.

I knew she was waiting for me to answer.

I couldn’t.

If I opened my mouth, I’d cry harder.

So I stayed silent.

"Rose?"

Nothing.

"Please talk to me."

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I wanted to.

I really did.

I wanted to open the door and tell her everything.

I wanted to ask her what was happening.

I wanted to know why everyone seemed to be hiding things from me.

I wanted to know why Reagan was acting like I had done something to deserve being treated this way.

But I didn’t know how to say any of it without sounding ridiculous.

How could I tell my mother that I was scared?

That I didn’t understand what was happening to our family?

That I felt like there was something dangerous moving around us while everyone else was pretending not to see it?

How could I tell her that I didn’t even trust my own understanding of things anymore?

My mother’s voice softened.

"Whatever happened, you don’t have to deal with it alone."

I covered my mouth with my hand.

A sob escaped anyway.

There was silence on the other side of the door.

I could almost picture her expression changing.

Concern replacing the sternness.

She didn’t knock again.

She simply stayed there.

And somehow, that made the tears come harder.

I curled tighter beneath the blanket, letting them fall freely now.

I didn’t know what was happening.

I didn’t know what my family was hiding.

I didn’t know why everything suddenly felt dangerous.

And I didn’t know what I’d done to make Reagan look at me like I was someone he wanted to keep away from.

All I knew was that I was tired.

Tired of wondering.

Tired of waiting.

Tired of pretending I wasn’t hurt.

And most of all, I was tired of hoping that someone would finally tell me the truth.

My mother remained outside my door.

I remained curled beneath the covers.

Neither of us spoke.

And for the first time, I wondered if staying in this room was easier than facing whatever waited for me outside it.

Because at least here, I only had to deal with my own tears.

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