Stepbrother's Lust: A Forbidden Mafia Romance

Rose’s POV

I had stopped keeping track of how long I’d been lying there.

The curtains were still closed, leaving the room dim despite the daylight outside. I hadn’t bothered turning on the lights either. There was no reason to. I didn’t want to see anything, and I didn’t want anything to see me.

My pillow was damp beneath my cheek, and my eyes felt sore from crying. Every time I thought I’d finally run out of tears, another one slipped down my face anyway.

Two days.

Two days without showering.

Two days of barely moving from my bed.

Two days of pretending that if I stayed quiet enough, the rest of the world might forget I existed.

It hadn’t worked.

My stomach felt empty, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. I’d eaten some snacks because my mother had kept leaving them in my room, but even those had been difficult to swallow. Food felt pointless when my chest was this heavy.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

What had I done wrong?

The question had been circling through my mind for so long that it no longer even sounded like a question. It had become something I simply carried around with me.

What had I done to deserve this from Reagan?

I didn’t understand him anymore.

Maybe I never had.

Reagan had always been strange. Difficult. Unpredictable. There had always been something about him that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking, and I’d learned to accept that. I’d learned to work around his moods, his silence, his strange way of looking at people as though he could see things they hadn’t said.

But this was different.

This was something else entirely.

He had kissed me.

Twice.

Without warning.

Without asking.

And afterward, he had acted as though nothing had happened.

As though he hadn’t crossed a line.

As though I hadn’t spent hours afterward trying to understand what had happened between us.

We had simply moved on.

Or, more accurately, he had moved on.

I had followed because I didn’t know what else to do.

Maybe that was the part that hurt the most.

I hadn’t even asked for much.

I hadn’t wanted some grand declaration or some dramatic explanation.

I had wanted an apology.

Accountability.

Something that told me he understood that what he’d done had affected me.

Instead, he’d given me nothing.

And somehow, instead of becoming better, he’d only managed to make himself worse.

I closed my eyes.

Maybe I’d expected too much from him.

Maybe that was my mistake.

Maybe I’d been stupid for thinking that eventually he’d realize he’d hurt me and come looking for me.

That was the embarrassing part.

I’d waited.

Every day.

Every time footsteps passed outside my room, my heart had lifted before I could stop it.

Every time a car entered the estate, I’d listened.

Every time I heard a door open somewhere downstairs, I’d wondered if it was him.

Maybe he’d come upstairs.

Maybe he’d knock.

Maybe he’d finally ask what was wrong.

Maybe he’d finally apologize.

But he never came.

Not once.

I swallowed against the ache in my throat.

Instead, three days had passed with nothing.

No Reagan.

No explanation.

No apology.

Nothing.

I turned onto my side again and pulled the pillow closer.

I hated that I still cared.

That was the part I couldn’t forgive myself for.

After everything, some stupid part of me still wanted him to come looking for me.

I wanted to hear his footsteps outside my room.

I wanted to know that my absence had bothered him.

I wanted proof that I mattered enough for him to notice when I disappeared.

But he’d been busy.

Apparently, whatever existed outside my room had been more important.

The family.

The threats.

The secrets.

Everything that had been happening around us.

And maybe that was another reason I couldn’t bring myself to leave this room.

Something was wrong.

I knew it.

I couldn’t explain it, but I could feel it.

Everyone had been acting differently.

There were too many quiet conversations, too many looks exchanged when they thought I wasn’t paying attention, too many questions that never received proper answers.

My family was hiding something.

Maybe more than one thing.

And lately, it had started feeling as though the danger wasn’t somewhere far away.

It was here.

Around us.

Close enough that everyone seemed to know about it except me.

I opened my eyes again.

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

How was I supposed to act normal when every person around me seemed to know something they refused to tell me?

How was I supposed to sleep peacefully when I didn’t even know what I was supposed to be afraid of?

And then there was Reagan.

That thought hurt more than the others.

Because no matter how dangerous everything else was, somehow, Reagan’s treatment of me was the thing that had broken through all of it.

I had expected him to be different.

Maybe not kind.

Maybe not gentle.

But at least honest.

Instead, he had left me alone with questions I hadn’t asked for.

I wiped beneath my eye.

Another tear followed.

I hated crying.

I hated how weak it made me feel.

I hated how easily everything seemed to hurt lately.

A faint sound came from outside my room.

My body stiffened.

Footsteps.

I held my breath.

They came closer.

My heart began beating faster.

For one ridiculous second, hope appeared before I could stop it.

Then came the knock.

I froze.

I knew who it was.

I didn’t need to hear his voice.

I knew.

My eyes moved toward the door.

I stared at it from across the room, unable to move.

Another knock followed.

My heart sank.

Why now?

Why after three days?

Why after I’d already spent those days convincing myself that he didn’t care?

I turned away from the door and pulled the blanket higher.

I wasn’t going to answer.

I couldn’t.

If I opened that door, what would happen?

Would he apologize?

Would he act as though nothing had happened again?

Would he ask why I hadn’t eaten?

Would he ask why I’d been crying?

Would he look at me like I was being unreasonable?

I didn’t know.

And not knowing scared me.

Another knock.

This one was gentler.

That almost made it worse.

I pressed my face into the pillow.

For a moment, I heard nothing.

Then I heard his voice through the door.

My chest tightened immediately.

He sounded close.

Closer than he’d been in days.

I shut my eyes.

I didn’t want to hear him.

I didn’t want my body to react to him.

I didn’t want that stupid ache to return.

But it did.

My heart hurt.

My throat tightened.

My eyes filled again.

I hated him for being able to do that.

I hated myself even more for letting him.

The room went quiet again.

I stayed perfectly still.

Maybe he’d leave.

Part of me wanted him to.

Part of me didn’t.

That was the problem.

I wanted him gone because I was hurt.

I wanted him to stay because I was hurt.

I wanted him to apologize.

I wanted him to understand without me having to explain.

I wanted him to realize what he’d done.

I wanted to stop caring about what he thought.

None of those things could exist together.

Yet somehow, they did.

The silence stretched.

I imagined him standing outside the door.

I wondered what he looked like.

Was he angry?

Concerned?

Confused?

Did he regret anything?

Or was he only here because my mother had told him I hadn’t come out?

The thought made something inside me sink.

Maybe he wasn’t here because he missed me.

Maybe he wasn’t here because he’d finally realized he’d hurt me.

Maybe he was only here because someone had told him something was wrong.

That shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

I turned my face toward the ceiling.

My eyes burned.

I thought about the last time I’d seen him properly.

The way he’d looked at me.

The things he’d done.

The way we’d both pretended afterward that everything was normal.

Maybe I should have said something then.

Maybe I should have demanded an apology.

Maybe I should have told him I wasn’t okay with what he’d done.

But I’d been scared.

Not of him.

Of what his response would mean.

What if he laughed?

What if he dismissed it?

What if he told me I was making it bigger than it was?

So I’d stayed quiet.

And now, three days later, the silence between us had become something much bigger.

I heard movement outside again.

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

Another knock.

I didn’t move.

My heart beat painfully against my ribs.

Then there was another sound, softer this time.

I couldn’t make out everything through the door, but I knew he was still there.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Please leave.

The thought came immediately.

But another followed right behind it.

Don’t.

I hated the contradiction.

I hated how desperately I wanted him to leave and stay at the same time.

Maybe that was what hurt most about him.

He made everything complicated.

Even the things that should have been simple.

I wanted an apology.

That should have been simple.

I wanted him to acknowledge what he’d done.

That should have been simple too.

Instead, I was lying in a dark room with swollen eyes, an empty stomach, and a heart that couldn’t decide whether it wanted him on the other side of the door.

I wiped my cheeks.

The knocking stopped.

Silence returned.

I waited.

One minute.

Then another.

Nothing.

My chest tightened.

He was leaving.

I should have felt relieved.

Instead, disappointment settled somewhere beneath my ribs.

I hated that too.

I stayed on the bed, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe he’d finally gone downstairs.

Maybe he’d given up.

Maybe he had never really wanted to come in.

I stared at the door.

For a long time, I didn’t move.

Then I slowly pushed the blanket away.

My body felt heavy.

I sat up.

The room tilted slightly, and I stayed there until the sensation passed.

My legs felt weak when I lowered them onto the floor.

I hadn’t moved properly in days. My body seemed to complain about even that small effort.

I sat there for another moment, staring at the carpet.

What was I doing?

I didn’t know.

I only knew that lying there wasn’t making anything better.

My mother had knocked.

Reagan had knocked.

People had worried.

And I’d stayed inside because I didn’t know how to face any of them.

Especially him.

I slowly stood.

My knees felt unsteady.

I reached for the edge of the bed and held onto it until I was sure I could walk.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

I looked around at the mess I’d allowed to gather around me.

The clothes I’d left where they’d fallen.

The untouched food.

The curtains that hadn’t been opened.

The bed I’d barely left.

It didn’t look like me.

I didn’t feel like me.

Maybe that was what frightened me most.

I had always thought I could handle things.

Even when I was scared, I found a way to keep going.

Now I couldn’t even convince myself to shower.

I took one slow step.

Then another.

My feet carried me toward the door.

I stopped halfway there.

I almost turned around.

I could go back to bed.

I could pretend I hadn’t gotten up.

I could stay here until everyone stopped knocking.

Until Reagan stopped coming.

Until the questions disappeared.

But I knew that wouldn’t make the hurt disappear.

It would only give it more time to grow.

I took another step.

The door was getting closer.

My heartbeat became louder.

I could still hear the silence on the other side.

Was he still there?

I didn’t know.

Maybe he’d already left.

Maybe I’d waited too long.

Maybe that was better.

Maybe it wasn’t.

I stopped directly in front of the door.

My hand hung at my side.

I stared at the handle.

It was such a small thing.

All I had to do was reach for it.

Open it.

See him.

But suddenly, that felt harder than anything I’d done in days.

My eyes filled again.

I didn’t wipe them this time.

A tear rolled down my cheek.

Then another.

I raised my hand slowly.

My fingers hovered over the handle.

For several seconds, I couldn’t make myself touch it.

I thought about the last three days.

The loneliness.

The tears.

The questions.

The anger.

The disappointment.

The part of me that still wanted him to care.

The part of me that wished I could stop caring altogether.

And finally, I let my fingers curl around the handle.

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