Stepbrother's Lust: A Forbidden Mafia Romance

Rose’s POV

I stayed completely still in Reagan’s arms.

For a few seconds, I honestly didn’t know what to do. His arms were around me, his body warm against my back, and one of his hands rested lightly against my stomach. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing behind me, and somehow that made me even more aware of how close we were.

It should’ve made me feel better.

Maybe it did.

Just a little.

And that was annoying enough on its own.

I was still angry with him. I was still hurt. Nothing about the last few minutes had magically erased the things I’d said to him or the things he’d finally admitted. He’d apologized, yes, but an apology didn’t automatically fix everything.

I hadn’t spent three days crying because I wanted one simple apology.

I’d spent three days crying because I’d felt ignored, confused, scared, and hurt, and because I hadn’t known what to do with all of it.

So no.

I wasn’t suddenly fine just because Reagan had decided to hold me.

But his arms were still around me.

And, for some reason, I didn’t immediately hate it.

That bothered me too.

I shifted, trying to pull away.

Reagan’s arms tightened slightly.

"Rose."

"Let go."

My voice came out rougher than I intended.

He didn’t answer immediately.

I pushed lightly against his arms.

"I said let go."

This time, he loosened his hold. I felt the pressure around me disappear, and I was already stepping forward when his hand caught mine.

I stopped.

Then I turned toward him.

"What?"

He just looked at me.

His expression was different now. He wasn’t angry anymore. He wasn’t even annoyed.

He just looked... quiet.

Like he was thinking too hard about something he couldn’t figure out.

I hated that I could never quite tell what was going on in his head.

I pulled my hand back.

"I don’t want you hugging me."

"You’re still crying."

"So?"

His eyebrows pulled together slightly.

"So I thought you needed it."

I scoffed.

"You don’t get to decide what I need."

His jaw tightened.

For a second, I thought he was going to argue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer.

I instinctively took a small step back.

He stopped.

We stared at each other.

My heart was still beating too fast from everything we’d just talked about, and now I was painfully aware of how close he was again.

I didn’t like how easily he could make me nervous without even saying anything.

His eyes dropped briefly to my lips.

My breath caught.

No.

Absolutely not.

I knew that look.

"Reagan..."

He didn’t answer.

He leaned closer.

My eyes widened.

Was he seriously about to—

Grrrrrrr.

The sound echoed through the room.

I froze.

Reagan froze too.

For one horrible second, neither of us moved.

Then his eyes slowly dropped toward my stomach.

I looked down.

Oh my God.

No.

No, no, no.

My face immediately went hot.

I looked back at him.

He was staring at me.

His lips twitched.

"Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You were about to."

"I wasn’t."

"You were."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

I covered my face with both hands.

"Shut up."

His chuckle grew a little louder.

"Rose—"

"Shut. Up."

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

I’d spent three days crying, refusing to eat, refusing to leave my room, and somehow the thing that had finally made me want to disappear wasn’t any of that.

It was my stomach growling in front of Reagan.

Of course.

Because apparently humiliation was what I needed to finish off my emotional breakdown.

I lowered my hands and glared at him.

He was still trying not to smile.

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

I stared at him.

He immediately raised both hands.

"All right."

He took a small step back.

"I didn’t say anything."

"You laughed."

"A little."

"You’re so annoying."

He nodded with a straight face.

"Noted."

I crossed my arms and stared at him.

He stared back for a second before his eyes moved toward the untouched food sitting on the table.

"Go eat."

I blinked.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I don’t want to."

"You haven’t eaten properly."

"I know."

"Then eat."

I stared at him.

After everything we’d just talked about, after everything I’d finally managed to say to him, this was what he’d decided to focus on?

Food?

I rolled my eyes.

"You really don’t know how to talk to people."

"I know how to talk."

"That’s debatable."

The corner of his mouth twitched again.

I immediately pointed toward the door.

"Leave."

He looked at me.

"Rose—"

"Leave my room."

He sighed.

"Fine."

He walked toward the door.

I watched him go, still annoyed despite the fact that some of the tension inside me had eased.

Before opening it, he looked back at me.

"Eat something."

I narrowed my eyes.

"Go."

He raised one hand in surrender and stepped out.

The door closed behind him.

I stood there for a moment, staring at it.

Then I covered my face again.

"Oh my God."

I groaned quietly.

"That was so embarrassing."

I turned away from the door and walked toward the mirror, still muttering under my breath.

"Of all things."

I stopped in front of it.

Then I looked up.

I immediately regretted it.

"Jesus."

I stared at my reflection.

My hair was a complete mess. My eyes were swollen and red, my face looked exhausted, and there were faint marks where tears had dried on my cheeks.

I looked terrible.

Actually, terrible was being generous.

I leaned closer to the mirror.

"Damn."

I touched underneath one eye.

"I look like I’d been thrown stones at for stealing bread."

I stared at myself for another second.

"And I haven’t even stolen anything."

I sighed.

The joke wasn’t even funny.

Still, hearing myself say it made me feel a tiny bit less miserable.

Tiny.

I looked at my reflection again.

My hair was sticking out in places I’d never even known hair could stick out. My face looked dull, my eyes looked like I’d spent the night crying instead of sleeping, and I could still see the faint puffiness around them.

I looked like exactly what I was.

Someone who had spent too much time in bed feeling sorry for herself.

I couldn’t stay like this.

Not because Reagan had told me to eat.

Not because my mother was worried.

I just didn’t want to look like this anymore.

I was tired of feeling like this too.

Three days of hiding in my room had clearly done nothing except make me feel worse.

I turned toward the bathroom.

"Okay."

I pointed at myself in the mirror.

"You’re getting up."

I paused.

Then shook my head.

"Actually getting up."

I walked into the bathroom before I could change my mind.

The shower helped.

Not in some magical way.

It didn’t suddenly fix everything.

It didn’t erase the anger I still had toward Reagan, and it didn’t make the things he’d done suddenly feel okay.

But the warm water felt good.

It ran over my hair and down my face, washing away the dried tears and some of the heaviness I’d been carrying for the last few days.

I stood beneath it longer than I needed to.

For a while, I didn’t think about anything.

I just stood there.

Eventually, I washed my hair, scrubbed my skin, and stayed under the water until I finally felt a little more awake.

My thoughts still wandered occasionally.

To Reagan.

To the kisses.

To everything I’d said to him.

To the way he’d held me.

And, unfortunately, to the way he’d looked at me right before my stomach decided to humiliate me.

I groaned quietly.

"Why?"

I rinsed the shampoo from my hair.

"Why me?"

There was no answer, obviously.

I stayed beneath the water for another moment before finally turning it off.

When I stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged.

I wiped a small section clear with my palm.

I still looked tired.

But at least I looked human again.

That was progress.

I dried myself, changed into clean clothes, and spent far too long trying to figure out what to do with my hair.

I brushed it.

It looked better.

Then it somehow looked worse.

I brushed it again.

Eventually, I gave up and settled for something simple.

Good enough.

I moisturized my face, fixed myself up as best I could, and stared at myself again.

Better.

Not amazing.

But better.

At least I didn’t look like I’d been crying into the same pillow for three days.

I looked toward the bed.

The blankets were still messy.

The food was still there.

I didn’t want to look at it.

My stomach growled again.

I closed my eyes.

"Fine."

I walked over and picked up the plate.

It was cold by now, but I ate anyway.

Slowly at first.

The first few bites felt strange. My stomach hadn’t had much food in days, and I wasn’t sure whether I was actually hungry or simply being forced to remember that food existed.

Then I took another bite.

And another.

A few minutes later, I realized just how hungry I actually was.

I stopped for a second and stared at the plate.

"Seriously?"

Apparently, my body had been waiting patiently for me to stop being dramatic.

I continued eating.

By the time I finished, the plate was empty.

I leaned back slightly and let out a quiet breath.

I hated admitting it, but Reagan had been right.

I needed to eat.

I didn’t like that.

Not even a little.

But I couldn’t deny it.

I put the empty plate aside and looked around the room.

For the first time in three days, it didn’t feel like a place I needed to hide in.

The room was still the same.

The curtains were still closed.

The blankets were still messy.

There were still clothes lying around.

Nothing had really changed.

Except me.

Maybe not completely.

But enough.

I took a deep breath.

Then I left.

The hallway was quiet.

I walked downstairs slowly, one hand sliding along the railing.

The farther I got from my room, the stranger it felt.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d isolated myself until I was actually leaving it.

Three days.

Three entire days of barely speaking to anyone.

Three days of staying in bed, crying, sleeping, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about things until my head hurt.

I didn’t want to do that again.

At least not for three days.

When I reached the dining room, I slowed.

Then stopped.

Of course.

Reagan was there.

He was already sitting at the table, looking through something on his phone.

I immediately considered turning around.

No.

Absolutely not.

I wasn’t ready to deal with him again.

Especially after what had happened upstairs.

I could still remember the way he’d leaned toward me.

And then my stomach had practically announced its existence to the entire room.

My face heated just thinking about it.

I started turning around.

Maybe I could eat somewhere else.

Maybe I could just go back upstairs and pretend I hadn’t seen him.

Maybe—

My stomach practically growled at the memory again.

I shook my head.

No.

I wasn’t giving him another opportunity to laugh at me.

I took one step away.

Then another.

Something slammed into my stomach.

"Oof!"

I stumbled backward, immediately looking down.

Two small arms were wrapped around me.

I blinked.

For a second, I didn’t understand what had happened.

Then I recognized the familiar mop-white hair.

My eyes widened.

"Sierra...?"

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