The stepbrother I shouldn't want

Chapter 26: Chapter 26: Vulnerable Night

We drove until the city lights swallowed the warehouse behind us.

Lucian didn’t speak. His hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles split open. Blood smeared the leather. The rear window was cracked from the gunshot, spiderwebs of glass catching the streetlights.

"You’re bleeding," I said.

"It’s nothing."

"Lucian."

He looked at me then. His eyes were red. His face was gray. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"You’re sure?"

"I’m sure."

He nodded and turned back to the road. But his hands shook worse now. The Jeep swerved slightly. He corrected it. Swerved again.

"Pull over," I said.

"We need to get inside. Somewhere they don’t know."

"You’re going to crash. Pull over."

He didn’t. He drove to my apartment. He parked in the alley, turned off the engine, and sat there, staring at the steering wheel.

I touched his shoulder. He flinched.

"Hey," I whispered. "We’re here."

He didn’t move.

I got out, walked around to his side, and opened his door. "Come on."

He looked up at me. His face was blank. "I can’t feel my legs."

"Then I’ll help you."

I took his arm. He leaned on me. He was heavier than I expected. We climbed the stairs slowly. I fumbled with the keys. My hands were shaking too.

Inside, I locked all three deadbolts and turned around.

Lucian stood in the middle of my living room. He looked lost. His shirt was torn at the shoulder. The cut above his eyebrow was still bleeding, a thin line of red running down to his jaw.

"Sit down," I said.

He didn’t.

"Lucian, please."

He looked at my couch like he’d never seen one before. Then he shook his head. "If I sit down, I’ll feel it. I can’t feel it yet. Not while you’re still..."

"While I’m still what?"

"While you’re still in danger because of me." His voice cracked. He turned away. "While I almost got you killed tonight. While everything I touch turns into this."

He gestured at himself. At the blood. At the shaking.

I walked to him. I stood in front of him and made him look at me.

"You didn’t almost get me killed. You saved me."

"I put you there."

"No. They put me there. You got me out." I took his hands. They were ice cold. "Lucian, look at me."

He did. His eyes were wet. His mouth opened, then twisted. His face crumpled.

He started to cry.

Not quiet tears. Big, ugly sobs that bent him forward. His hands came up to cover his face. His shoulders shook so hard I thought his bones would crack.

I caught him.

His weight fell into me. I staggered back against the wall and held him while he broke apart. He cried into my neck. His tears burned my skin. His fingers gripped my sweater like he was falling off a cliff.

"I’m sorry," he gasped. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

"Shh." I held his head. "It’s okay."

"It’s not okay." His voice was raw, torn up from his throat. "I stole from my father. I sold my mother’s rings. I lied to you. I lied to everyone. And tonight I thought..." He broke off, sobbing harder. "I thought they were going to keep you. And I couldn’t..." He couldn’t finish.

I held him tighter. I felt his grief shaking through both of us. I didn’t tell him to be strong. I didn’t tell him it would be fine. I just held him and let him cry until the sobs turned into hiccups, then shaky breaths, then silence.

⸻

After a long time, he pulled back. His face was swollen. His eyes were red. He looked young. Younger than I’d ever seen him.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered.

"You didn’t."

"When I saw you in that chair. When he said he was keeping you." He wiped his face with his sleeve. "I thought, this is it. This is the thing I was always afraid of. Not them hurting me. Them taking you because of me."

I touched his cheek. "I’m here."

He turned his face into my palm. His eyes closed.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because I love you."

His eyes opened. He stared at me.

"I love you," I said again. "Not the man who pays debts. Not the version who hides. You. The man who cried in my arms just now. The man who sat across from me in a library when he was nine years old and let someone choose him."

I wiped a tear from his jaw with my thumb. "I see you, Lucian. All of you. And I’m still here."

He made a broken, wet sound. Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t like before. Not desperate. Not hungry. Soft. Slow. His lips tasted like salt and blood and relief. His hands framed my face gently, like I was something fragile. He kissed me like he was learning how to breathe again.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

"I love you too," he whispered.

⸻

I led him to my bedroom. The apartment was small. The bed was narrow. But it was safe. I sat him on the edge, found my first aid kit, and cleaned the cut on his eyebrow. He winced but didn’t move away. He just watched me, his eyes dark and exhausted and full of something I couldn’t name.

Then I cleaned his split knuckles. The antiseptic must have stung, but he didn’t make a sound. He just kept looking at me.

"Lie down," I said.

He did. He stretched out on top of the covers, still in his clothes. I climbed in beside him. I pulled the blanket over us and turned off the lamp.

The dark was complete. I could hear his breathing, ragged at first, then slower. His arm came around my waist. He pulled me against him, chest to chest, his face in my hair.

"Don’t let go," he whispered.

"I won’t."

He held me tighter. His heart hammered against my ribs, then gradually slowed. His body relaxed by degrees, muscle by muscle, like a man finally setting down a weight he’d carried for years.

Outside, the city hummed. The syndicate was still out there. The debt was still real. Tomorrow would bring new problems.

But in that narrow bed, with his breath evening out against my neck and his tears drying on my shoulder, Lucian Smith fell asleep.

And for the first time in three years, he didn’t run.

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