The stepbrother I shouldn't want

Chapter 41: Chapter 41: The Rat Trap

My phone buzzed against my chemistry textbook at 7:12 a.m.

I’d fallen asleep at my desk, my cheek pressed to a page about renal function I’d been pretending to study for three hours. The screen lit up. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail. Then I remembered Detective Morales said he’d call from a blocked line.

"Hello?"

"Miss Bennett." The voice was rough, like he’d been up all night. "It’s Morales. We picked him up last night."

I sat up too fast. The textbook slid off the desk and hit the floor with a slap.

"Ezra?"

"In custody. Blackmail, extortion, possession with intent to distribute." Paper rustled on his end. "He had the photos on three devices. Cloud backups too. We’re seizing everything."

My hand went to my throat. My pulse was jumping there, fast and uneven.

"He’s really arrested."

"He’s really arrested. I need you at the precinct. Formal statement. Bring whatever you’ve got."

"Okay." My voice came out thin. "Okay. I’ll be there."

I hung up and stared at the wall. The paint above my desk was peeling in a shape I’d stared at for three years without really seeing.

My thumbs moved on their own.

Eliora: Ezra’s in custody. Morales wants a statement. I’m scared to go in alone. People will see me. People will judge me.

I waited. Thirty seconds. Then:

Lucian: I’m outside your building.

I went to the window. His Jeep was idling at the curb, exhaust curling in the cold. He was leaning against the hood, phone in hand, looking up. He hadn’t shaved. His jaw was dark with stubble. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes.

Our eyes met. He straightened. Didn’t smile. Just nodded.

I grabbed the folder of screenshots I’d printed the night before, pulled on yesterday’s jeans, and ran down the stairs.

He just pulled me into his chest, his chin on top of my head, his arms locked around my back so tight I could feel his heartbeat through his coat.

"You talked to Morales?" he asked into my hair.

"Just now." My voice was muffled against his jacket. It smelled like him and sleep and the cold. "I have to give a statement."

"I know. I called him back after you texted." He pulled back enough to look at my face. His eyes were exhausted, the skin beneath them bruised-looking, but they were clear. "You want me there?"

"Yes."

"Then I’m there."

He opened the passenger door. I climbed in. The seat was freezing through my jeans.

He got in beside me and started the engine.

"Did he say what time?"

"Now. As soon as I can get there." I buckled my seatbelt. My hands were shaking. "Lucian, what if they ask about you? About us? What if they want to know why you paid him?"

"Then you tell them the truth," he said. He pulled into traffic, his eyes on the road. "You tell them I was trying to protect you. That’s not a crime, Eliora. That’s what people do when they love someone."

"He’s going to say I asked for it. That I sent the photo myself. That I wanted money." I could hear Ezra’s voice already, slippery and sure. "He’s going to twist it."

"Let him try." Lucian’s jaw tightened. "He’s got forty-seven documented threats on your phone. Dates, times, demands. He can spin it however he wants, but the evidence is the evidence."

I hugged the folder to my chest.

"I keep thinking I should feel relieved. But I just feel sick."

"That’s normal." He reached over and took my hand, his thumb tracing slow circles on my palm. "You’ve been bracing for this for years. Your body doesn’t know how to unclench yet."

I looked at him. At the sharp line of his profile, the way his eyes kept checking the rearview mirror out of habit.

"When did you learn how to unclench?"

He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"I haven’t yet."

The precinct smelled like burnt coffee and floor cleaner that had been mopped too many times. Detective Morales met us in the lobby, a paper cup in each hand. He handed one to me. It was black, bitter, exactly what I needed.

"He’s in holding," Morales said, nodding toward a metal door I couldn’t see through. "You won’t cross paths. Separate entrances. But I wanted you to know he’s here before you go in."

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

The interview room was small. Green walls. A table with a recorder. Lucian sat in the corner, arms crossed, watching the door like he expected someone to kick it in.

I gave my statement.

At first, the words came out mechanical, rehearsed, like I was reciting symptoms for a patient I didn’t care about. Then Morales asked about the first time. The bathroom. The mirror. The camera flash.

My hands started shaking. I hid them under the table.

"He told me everyone did it," I said. My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and said it again, stronger. "He told me I was weird for saying no. That if I loved him, I would."

"Did you ever report it to campus security? A professor? Anyone?" Morales asked. His voice was gentle, not accusing.

"No." I looked down at my hands. "I was ashamed. I thought if I just paid him, he’d go away. I thought I could handle it myself."

"When did the blackmail start?"

"Twenty-one. It started small. A hundred dollars here and there. Then it kept growing." I swallowed.

Lucian shifted in his chair. I heard the leather creak.

"And the payment Mr. Smith made?" Morales glanced at Lucian. "The fifteen thousand?"

"That was him trying to end it," I said quickly. "I didn’t ask him to. I was angry when I found out. But it came from him, not me."

Morales made a note.

"We’ll need Mr. Smith to give a separate statement about that payment. Just so we have the full picture."

"Now?" Lucian asked.

"Later today is fine. Doesn’t have to be right this second."

Morales closed his folder and looked at me.

"You did good today, Miss Bennett. I know that wasn’t easy."

The officer taking notes didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. That helped. It made me feel less like a stupid girl who’d let herself be photographed and more like a witness to a crime.

When I finished, Morales walked us out. The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed overhead.

"He’ll be arraigned this afternoon," Morales said. "With the evidence you sent, plus what we found on his devices, he’s not walking soon. Could be looking at real time."

"Thank you," Lucian said. His voice was rough.

Morales looked at him. At me. At our joined hands. Something flickered in his expression, not judgment, just assessment.

"Go home. Get some sleep. Both of you look like hell."

The sun outside was blinding. I stopped on the top step and closed my eyes, letting it warm my face. Lucian’s hand stayed in mine. For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then Lucian’s phone buzzed.

He pulled it out. His jaw tightened.

"What?" I asked.

He turned the screen toward me.

A text. No name, just a number.

End of week. 20k. Don’t be late.

My stomach dropped.

"They’re still collecting."

"This is the payment we agreed on," Lucian said. He pocketed the phone and looked at me straight. No hiding. "The new terms. Twenty thousand, not two hundred. It’s manageable. I’m going to pay them today."

I stared at him.

"Where did you get that kind of money?"

"Company bonus. I closed the Hendricks account last week. My father put it through before everything went to hell." He said it simply, like he was reading off a grocery list. "It’s not stolen. It’s mine. And it covers this month clean."

I stared at him.

"You’re not hiding this from me."

"I told you. No more walls." He reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold. "I’m going to meet them. Hand it over. Then we have breathing room."

"How much breathing room? One month? Two?"

"One month at a time." His voice was steady. "That’s how this works, Eliora. I pay, they stay away from the Carters. From you. From everyone. That’s the deal."

I shook my head.

"I hate this. I hate that you have to shake hands with monsters so they don’t burn down our lives."

"I hate it too." He cupped my face, his palms rough against my cheeks. "But right now, it’s what I have. And I’m using every legitimate dollar I have to keep you safe."

I covered his hands with mine.

"I want to come with you."

"No." His voice was firm, but not cruel. "I don’t want them seeing you with me. If they think you’re involved, if they think you matter to me..." He stopped. His throat moved. "They use people you care about. I can’t let them have your face."

"So I just sit somewhere and wait? Again?"

"Yes." He kissed my forehead. "Because if something goes wrong, I need to know you’re somewhere safe. Not in a surveillance van. Not down the street. Somewhere they can’t find you."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to stand next to him and make him look them in the eye and say I was his. But I saw the fear in his eyes, real and raw, and I understood it wasn’t about control. It was about keeping me alive.

"Okay," I whispered.

He kissed my forehead again.

"I’ll be back in two hours."

"I’ll pray for you."

He made a sound that was almost a laugh, broken at the edges.

"Pray I don’t punch anyone."

He walked me to the Jeep and drove me back to my dorm. The campus was waking up, students with backpacks and coffee cups streaming toward lecture halls. He pulled up to the north entrance and put the car in park.

"Go to class," he said. "Study. Be normal. When you get out, I’ll be done."

"Lucian." I grabbed his hand before he could reach for the gearshift. "If you’re not back in two hours, I’m calling Morales."

"I’ll be back."

"You’d better be."

I climbed out. The door shut behind me with a solid thunk. I stood on the curb and watched him pull away, the Jeep merging into traffic, becoming just another vehicle, just another Tuesday morning.

I walked into my building. Up three flights. Down the hall to my room. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The space was small. A desk. A narrow bed. Textbooks stacked on every surface.

I sat down in my desk chair and opened the renal function textbook to the page I’d fallen asleep on.

I read the same paragraph four times.

My phone sat face-up on the desk.

I stared at it.

Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand two hundred seconds.

I picked up a highlighter and tried to take notes. The yellow marker bled into the paper, turning the words into a blur.

I set it down.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Outside, I could hear someone laughing in the hallway, a door slamming, the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner.

I reached for my phone and checked the time.

7:48 a.m.

He wouldn’t even be there yet.

I put the phone down and waited.

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