My Stepbrother's Punishment— Part 1

THE LAST WARNING. (Ivy)

I'm dead. The party was dead. But not dead as in boring. Dead as in I was going to be dead when I got home. 

I staggered through the front door at 3:48 AM. My dress was rough. My heels in my hand, lipstick smeared across my cheek like what I don't know. I'd had five drinks, maybe six. I'd lost count.

The house was dark and silent. I was safe. Or I thought. Then the living room light clicked on. Maddox sat on the armchair by the window. His usual spot. His feet were bare, his hair was messy, like he'd been running his hands through it all night. He wasn't in his work clothes anymore–  just a black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, obviously waiting for me.

“The door was unlocked,” I said, my voice shaky. 

“Thought you'd be asleep.”

“I was,” his voice was calm. Too calm. “Until your mother called me at midnight, worried you weren't answering your phone.” 

Wincing. “I lost it. In the Uber or something. I don't know.

“You don't know.” He stood up abruptly. Walked towards me. He's tall and broad. His presence filled the room. “You don't know where your phone is, you don't know how many drinks you had, you don't know who drove you home.” 

“An Uber,” I said. “I told you.” 

His eyes raked over me, my crooked dress, my missing heels. The hickey on my neck that I'd completely forgotten about. 

“Who did that?”

Touching my neck, my fingers brushed the bruise. “I don't remember.”

“You don't remember.” He repeated my words back to me like they were poison. “You're fucking twenty years old, Ivy. And you don't remember who put their mouth on your neck. You don't remember —

“I remember you're not my father,” I snapped at him. The words hung in the air. Bitter. He didn't flinch; his expression stayed flat. But something flickered in his eyes. Dark. 

“I'm not your father, I'm your stepbrother. And your mother put your care in my hand, meaning I'm responsible for you.” 

“I don't want you to be.”

Grabbing my arm, “too bad,” he said, guiding me toward the couch. 

“Sit down.”

“I don't want to sit –”

“Sit. Down.” 

The command in his voice made my knees weak, and I sank onto the couch. He stood over me with his arms crossed. His jaw was tight with biceps bulging. 

“Now tell me what happened tonight,” he demanded.

“Nothing happened.” 

“That's none of your business,” I said, covering the hickey on my neck.

“It is, when you stumble in at three fucking AM in the morning drunk, with a stranger's mouth on your skin.”

I looked away; my eyes burned. “I'm sorry.”

“You're sorry,” he laughed. Cold and humorless. 

“You're sorry, and you'll do it again next weekend, and the weekend after that. Because you don't listen, you never listen.”

“I listen.”

“You don't.” His hand grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “So I'm going to make sure you remember this.” 

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off.

“You've been acting like a brat all summer. Sneaking out, drinking, and coming home with marks on your body you can't explain.” He traced my lower lip with his thumb.

“I'm done asking nicely.”

My heart pounded. “What are you going to do?” 

“Teach you a fucking lesson.”

He pulled me onto his lap. I landed awkwardly, my thighs straddling his own. He gripped my hips, holding me in place, causing my dress to roll up. His sweatpants were thin, and I could feel him underneath. Solid and warm. 

“This is weird,” I said. You are my stepbrother. 

“You should have thought of that before making me wait almost four hours.” He slid his hands down my thighs, squeezing. “Your mother trusted me to take care of you. And I'm going to make sure you understand the consequences. 

I tried to push away, but he didn't let me. “Tell me to stop,” he said. His voice was low and dangerous. “Say the word.” 

“Stop,” I said without thinking. My body says otherwise.

He raised his hands, signaling for me to go. I stood up to go, and I screamed as I was pulled down back on his lap.

“What are you doing? You told me to go.” 

“I did, but not anymore.” I tried to hard to stand up, but my energy doesn't compare to his. 

He kissed me. Not gentle, not soft. His mouth claimed mine like he'd been starving for years. His tongue slipped past mine, and I tasted coffee and something sharper. Hunger. 

I kissed him back, my stepbrother. The man who had been cold to me for two years, who never looked at me twice. 

His hand slid up my thigh to under my dress. His fingers brushed my panties, and I was wet. Achingly wet. 

“Look at you,” he murmured against my lips. “Saying no with your mouth, but your body says yes.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I kissed him again, harder this time. My fingers tangled in his hair, making him groan into my mouth. His other hand slid up my back, pressing me closer to him. I felt him through his sweatpants. Hard, thick, and wanting. 

He flipped me onto the couch, pinning me beneath him. His weight is heavy, warm, and perfect. 

“You broke the rules,” he said. “Now you face the consequences.” 

He hooked his hand into my panties and pulled them down, lifting my hips to help him. He tossed them aside. 

“Now spread your legs.”

I did, wide. He looked down at me. Naked, wet, and desperate.

“Say it,” he said. “Say you want this.”

“I hate you,” I breathed.

“That’s not what I asked.” 

I closed my eyes. Shame burned through me. But so did the need. The aching, empty need. 

“I want this,” I said, whispering.

“Look at me when you say it.”

I opened my eyes and met his gaze. 

“I want you,” I said. “I hate you, and I want you.” He smiled, slow and cruel.

“Good,” he said. “Because I won’t stop until I break you.”

He lowered his mouth to my neck. Bit down and sucked. Leaving a mark next to the one I didn’t remember.

“Now everyone will know you’re mine,” he said.