Chapter Four — Midnight Surrender

Elara's POV

The note burned in my hand like a dirty secret, his handwriting sharp and demanding. "Midnight. Pool house. Or I will come for you." I crumpled it, shoving it under my pillow, but the words stuck in my head, twisting with the ache between my legs from his fingers in the kitchen earlier. 

He'd left me on the edge, panting like a whore, my body begging for release while Mom's car pulled up. Now, hours later, the house settled into evening quiet, but my mind raced filthy. His jealousy over Jake's text— "Flirting with boys? After I had you first?" —made my stomach flip. Possessive, dark. 

And that file in his room: "rival syndicate," "leverage on Victor." What was he planning? Dread mixed with want, a slow burn that had me wet and worried.

Dinner was family hell. Mom set the table with pasta and salad, chattering about her day shopping. Victor grumbled about work delays, his eyes flicking to Damien now and then, like he sensed the shadows. Damien sat across from me, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing strong forearms that I remembered gripping as he thrust into me that first night. 

His gray eyes caught mine often, holding too long, stripping me with a look. Under the table, his foot traced my calf slowly, deliberate, sending heat straight to my core.

"Pass the bread, Elara?" Mom asked, snapping me out.

I handed it over, fingers shaking slightly. Damien's smirk was tiny, hidden from them, but it screamed knowledge—of how he'd deflowered me, how my virgin pussy had clenched around his cock like it was home.

"So, Damien," Victor said, forking pasta. "First day at the branch? How's it shaping up?"

Damien leaned back, casual power in every move. "Smooth so far. Met the team, reviewed some files. Lots of potential." His voice was even, but his gaze slid to me, dark promise in it. 

"Found a few interesting leverage points. Things that could... change everything."

Victor's fork paused. "Leverage? On what?"

"Just business talk, Dad." Damien smiled cold. "Nothing to worry about yet."

Mom laughed nervously, changing the subject to weekend plans. I stayed quiet, picking at my food, my thighs clenched under the skirt. Every word from him felt like a tease, his foot now higher, brushing my knee. Heat built slowly, that ache flaring. I wanted to hate him, this CEO stepbrother digging into secrets that could ruin us, but my body remembered too well—his careful dominance when he realized I was a virgin, slowing to make me beg, then owning me completely.

After dinner, I helped clear plates, avoiding his help when he stacked dishes close, his arm brushing mine. "You smell good," he whispered low, breath hot in my ear. "Like you're ready for me again."

I jerked away, heart pounding. "Fuck off," I hissed quiet, but my nipples hardened, traitors.

He chuckled softly, following me to the sink. Mom and Victor moved to the living room for TV, leaving us alone for a beat. He pressed behind me, body heat searing, his hardness nudging my ass through clothes. "Midnight," he murmured. "Don't make me chase you."

I spun, shoving a plate at him. "Or what? You'll tell them about the lounge? Ruin everything?"

His eyes darkened, hand catching my wrist gentle but firm. "I don't ruin what's mine, Elara. I claim it." He released me slow, fingers trailing my skin, leaving goosebumps. Then he walked out, leaving me breathless, sink water running forgotten.

The evening dragged on. I hid in my room, homework spread but ignored. Texts from Jake popped up— "Study tomorrow? Your place?" —innocent, but guilt hit. Damien's jealousy burned in my mind, making me delete the reply unsent. Instead, I paced, clock ticking toward eleven. The house quieted—Mom and Victor's door shut, lights off. 

Dread built slowly, a coil in my gut. What did he want? To fuck me in the pool house? Expose Victor's secrets? Use me as leverage? But the want simmered too, filthy memories of his cock filling me, his groans when I came around him.

Eleven thirty. I changed into leggings and a tank, no bra, telling myself it was for comfort. Sneaked downstairs, heart in my throat. The back door creaked soft; cool night air hit my skin, pool lights glowing dim. The pool house loomed, a small building with lounge chairs and a shower, door ajar. I slipped in, darkness thick, scent of chlorine and him—spice, sweat.

"You're late," his voice came from the shadows, low and rough.

I jumped, eyes adjusting. He sat on a chair, shirt unbuttoned halfway, glass of something dark in hand. Whiskey, probably. His gray eyes raked over me, hungry. "Thought I'd have to come drag you from bed."

"I shouldn't be here," I said, voice shaky, staying by the door. "This is wrong. You're my stepbrother."

He set the glass down, stood slow, closing the distance. Not touching, but close enough his heat wrapped me. "Wrong? You dripped for me in the car today. Begged harder in the kitchen." 

His finger traced my arm light, barely there, but it sent fire through me.

I swallowed, backing a step, but the door stopped me. "That file in your room—what are you doing? Leverage on Victor? Some syndicate shit?"

He paused, eyes narrowing. Slow burn tension thickened the air, his breath steady while mine raced. "Curious little stepsis. Snooping already?" He leaned in, lips near my ear. 

"Victor's got debts. Dirty ones. I'm here to clean the house... or burn it down."

Fear spiked, but so did the ache. "You'd ruin us? For what?"

His hand cupped my chin, tilting my face up. Gentle, but dominant. "Not ruin. Control." 

His thumb brushed my lips, parting them slightly. "Like I control you. That virgin pussy I took—it's mine now. No flirting with boys like Jake."

Jealousy laced his voice, dark romance in the threat. I gasped softly, body leaning in despite myself. "You're jealous? Of a study date?"

He growled low, pressing closer, his hardness against my belly. "Jealous? I own you, Elara. Say it."

The words hung, my core throbbing, anticipation building to a fever. But I held back, bold streak fighting. "No. I won't."

His eyes flashed dangerously, hand sliding to my neck, thumb on my pulse. "You will. Before the night's over." Then he kissed me slowly, tongue teasing entry, building heat without rush.

I melted a bit, hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound. Pull away? Push harder? The burn was torture, delicious.

But a noise outside—footsteps? We froze.

"Someone's coming," I whispered, panic rising.

He pulled back, listening. "Fuck." His voice turned cold, possessive. "Hide. Now."

The door creaked open, light spilling in. Victor's voice cut the night: "Damien? You out here?"

My heart stopped. Caught already?