chapter 3

Chapter 3 – The Knife and the Sin

Ana

The night felt unusually heavy, thick and cold, almost suffocating. The old, neglected hut my father had forced me to live in smelled distinctly of damp straw and unclean corners. Rats sometimes scurried across the floor, their claws scratching audibly at the wood. Everyone within the palace walls slept warm and safe behind strong fortifications. Everyone, that is, except for me.

I sat on the edge of the broken cot, gripping the dagger so fiercely my knuckles turned stark white. The blade trembled noticeably in my hand. It wasn't because I was afraid; it was because everything inside me was shaking—my legs, my breath, my chest, and the raw power of my anger.

He was the cause of this. My father. He had taken his daughter and systematically crushed her until she became something small and entirely invisible. A shadow that no one ever noticed or cared about.

Tonight, that dynamic would utterly change.

If he truly did not want me in his life, then he would lose the single thing he truly loved: his perfect heir. His pride. His future. Then I would simply end myself, too, and force him to live with the complete ruin he himself had created. A broken bloodline. A dead son. A cursed daughter.

Let him choke on that truth.

I pulled my hood up high and silently slipped out into the darkness. The guards failed to see me. They never looked at me unless it was to bark an order or shove me aside. No one ever notices someone they genuinely believe is nothing.

The palace halls were silent. Deep shadows clung fiercely to the stone walls, and I moved through them easily. I had lived here long enough to intimately know every corner, every quiet, hidden path that led directly to Desmond’s room.

When I reached his door, my heart was pounding so hard I felt the vibrations in my fingertips. I pushed the heavy door open, slowly, carefully.

Desmond’s room was warm, smelling of cedar and the light smoke from the fireplace he always kept burning. Moonlight shone softly across the large bed where he lay asleep. His chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. His face was calm, appearing almost gentle in the dim glow.

He was afforded the luxury of sleeping peacefully. While I was bleeding, starving, and breaking.

I stepped toward him, the dagger raised high in my trembling hand. I stared intently at his face, staring at the boy who once protected me… and the man who now ignored me as if I were mere dirt on his boots.

Do it. One clean thrust. End it all.

My breath caught sharply in my chest.

Before I could move a muscle, his hand shot up and snatched my wrist. His fingers immediately clamped around me with a crushing strength that instantly froze me in place.

His eyes snapped wide open—they were a bright, piercing gold, sharp, and completely awake. Not tired. Not confused. But instantly alert. As if he had been anticipating me to make this very move.

“Seriously, Ana?” he asked. His voice was a low, rough murmur, laced with sleep, but completely steady. “You actually thought you could kill me that easily?”

My body locked up completely. I tried desperately to pull back, but he moved faster. In one swift, powerful twist, he rolled, and suddenly my back slammed hard against the soft mattress. The dagger slipped from my numb hand and clattered noisily onto the floor.

“Let go of me!” I hissed, struggling fiercely to push him away.

He caught both my wrists easily, pulling them up above my head with a single hand. His grip was firm, not painful, but strong enough to keep me absolutely still. He reached out with his other hand and pushed the dagger farther across the room, well out of my reach.

“Shh,” he breathed right near my ear. His voice softened, but it offered no comfort—it simply trapped me further. “You came into my bed with a knife. Now you’re going to stay here with something else.”

“Desmond, stop this,” I said, my breath trembling violently. “We are brother and sister—”

“Not by blood,” he cut in sharply, the words stinging. His face lowered close to mine. “Never by blood.”

His words struck me like a harsh slap. Not by blood. I knew that deep down. Everyone knew that fact. But hearing him say it, in that voice, while holding me pinned down—it made something dark and painful twist deep inside me.

He shifted one knee next to my leg, effectively pinning me steady without causing any pain. His weight wasn’t crushing me. It was controlled, calculated, like he was making absolutely sure I couldn’t run, but also ensuring I wasn’t physically afraid of being hurt.

“Don’t do this, Desmond,” I whispered, my plea desperate. “Please.”

He looked down at me, and for a fleeting moment, something complex flickered across his face—anger, yes, but also a deep confusion, something darker, more profound. Something he clearly didn’t want to confront.

His free hand moved slowly, gently brushing my arm, then deliberately slipping beneath my worn shirt. His warm palm landed against the burns Vera had inflicted earlier. The touch made me sharply flinch, but he wasn't rough. His hand was warm, almost incredibly gentle, moving carefully across the injured skin.

He wasn't hurting me physically. He wasn't mocking me, either. It felt disturbingly different—wrong, confusing, and nothing at all like the casual cruelty I had expected from him.

“Why… why are you touching me like this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He didn’t offer an answer. His thumb slowly traced one of the scars on my shoulder as if he was trying to understand a complex equation. His breath brushed my cheek. He was too close. Too warm. Too disconcertingly calm.

My chest tightened painfully.

“This is not right,” I said, shaking my head as much as his firm grip allowed. “Desmond, I came here to kill you. You should be absolutely furious—”

“Oh, I am furious,” he murmured back. “But not for the reason you think I should be.”

He lowered his head, resting his forehead lightly against mine. His breathing remained steady and controlled. Mine was a desperate series of gasps.

“You walked into my private room ready to end everything,” he said quietly. “You pushed me to a place where I cannot walk back from.”

“Let me go,” I pleaded again, but all strength had completely drained from my voice. “Please, Desmond. Stop.”

His eyes never left mine. They were fierce, burning with intensity, but not malicious or cruel.

“I’m finished pretending that you don’t matter to me,” he whispered.

His hand slowly slid along my ribs, the motion deliberate and slow, and I felt every single place his fingers touched. My heart pounded so loudly I was convinced he could hear it.

“Desmond,” I breathed out, “don’t.”

But he didn't listen to my plea.

His lips found my neck, his teeth gently grazing the frantic pulse that betrayed my panic. My skin instantly lit up beneath his mouth, a complete traitor to my mind. When his hand slid lower, tugging at the drawstring of my skirt, a terrifying mix of panic and deep heat crashed together inside me.

“Desmond, please. This is wrong.”

“Nothing about you has ever been wrong to me,” he growled out against my throat.

Clothes instantly fell away as if they had never mattered. My shirt. His shirt. My skirt. The last threads of my will to fight.

He settled heavily between my thighs, a burning hot weight. I felt him hard against me, thick and urgently insistent. My breath hitched sharply when the blunt head of his cock nudged my entrance.

“Tell me to stop, Ana,” he said, his voice ragged, his eyes desperately locked on mine. “Say the word, and I will immediately.”

I opened my mouth to speak. No sound escaped.

He pushed in, moving with agonizing slowness, stretching me open inch by painful inch. A broken, strangled sound left my throat as he filled me completely, buried deep to the hilt inside my most intimate space. My inner walls instantly clenched around him, shocked, aching, and intensely alive.

He stilled his movement, letting me fully register every powerful throb of him inside me.

“Fuck, Ana,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. “You feel completely like mine.”

Then, he moved again.

Slowly at first, drawing out and sliding back in, making me feel every single inch of him. My nails dug deeply into his muscular shoulders. I hated him. I needed him. I hated the profound feeling that I needed him.

His thrusts became deeper, harder, his hips rolling in a fierce rhythm that tore sharp moans from me that I couldn’t contain. The old bed creaked loudly beneath our bodies. My back instinctively arched up. A powerful, vicious pleasure coiled tight in my belly.

He kissed me then, swallowing every cry I made, his tongue stroking mine as if he owned my mouth too.

I shattered first, my inner muscles clenching violently around his cock, waves of white-hot heat ripping continuously through me. He followed seconds later, burying himself incredibly deep and spilling hot seed inside me with a guttural, primal sound that somehow sounded exactly like my name.

We remained tightly locked together, panting hard, the sweat cooling rapidly on our skin.

I stared blankly at the ceiling, his heavy weight still pinning me down, his cock still fully buried inside me, and felt the entire world crack open wide.

I just slept with my stepbrother.

The future Alpha.

The one person I had planned to kill.

And the absolute worst part?

I wasn’t certain I truly regretted it.