Elias Pov

The front door slams behind me harder than I mean it to. The sound echoes through the marble foyer like a gunshot, and I don’t care. My chest is caving in, ribs squeezing my lungs until every breath tastes like rust. I drop my backpack. It hits the floor with a dull thud. I don’t pick it up.

I hear him before I see him those long, measured footsteps. Vane appears at the top of the curved staircase, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He looks tired. Good. Tired men make mistakes.

“Elias?” His voice is low, cautious, the way he speaks when he thinks I might shatter. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t answer with words. I cross the distance in three strides and crash into him.

My arms lock around his waist, face buried against the crisp cotton over his chest. I let my knees buckle just enough that he has to catch me. His hands come up automatically—big, warm, steady and I feel the moment his usual distance cracks. The stiffness in his shoulders melts. One palm settles between my shoulder blades; the other cups the back of my head like I’m still twelve and having nightmares about car crashes.

I start to cry.

Not pretty crying. Ugly, choking sobs that make my whole body shake. I press my wet face harder into his shirt, soaking the fabric, marking him. “I can’t—I can’t do it anymore,” I gasp between hiccups. “School… everything… it’s too much. I just—I need something. Anything. Please.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He never does when I’m like this. He just holds me tighter, thumb brushing slow circles at the nape of my neck. I can feel his heartbeat under my cheek—steady, lying bastard that it is. It’s always been steady for everyone except me.

After a long minute he sighs, the sound heavy with something that might be guilt. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s sit down.”

He tries to guide me toward the living room. I resist, just enough to make him stop. I lift my head, eyes swollen, lashes clumped with tears. “I don’t want to sit. I want… I want a drink. With you. Just one. Please, Dad—” The word slips out on purpose, soft and broken. “I just need to stop thinking for five minutes. You always say you’ll be here when I need you. I need you now.”

His jaw flexes. I watch the war play out behind his eyes, the part of him that knows better wrestling with the part that can’t stand to see me in pain. The part that remembers every promise he ever made after the wedding. After dad died. I started looking at him the way I wasn’t supposed to.

Finally he exhales through his nose. “One drink,” he says, voice rough. “And then we talk. Properly.”

I nod like an obedient child and let him lead me to the bar in the study.

He pours two glasses of the Barolo he keeps for special occasions. Red as blood. Thick enough to coat the tongue. Perfect.

When he turns to answer his phone some late client call, of course—I move.

My hand moves quietly, Too steady. The little white pill disappears into his glass without a sound. I swirl the wine once, twice, watching the sediment dissolve like sugar in poison. My heart knocks against my ribs, loud enough that I’m sure he’ll hear it when he turns back.

He does turn back. He doesn’t notice anything. He hands me my glass, clinks his against mine without looking me in the eye. “To better days,” he mutters.

I drink. He drinks.

We sit in silence for ten minutes. Fifteen. The grandfather clock in the hall ticks like a countdown.

Then it starts.

First his fingers tighten around the stem of the glass. Then his breathing changes—short, shallow pulls of air. A flush creeps up his throat, darkens his cheekbones. He shifts in the leather chair, once, twice. Uncomfortable. Then agitated.

“Elias…” His voice is thicker than it should be. “Something’s wrong.”

I tilt my head, all innocence. “What do you mean?”

He stands abruptly. The glass tips; wine spills across the desk like an accusation. He grips the edge of the wood, knuckles white. Sweat beads along his hairline. His pupils are blown wide, black eating the hazel.

He looks at me—really looks—and I see the moment understanding slams into him.

“You…” The word is a growl, low and wounded. “You little—”

I rise slowly. Step closer. He staggers back until his spine hits the bookshelf.

“Stay away from me,” he snarls, but it’s weak. His hands are shaking. Veins stand out along his forearms, corded and pulsing. He’s fighting it so hard I can almost taste the effort.

I don’t stay away.

I step right into the cage of his arms, press my chest to his, let him feel how calm my heartbeat is compared to his frantic one. “Daddy,” I whisper, voice small and trembling, “you’re burning up. You’re shaking. Let me help you.”

He tries to push me. His palms land on my shoulders, but there’s no strength behind them. His fingers curl into my shirt instead, clutching like he’s drowning.

I guide him. One arm around his waist, the other hand on his chest, feeling the wild thud of his heart. He stumbles, legs unsteady, breath coming in harsh rasps. Every step toward the staircase is a surrender he doesn’t want to give.

By the time we reach his bedroom door he’s leaning most of his weight on me. His scent is overwhelming—sweat, cedar cologne, the sharp metallic edge of arousal he can’t control. I push the door open with my hip.

He collapses onto the mattress the second we’re close enough. I follow, climbing over him, straddling his hips. His hands fly to my waist—trying to lift me off, trying to throw me across the room, but his grip is weak, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

I lean down. Bury my face in the crook of his neck. Inhale deep. “I’m so scared,” I whisper against his skin. My voice cracks on cue. “I don’t have anyone else. Just you. You’re the only one who’s ever taken care of me.”

A sound rips out of him half groan, half curse.

Then something breaks.

His hands clamp around my hips, hard enough to bruise. In one brutal motion he flips us. My back hits the mattress. The air punches out of my lungs.

He looms above me, hair falling into his eyes, sweat dripping from his jaw. His pupils are black holes. Rage and hunger and something darker twist across his face.

“Who am I?” he rasps. The words are torn out of him. “Tell me. Right now. Who the fuck am I to you?”

I stare up at him, tears still wet on my cheeks. My lips tremble when I speak.

“You’re my Daddy.”

The last thread snaps.

He doesn’t kiss me. He devours. Teeth clash, tongue invade my mouth, hand fists in my hair and yanks my head back so he can bite down the column of my throat hard enough to mark. I arch under him, moaning, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

Clothes come off in pieces. Shirt ripped. Belt whipped free. His hands are everywhere—rough, desperate, punishing. Every time he tries to slow down, to think, I whisper something soft and broken against his ear.

“Please don’t stop. Please. I need this. I need you.”

He growls my name like it’s a curse. Then he’s inside me hard, sudden, no preparation, no mercy. The stretch burns. I cry out, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails. He doesn’t stop. Not gentle. He fucks me like he’s trying to punish us both.

I take it all.

Every brutal thrust. Every snarled curse. Every time he calls himself my stepfather like it’s supposed to stop him. I drink it down. I let the pain and the pleasure tangle until I can’t tell them apart.

When I come all over, My body locks around him, trembling, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. Not from hurt. From victory.

He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, a broken sound tearing from his throat. His forehead drops to mine. For a moment we’re both still—sweating, shaking, breathing each other’s air.

I stroke his hair. Soft. Tender. The way I’ve wanted to for years.

In my head, the truth is louder than anything he could say out loud.

I know who you are, Dad. I’ve been making love to you in my mind since the day you carried me upstairs after I pretended to fall asleep on the couch. I’ve been yours longer than you’ve ever let yourself admit.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He stays there, heavy and warm inside me, chest heaving. When he finally speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“This… this can’t happen again.”

I smile into the dark, lips brushing his jaw.

I don’t answer.

Because I already know it will.