Claiming My Bratty Stepdaughter(1)

That night in the motel I lay on the big bed, the sheets twisted beneath me. Richard was above me, his weight heavy and warm. Sweat covered his chest. His large hands held my thighs, keeping me steady as he moved.

“Emma,” he said, his voice rough and low. He moved faster. The small room filled with the sound of our breathing. Soft sounds slipped out of me even though I tried to stay silent.

Tears stung my eyes. My back arched. Something sharp and overwhelming moved through me as he kept going. Richard groaned and went still, finishing with a low, broken sound.

For a moment the only sound was our heavy breathing. Then reality hit me again. I pushed at his chest, but he didn’t move. His eyes looked down at me with dark satisfaction. I can’t believe this is my life now.

My name is Emma Brooke. I wasn’t always the type that could be used whenever he pleases, until the day I was forced on a road trip with Richard, my stepfather.

I stared at my phone. My mom’s text had come through at 6:47 AM, before I had taken breakfast.

Work emergency. Client backed out. Have to fly to Seattle Today. So sorry, baby. Next year for sure.

“So sorry.” Like it mattered.

Richard knocked on my door at 7:15. I didn’t answer. He knocked again. Harder. “Emma. We’re still going.”

“She’s not coming. Trip’s off.” The door opened. Richard filled the frame, dressed, jaw tight. “I didn’t buy the cabin for your mother alone. I bought it for us all.”

“Yeah, well, she’s gone. So.” I pulled my blanket over my head.

“Pack a bag. We’re leaving in an hour.” I didn’t move. The door closed.

The car ride started in silence. Richard drove. I sat in the passenger seat with my phone plugged into the aux, playing a song as an excuse to face the window. The highway stretched flat and gray. Mile markers disappeared. We were on the road before either of us spoke.

“You could say thank you,” Richard said. His hands were steady on the wheel. Large hands. The kind that knew how to fix things. I hated that I noticed.

“For what? Kidnapping me?”

“For trying. Your mother cancels. Again. I still show up. That’s what I do.”

“No one asked you to.”

“No. You didn’t.” He changed lanes. “You’re not my father, Richard.” He didn’t respond. I turned up the music. The silence was thick, crowded with things neither of us was saying. Richard’s hands shifted on the wheel, grip tightening on turns. It started raining. We drove through it. By the time we stopped for gas, my jaw ached.

“Bathroom’s inside,” Richard said, pulling up to the pump. “Get whatever you need. We’re not stopping again until dark.”

I got out without answering. The gas station smelled like burnt coffee and diesel. Fluorescent lights turned everything white. In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognized the girl looking back. Sharp eyes. Thin lips. Angry.

I splashed cold water on my face. It didn’t help.

When I came back out, Richard was leaning against the car with a coffee in each hand. He had bought me one. Black, no sugar… the way I took it. It made me furious. The attention, the responsibility.

I took it anyway and didn’t say anything.

The coffee was still hot. I held it between my palms, feeling the warmth seep into my skin as we got back on the highway. I settled into the passenger seat with my phone and my coffee and my refusal to look at him. Richard pulled back onto the road. The rain had stopped.

We drove for hours. The landscape shifted… trees got denser, the mountains closer. By the time we reached the motel, it was dark. A single-story building with a flickering neon sign and a parking lot that smelled like old cigarette smoke and rain.

“Only one room left,” the desk clerk said, not looking up. Richard didn’t hesitate. He paid cash.

The motel room was small. Two beds pushed close together, a bathroom door hanging slightly open, a window with thick curtains that didn’t quite close all the way. Richard set the bags down and turned to me.

“Shower,” he said. Not a request.

I went. The water was hot. I stood under it long enough that the mirror fogged completely, and when I came out, wrapped in a towel, Richard was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting.

He didn’t speak. He just looked at me. His jaw was tight. His hands were clenched.

My towel slipped lower.