Chapter 4

I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, and heard footsteps above, Marcus moving through the house, Vanessa's car pulling into the driveway, their voices raised in argument I couldn't quite make out.

Then silence, heavy and waiting, until the basement door opened again hours later, well past midnight, and Marcus descended carrying a blanket.

"You'll freeze down here, the heating doesn't reach this level well." He spread it over me without asking permission, his movements efficient but not unkind.

My hand shot out before I could think better of it, catching his wrist as he started to pull away, my fingers wrapping around the corded muscle and tendon I remembered too well.

He froze, looking down at where we connected, then slowly raised his eyes to mine. "Sandra—"

"Don't go yet." The words tumbled out desperate and pathetic. "I hate the dark, I can't sleep in complete darkness, it's too quiet down here and I keep thinking about—"

I let the sentence die because I didn't know how to finish it, didn't know if I was thinking about Damon's rejection or my father's death or the way Marcus had made me forget everything in that alley.

"There's a lamp." He gestured to the corner, but he didn't pull his wrist free, he didn't even move away.

"It's not the same as having someone—" I stopped again, my throat tight, because asking him to stay was insane, was exactly the kind of mistake that would destroy whatever was left of my self-respect.

But my fingers tightened on his wrist anyway, and I felt his pulse jump beneath my touch.

"Please, just for a few minutes, until I fall asleep." I was begging now, shame burning through me, but the alternative was letting go and I couldn't make myself do it.

Marcus exhaled slowly, and something shifted in his expression, that careful neutrality cracking just enough to show the conflict underneath. "This is a bad idea."

"I know." I didn't release him.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the old springs groaning under him. I should have released his wrist, should have rolled away and pretended none of this was happening. Instead I used it to pull myself up, until we were face to face in the faint glow from the basement window.

“Sandra,” he said, voice low and ragged, “what the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. It was the truth. My head was a mess of grief, anger, and something hotter I didn’t want to name. “You fed me, trained me, spoke about my father like he was still worth something. I just… I need to know if any of it meant anything to you.”

His hand rose slowly, cupping my cheek, thumb stroking the skin just under my eye. The gentleness undid me more than anything rough ever could. “Everything I told you about him was true,” he said. “He did ask me to watch over you.”

“And the rest?” I leaned into his palm, heart hammering. “In the alley… before you knew who I was… was that real?”

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. “You felt how real it was.”

The air crackled, thick and heavy, the same dangerous pull from that first night dragging us together again. I knew every reason this was wrong—he was my uncle by marriage, my captor, the man holding every secret over my head.

But my body didn’t care about reasons.

“I’m going straight to hell,” he muttered, then closed the gap.

His mouth took mine slow this time, deliberate, like he was memorizing the taste of me. I sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders. He tasted like black coffee and smoke and sin, and I wanted more.

He tugged me closer, one hand fisting in my hair, the other splayed low on my back, pressing me against him. Heat flared low in my belly, spreading fast. I shifted, trying to ease the ache between my thighs, and he groaned against my lips, grip tightening.

His tongue traced the seam of my mouth; I opened for him instantly, meeting him stroke for stroke until we were both breathing hard. He tilted my head back, lips moving down my throat, teeth grazing the frantic beat of my pulse. I gasped, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders.

“We should stop,” he rasped against my skin, but his hand was already pushing under my thin tank top, calloused palm gliding up my ribs.

“We should,” I agreed breathlessly, then dragged his mouth back to mine, kissing him deeper, hungrier.

He bore me down onto the mattress, heavy and solid above me. I wrapped my legs around his hips without thinking, pulling him in until the hard ridge of his cock pressed right where I needed it. He rolled into me once, slow and deliberate, and pleasure shot through me sharp enough to make me moan into his mouth.

“Fuck, Sandra,” he growled, thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric until it stiffened, aching. “Vanessa’s right upstairs. If she hears us—”

“I don’t care,” I panted, rocking up against him, chasing that thick pressure. “Make me forget today. Just tonight. Please.”

He kissed me again, brutal and claiming, swallowing every sound I made. His hand slipped lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of my sleep shorts. I lifted my hips eagerly, helping him drag them down along with my panties, cool air hitting slick, heated skin.

He pulled back just long enough to shove his own pants open, freeing himself. I felt the hot, bare length of him slide along my folds, coating himself in how wet I already was, and we both shuddered.

Then the slow, deliberate creak of footsteps started overhead, directly above us pacing back and forth across the floorboards.

He froze, buried just at my entrance, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing ragged in the sudden silence.

The footsteps paused.

"She's awake, she's listening."

Reality crashed back like ice water, and I saw the situation clearly—me half-undressed beneath my uncle, in a locked basement, while his girlfriend prowled overhead like a predator sensing prey.

He pulled away, sitting up and dragging his hands through his hair, his face twisted with something between desire and self-loathing. "This can't happen again, do you understand? I'm trying to help you, trying to honor your father's wishes, but if we keep doing this—"

"Then why did you kiss me back?" I sat up, yanking my shirt down, anger flaring to cover the rejection. "Why did you come down here at all?"

"Because you asked me to, because I'm apparently just as fucked up as you are." He stood, moving toward the stairs, then stopped, his back rigid. "Get some sleep, Sandra, and tomorrow we pretend this never happened."

"Like we pretended the alley never happened?" Bitterness dripped from every word.

He looked back at me, and in the flickering light I saw the conflict written across his features—want and guilt and something that might have been genuine regret. "The alley was before I knew who you were, this is different, this is wrong on every possible level."

"Then delete the footage, let me leave, stop pretending you're doing this for my own good." I pulled the blanket around me like armor.

"I can't." The admission came out quiet, almost defeated. "Not yet, not until I know you're safe."

"Safe from what?" I demanded, but he was already climbing the stairs.

The door closed, and this time the lock clicked into place, final as a coffin lid.

I lay back down, my body still thrumming with unsatisfied need, my mind churning with the horrible realization that I'd just begged my uncle to touch me, had wrapped myself around him and meant every desperate second of it.

Above, Vanessa's voice rose sharp and accusatory, Marcus's response a low rumble that might have been explanation or denial.

A door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls, then silence again, thick and suffocating.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, still tasting him, still feeling the ghost of his hands on my skin, and wondered which version of Marcus was real, the cruel captor who'd blackmailed me here, the patient teacher who'd shown me healing techniques, or the man who'd just kissed me like I was the answer to a question he couldn't bring himself

to ask.

My phone buzzed with a message, and I grabbed it, hoping irrationally it might be from him.