All Chapters of Claimed By My Stepbrother : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

I stared at the ceiling for a few more seconds, then groaned and forced myself up from the bed. Sitting in a puddle of my own exhaustion wasn’t going to magically solve any of the fifty-seven issues life had tossed into my lap lately. I figured I might as well try on the bridesmaid dress, just to see if it still fit. I shuffled toward the wardrobe, tugging the doors open like they weighed more than my dignity. There it was—hanging prettily in the back, like a sad little ghost of things I never asked for. It was one of those nice shade of color that screamed ‘you’ll look lovely standing next to someone else’s happy ending.’ I pulled it out and held it against me for a moment, squinting into the mirror. Then I decided screw it and slipped out of my clothes, stepping into the dress. I wriggled it up and over my hips, then tugged the straps into place. And... okay. It was a little loose. Actually, more than a little. The fabric hung around my ribs like it was trying to sociall

I sat there for a minute, frozen. Completely still except for the way my chest was rising and falling like I had just run ten miles. My skin felt too tight. Like I wasn’t even in my own body anymore. The moonlight slashed across her bed, lighting up the curve of her shoulder, her soft cheek pressed into the pillow, those lashes like feathers against her skin. The edge of my shirt slid a little lower on her collarbone, exposing this little triangle of skin that made my brain stop functioning. My fingers hovered just above her skin. Don’t. But god, I wanted to. I didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want her waking up and seeing this side of me. The side that wanted to tear the whole world apart just so I could have her. Just so I could keep her. But she was right there. So soft. So close. “God!” I breathed out heavily. “The things you do to me Camila,” I said through clenched teeth. “And you don't even fucking know.” Didn’t know how I laid in bed at night, fists clenched,

I stood in the center of my room like a statue, fists clenched, my heart beating so loud I could hear it in my ears. I needed her. So I did what I always did when it got this bad. I went to the wardrobe. It was like some sick little ritual by now. Always the same steps. Open the door. Slide aside the jackets. Reach behind the stack of old clothes. Pull out the box. The box with her in it. I dropped to my knees in front of it, breathing hard. My fingers trembled as they touched the lid. I hadn’t even opened it yet, but my body was already reacting like she was right in front of me. My hands shook harder as I peeled the lid off. And there they were. Camila’s pajamas. Soft, pink, silky. Folded with so much care you’d think they were worth more than gold. In my head, they were. They were more valuable than anything I owned. Because she wore them. They had touched her skin. Clung to her curves. Soaked up the heat of her body. I reached out and ran my fingers over

After breakfast, things started winding down in that awkward domestic way I never quite liked. Camila quietly stood up from the table, carrying her plate to the sink like a good girl. Then, without saying much—no glance, no snide comment—she padded back upstairs to her room. Still wearing my shirt. My eyes followed her the whole way, heart drumming slow and heavy. Greg kissed Camila’s mom on the cheek, murmured something about having “something to take care of,” and slipped out of the house like he wasn’t irritated as hell by me. I didn't miss the way his jaw clenched when he looked back at me on his way out. Whatever. I waited until I heard the front door click shut before I stood up and made my way into the kitchen. I wasn’t particularly thirsty, but I needed something cold. Something to distract me from the memory of Camila’s bare thighs brushing the hem of my shirt. The ache hadn’t gone away. It just simmered under my skin, low and stubborn. I pulled open the fridge, gra

Still in a bit of a haze, I stood in the laundry room, arms crossed as the washer thudded to life like it was struggling with the weight of my anxiety. My thoughts were spiraling—someone had definitely been in my room. Not just passing through. They had touched my clothes. Done God knows what to them. And they might still be here. Under this same roof. Was it one of the staffs? I stared at the spinning machine, jaw clenched. My skin crawled a little, like the feeling you get when someone’s watching you. I hated it. Hated the vulnerability of it. Hated that I couldn’t shake the thought of how long it had been happening. Days? Weeks? Then— A hand landed on my shoulder. I jumped like the damn machine shocked me. My heart slammed into my chest as I spun around and—“Jesus Christ, Ethan!” He blinked, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he said quickly, holding his hands up like I had a weapon in mine. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” “Don’t sneak up on people, psycho!” I snapped, one h