Lahat ng Kabanata ng Tamed By The Devil Stepbrother : Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

Nolan’s POV The art studio smelled like turpentine and fresh graphite, that sharp, chemical tang that always clung to your skin long after you left. It was one of those cavernous rooms in the old wing of the university, with exposed brick walls scarred by decades of spills and half-hearted renovations, and tall windows that let in the kind of November light that felt more like a judgment than a gift—pale and unforgiving, slicing across the scuffed hardwood floors in harsh angles. Dust motes danced in the beams like lazy fireflies, pretending they were part of the creative process. Around the room, a dozen or so students hunched over their easels and tables, lost in that self-absorbed haze of "artistic flow." Pencils scratched faintly against paper, a distant cough echoed off the rafters, and somewhere in the corner, a girl with purple-streaked hair muttered curses at her oil paints. It was all so pretentiously serene, like the silence of a library crossed with the hush before a sto

Nolan's POV Clara’s voice wavered—soft, careful, the way someone speaks when they’re trying to calm a storm but don’t know which direction it’s blowing. She stood there between us like a thin wall, flimsy but determined, her smock streaked with charcoal, her fingers still trembling from the pressure of gripping too hard.Helping.That word again.My jaw ticked.Alex stepped slightly in front of her, protective in a way that made something violent twist in my chest. He wasn’t even aware of it—just a reflex, the instinct of someone who wasn’t used to danger but still wanted to look like a decent human being.“Look,” Alex said, gentler now, palms up like he thought he needed to ease me, “I’m not trying to upset anything. Clara seemed stressed, so I just—”“And what makes you think that’s your job?” I asked quietly.His mouth snapped shut.Clara’s hand hovered closer, almost brushing my arm, then dropped. She knew better. Touching me here, in front of people, would shatter whatever ficti

Nolan's POV "Fair?" The word tasted bitter, like ash on my tongue, evoking the unfairness of it all: the way she'd stumbled into my life at that dingy gallery opening two years ago, wide-eyed and charcoal-dusted, sketching strangers while I sketched her from across the room. How I'd chased her then, relentless, until she let me in—past the walls, into the mess of her ambitions and anxieties. And now this boy, with his therapy-speak and his easy empathy, threatening to unravel it all with a single "you okay?" I stepped closer, crowding her against the counter, the edge biting into her hip through the thin fabric of her jeans. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind, to ground her in the heat of me, the solid wall of my chest inches from hers. "Since when have we played by fair, Clara? You think Alex sees the girl who wakes up gasping at 4 a.m., convinced the ground's swallowed her whole? Sheets twisted around your ankles like ropes, sweat soaking through to the mattress, and you claw

Nolan's POV “You're not wasting anything,” I said now, fierce and low, my free hand coming up to cradle her face, thumb sweeping away the tear's remnants. “Your talent's a weapon, Clara. Sharp enough to cut through the bullshit, to carve out beauty from the wreckage. And me? I'm just the fool who gets to watch you wield it.”She leaned into my palm, eyes fluttering closed for a beat, a soft hum escaping her throat. “Flattery now? Careful, Nolan. I might start thinking you're going soft on me.”“Never soft,” I murmured, my lips brushing her temple, the salt of her skin lingering on my tongue. “Just... recalibrating. Learning to hold the leash looser.”Her laughter bubbled up then—genuine, unrestrained, the sound like sunlight fracturing through clouds. It lit something in me, warm and expansive, chasing away the last shadows of the afternoon's jealousy. “Leash? God, you're such a caveman sometimes. But fine—recalibrate away. Just promise me one thing in return.”My heart stuttered at

Nolan's POV "Not yelling," I corrected mildly, though the memory of the studio confrontation twisted in my gut like a half-healed scar. Alex's earnest eyes, Clara's flinch, the way I'd leaned in too close, voice dipped into that dangerous timbre. "More like... a firm discussion.""Uh-huh." She drew out the syllables, skeptical but amused, and squeezed my hand once before letting go—just long enough to adjust the strap of her messenger bag, which had slipped down her shoulder, heavy with sketchbooks and half-empty paint tubes. The motion pulled her sweater taut across her collarbone, revealing the edge of that fading bruise I'd noticed earlier, and guilt flickered through me, sharp and unbidden. Not from the mark itself—I'd apologized a dozen times, traced it with kisses until she'd laughed and called me a poet—but from the echo of what it represented: my hands, too urgent, too possessive, even in the heat of want.I caught her hand again as she resettled the bag, pulling her a fracti