All Chapters of Tamed By The Devil Stepbrother : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Clara’s POV The dining room felt smaller than usual, the chandelier’s light too bright, every surface too shiny, every chair an accusation. Mom moved around the table with small, careful motions—placing a plate here, nudging the salt there—trying to smooth the edges of the morning. Richard read the paper, pretending not to notice the tremor in the room. I sat opposite them, hands folded around my mug like they were the only thing keeping me steady. The ceramic was warm, a small, fake comfort against the cold dread pooling in my gut. Nolan arrived exactly on time, as if the whole household took its cue from his schedule. He came in single-minded and unhurried, coat sliding off his shoulders, his hair still damp at the nape from the shower. The clean scent of his soap was a fresh, invasive presence in the heavy air. He didn’t bother with a hello. He simply took his seat and looked around, the way a predator surveys a room, cataloging every exit, every weakness. He saw me and held my

Clara’s POV The campus had emptied like water draining from a sink, leaving only the fading echoes of footsteps and muffled voices. The hallways felt cavernous, wide spaces filled with shadows and remnants of laughter that no longer resided there. The buzz of fluorescent lights overhead hummed monotonously, breaking the deepening silence. My legs felt heavy and leaden, trembling under the weight of the day as I navigated the deserted corridors. Jenna had already rushed off—her mother needed her at the restaurant—and with each passing moment, I felt more isolated, like I was the last person left in an abandoned building. I could hardly shake off the feeling that the world had forgotten about me, that everyone had moved on while I was still stuck in this limbo of insecurity and dread. That left me. Alone. I hugged my books closer to my chest as I moved forward, each step echoing in the emptiness. The air felt thick and stagnant, as if the walls themselves were whispering all the th

Clara's POV My shoes slapped against the cold, linoleum floor of the corridor, the sound echoing like gunshots in the empty hallway, each frantic step propelling me further from that godforsaken room. But no matter how fast I ran, I couldn't outrun the echoes—the wet, rhythmic moans that had seeped through the cracked door like poison gas, invading my ears and twisting my gut. And his voice, that low, taunting drawl that clung to me like acrid smoke: “Enjoying the show, little sister? Don’t be shy—come closer. Watch how a real man handles things.”No. No, no, no. The words screamed in my head, a mantra of denial that did nothing to erase the image burned into my retinas: Nolan, shirtless and smirking, his body pressed against Rebecca's in the dim light of the storage room, her legs wrapped around him like vines, his hips thrusting with a deliberate cruelty that felt aimed directly at me. He'd seen me there, frozen in the doorway, and instead of stopping, he'd locked eyes with me, his

Clara's POV I swallowed hard, forcing another smile. "No, Mom, really. Just a long day. Art project's kicking my butt, that's all." It was a half-truth; the art studio was where so much of this nightmare had unfolded, where Nolan had cornered me with my sketches, his voice dripping with mockery. “Should I hang these up in my room? I’d love to admire the way I’ve inspired you.” His words echoed in my mind, unbidden, sending a shiver down my spine even now. She reached out and squeezed my hand, her touch warm but probing. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything. I know adjusting to this new life hasn't been easy for you—new school, new house, new... family dynamics." She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Nolan can be a handful, I get that. He's got that wild streak, like most boys his age. But he's trying, Clara. Richard says he's been better lately, focusing more on his studies. A birthday party could be a good way to bridge things, don't you think? Maybe you c

Clara’s POV The clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation filled the dining room, but to me, it all felt muted, distant, like I was watching everything through a fogged-up window. The air was thick with the aroma of garlic and herbs from Mom's homemade pasta sauce, mingling with the faint scent of Richard's aftershave—something woody and expensive that always seemed to announce his presence before he even spoke. Mom and Richard sat across from one another at the long oak table, trading warm smiles as they dished steaming portions onto plates. Their easy affection was a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me, a reminder of how seamlessly our families had blended on the surface, while beneath it all, cracks were forming that no one else seemed to notice. I forced myself into the empty chair beside my mother, smoothing my skirt as though that small, deliberate gesture could keep my nerves from unraveling. My hands trembled slightly as I adjusted the napkin in my lap, t