All Chapters of SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Dinner came and went, and I never left the room.I sat on the window seat, knees pulled to my chest, staring out at the black lake and the snow that hadn’t stopped falling since I arrived. The house was quiet except for the occasional muffled laugh drifting up from downstairs (Marcus and Elena, probably sharing wine and replaying their favorite shots). I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.My lips still felt swollen. My palm still stung from the slap. Every time I closed my eyes I tasted him, dark, angry, hungry, and I hated myself for the way my stomach flipped at the memory.The lock clicked.I didn’t turn. I knew who it was before the door even opened.Cassian stepped inside carrying a wooden tray: roast lamb, tiny potatoes glazed with rosemary, a single glass of red wine. The smell filled the room and my stomach growled traitorously. He closed the door with his foot and set the tray on the dresser.I kept my face to the window.“I’m not hungry.”“You haven’t eaten since breakf

I woke to silence.No low voice at my door, no shadow filling the frame. Just the gray half-light of another snowstorm pressing against the windows. For one panicked second I thought he had left, taken the client and vanished, and the shame of last night would be the last memory I had of him.Then I saw the note on the nightstand in his sharp black handwriting: Breakfast is on the table. When you’re done, come to the lake. We’re shooting outside today.My stomach flipped. Outside. In this weather.I showered fast, the ghost of his mouth still on my neck, the marble counter, the way I had begged without words at three in the morning. I pulled on the warmest things I could find (thick leggings, an oversized cream sweater, wool socks, boots) and tried not to look at my reflection. I already knew what I would see: swollen lips, guilty eyes, the faint red mark on my throat where his stubble had scraped me raw.Downstairs, the dining table held a single covered plate: scrambled eggs, cris

We stayed tangled on the wide sectional, limbs heavy, hearts still racing. The fire had burned low, casting long golden flickers over Cassian’s back, the sweat cooling on my stomach, the faint stickiness where he had marked me. Neither of us had moved to clean up or cover ourselves. It felt too soon, too raw, like putting clothes on would break whatever fragile thing had just been born between us.I stared at the ceiling beams and felt the words rise like bile.“If Mom were still alive,” I whispered, voice hoarse, “she would hate me for this.”Cassian’s head rested on my breast, his breath warm against my skin. He didn’t answer right away, just traced idle circles around my navel with one fingertip.“She would hate both of us,” I went on, tears suddenly burning behind my eyes. “She loved you so much. And I just let you… I let you inside me. I wanted it. God, this is all my fault.”He lifted his head then, eyes soft in the firelight, and the laugh that came out of him was low, almost s

I woke in my own bed, sheets cool against my skin, morning light slicing through the half-open curtains. For a moment I couldn’t remember how I got there. The last thing burned into my mind was the glow of the laptop, Cassian’s fingers inside me, the video of us looping in my head while I came apart on his lap. After that, nothing. He must have carried me upstairs, tucked me in like I was something precious. The thought made my chest ache in a way I wasn’t ready to name.I pushed the covers back and padded to the window. The storm had finally broken. The world outside was blinding white, every branch heavy with fresh snow, the lake a sheet of glass under the weak winter sun. Cassian stood on the porch in a black parka, phone to his ear, pacing slow lines through the powder. His voice was too low to make out words, but the set of his shoulders told me it was business.I pulled on one of his soft henley shirts and a pair of leggings, then headed downstairs, needing coffee, needing routi

The shoot started innocently enough.Cassian had Everett on the seamless paper, low lights carving shadows across his lean, sculpted body. He posed him first standing, arms loose, head tilted back, throat exposed like an offering. Then on the bench, one knee up, hands resting casually between his thighs, framing the heavy length of him without shame. Cassian moved around him with the camera, voice calm, clinical.“Chin down, Everett. Good. Let the light catch the line of your hip. Perfect.”Everett obeyed every command flawlessly, but his eyes stayed on me.I stood behind Cassian, holding a reflector I didn’t need, trying to disappear into the black walls. Every time Cassian shifted, Everett’s gaze followed, sliding over me like oil. Hot. Possessive. Patient.I felt it on my throat, my chest, lower. My skin prickled under the sweater, nipples tightening against my will. I kept my arms crossed, but it didn’t help. He knew. He could see the flush crawling up my neck, the way I kept shif