All Chapters of The Assassin’s Portrait: Stepbrother Dark Romance : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

꧁ Marisella ꧂ (15 years old) Hate boils in my heart like a cauldron atop hot coals. I scrub a dish so hard I’m getting off germs on a molecular level, soapy water splashing like a stormy sea. Mom sighs beside me. “Are you jealous of your brother, Mari?” “He’s not my brother,” I sneer under my breath, scrubbing harder. Mom gently cups my shoulder, her other hand smoothing my hair. “I know it looks like I let him have his way, but you know he’s sick. He needs us.” “Then he should act like it.” I stop scrubbing, my lips thin. “He hates me. He acts like I’m the outsider here.” “Neither of you is an outsider. Honestly, I don’t know why you hate each other so much. Has he hurt you?” “No. He’s just too proud. I don’t like him.” “He’s probably interpreting your behavior the same way. Why don’t you go talk to him?” “I’ve tried. He won’t even smile.” My brows furrow. My stepbrother, ever since coming to live with us, has been a thorn in my throat. He accepts our care but remains fros

𖤓 Alexei 𖤓 I watch Marisella retreat up the stairs, my gaze locked on her form until her ankles disappear from view. The urge to pulverize something, anything, eats at me. My fists tremble, tight with a mix of fury and… dread. Dread for the mistake I’m already making. Of the dangerous thing I’d escaped seven years ago, only to hang a noose around my own neck days after arriving in Miami. I rake numb fingers through my scalp, a hiss between my teeth. I hadn’t lied to Marisella. I’d meant every word. I wasn’t going to return to her and Elena. Ever. I’d made a promise, and I’d been more than willing to honor it. How could I not? The woman had lost her husband. Still, she took in the son of the monster amidst the agony of betrayal. She’d nurtured and loved me without blaming me for my fathers sins. Not once. Elena Moreau had saved my life within a year of being my guardian after my parents’ deaths. She’d done, with love and the last dregs of her money, what my own mother and

꧁ Marisella ꧂ Two steps out the door, my body freezes, fight or flight taking over with preternatural force. Alexei hadn’t left. He sits in his car, a different one from the unforgettable night at the hotel. Same black sheen, but less flashy than the last. A camouflaged predator. And he is staring at me with those bottomless eyes through the rolled-down window. “Get in.” His tone snaps me out of my shocked daze. My lips curve in a sneer. “The hell I will.” I walk down the short steps to the lawn and follow the sidewalk in the direction of the garage. Mom’s well-loved Camaro is a little less than smooth, but it gets the job done. From behind me, I hear a car door slam. My palms instantly dampen with sweat, and I revisit that flight response. But I’m not running from Alexei. This is quite literally my hood. My house. He doesn’t get to order me around just because he can afford shiny cufflinks. “Marisella. Stop being stubborn.” I stop just before the garage, changing my

꧁ Marisella ꧂ Nothing compares to losing yourself in something so fulfilling that the rest of the world falls away. Lori’s quiet beauty bleeds through every pore, the kind of loveliness that’s deceptively soft and sweet. Having witnessed her fire for even just a second lets me in on her secret, though. She’s no pushover, and I translate that into art. I’d requested to use one of their more modern studio cameras. Mine would’ve raised eyebrows. She’d said she was tired, so I let her lie lazily atop a backless velvet sofa. I tell a story of a powerful woman with a designer bag hanging from the tips of her fingers. Her bare feet leisurely angled over the edge. Her eyes are the main focus, even though the accessories are the main event. Soon, it becomes instinctive, my earlier anxiety disappearing on the heels of professionalism. They wanted to see what I could do. I show them—with stories, shots taken with the soul in mind. At some point during the shoot, my skin prickles with

꧁ Marisella ꧂ I wake up to an empty house, a raging hangover, and a text from Sonya. Sonya: About that rosé *eyes emoji Mari: Finally have time for me? Sonya: Don’t be petty. Makeover x slutty dancing at the club. Mari: Maybe. Maybe? More like yes please and thank you. My fingers tremble as I pack a small overnight bag. Camera, underwear, spare cash. Anything else I could possibly need, I’ll borrow from Sonya. No matter how hard I try to ignore the situation, mortification pounds in my skull, demanding attention. What have I done? I’ll never get Alexei out of my mind now. And whatever crumb of respect he had for me must’ve gone up in flames. I’d been caught red-handed writhing to my stepbrother’s name. By said stepbrother. The heat of embarrassment roars in my veins, teeth gritting through the panic. After I’d seen the solid outline of him pass my open bedroom door, I’d lain in bed, too drunk to think. Paralyzed by my orgasm, I hadn’t even moved to close my door. Sle