All Chapters of Owned By My Stepdad(MxM): Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The bedside lamp gave off a soft, yellowish light that stretched shadows across Elias’s room. The room was spacious and homey, but tonight it felt small and suffocating. At nineteen, Elias had gotten good at keeping things hidden, for example his loneliness in this huge house, the quiet anger he felt toward his mother, Rowena, who only cared about status, and especially the deep, shameful longing he’d carried for years. It wasn’t just attraction. It was an obsession with the one person who had ever treated him like he mattered.” his stepfather, Vane.Elias lay on the cool hardwood floor, knees drawn up, breathing fast and uneven. In his right hand he held a pair of Vane’s black silk boxers, clean and way too big for him. They still carried Vane’s scent, that mix of cedar cologne, faint smoke, and the warme private smell of skin after a long day. It hit Elias hard every time, made his head swim.He’d taken them earlier that evening, slipping into Vane’s dressing room while everyone was

I wake up first, the way I always do when the night has been pleasurable enough to leave echoes in the bones. The bedroom is still drowned in pre-dawn gray. Heavy silk curtains block most of the light, but a thin cruel line sneaks through and falls exactly across Vane’s face. He looks almost peaceful like this—mouth slightly parted, lashes dark against the faint violet shadows beneath his eyes, the deep frown he usually wears finally smoothed away. My gaze travels slowly, greedily, cataloguing every new mark I left on him. The red crescent of my teeth on his left shoulder. The purple bloom of fingerprints on his hip. The faint rope-burn pattern where he’d gripped the headboard so hard the wood groaned. Mine. All of it mine. I shift carefully. My body answers with a deep, satisfying ache—between my legs, along my spine, in the tender flesh of my inner thighs where his thumbs had dug in like he wanted to leave permanent dents. The soreness is exquisite. Proof. I press my th

Elias’s heart hammered in his chest as Vane’s eyes bore into him, the study suddenly feeling too small, too confined. The winter sun filtered through the frost-laced windows, casting long shadows across the oak-paneled walls, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in Elias’s bones. Vane’s hand still rested on his arm, firm and reassuring, but the questions in his gaze were like knives, twisting deeper with every silent second. “Elias,” Vane said again, his voice low and steady, laced with that commanding edge that always made Elias’s knees weak. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can handle it. But I need to know what’s going on.” Elias swallowed hard, his throat tight. He couldn’t tell him—not yet. If Vane knew about Cyrus, about the blackmail, the photos, the twisted games under the table… it would explode everything. Vane would go nuclear, confront Cyrus, and then what? The family shattered, scandals in the tabloids, Rowena’s carefully curated world crumbling. And El

Elias didn’t leave his room for the rest of the day.He showered three times, scrubbing until his skin was raw, but the sticky shame clung to him like smoke. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Cyrus’s smirk across the dinner table, felt the phantom slide of that hand beneath the cloth. Worse—he felt the echo of his own body’s betrayal, the way he had shattered silently while holding Vane’s hand.He couldn’t face any of them. Not Rowena’s sharp questions. Not Vane’s gentle concern. And definitely not Cyrus.So he stayed locked inside, curtains drawn, phone silenced. He lay on his bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene in excruciating detail until self-loathing burned behind his eyes.Downstairs, life continued without him. He heard the muffled clatter of dishes being cleared, Rowena’s heels clicking across the marble as she gave instructions to the staff. Her voice carried up the staircase, crisp and impatient.“I’ll be at Caroline’s for the rest of the aftern

The blow came faster than I expected.Not a slap. Not a backhand. A full, closed-fist right hook that caught me square on the jaw and sent me flying. My knees buckled before I even registered the crack of bone against bone. I fell down hard had to wedge with my palms, then my cheek, rough wool fibers scraping the fresh split in my lip. Copper flooded my mouth—hot, thick, blood.I stayed down for maybe three heartbeats, tasting blood and humiliation in equal measure. Then I laughed.It started low, a ragged scrape in my throat, I pushed myself up on one elbow, wiped the blood with the back of my hand, and smeared a crimson streak across my knuckles like war paint.I looked up.My father, Vane fucking Whitaker—stood over me like a storm cloud given human shape. To the rest of the world he was untouchable: the man who bought failing conglomerates for pocket change, who sat on boards that decided the fates of entire industries, who never raised his voice because he never had to. At home h