All Chapters of Stepdad’s Pet, His Son’s Plaything : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

EMMA’S POVThe silence in the study was absolute, a heavy, velvet weight that pressed against my eardrums. Outside that locked door, the world was still turning—Janet was likely still flirting with a man who shared his DNA, and my mother was likely humming in the garden—but in here, time had simply ceased to exist.Jordan didn’t move. He sat behind that massive mahogany desk, his silhouette framed by the amber glow of the lamp. He looked like a king on a crumbling throne. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing the corded strength of his forearms, and for the umpteenth time, I didn't see the man who had tucked me into bed when I was fifteen. I saw the man who had been starving himself for years."Emma," he said again, his voice lower this time, vibrating through the floorboards and up into the soles of my feet. "Why is the door locked?""Because I don't want anyone to see what I'm about to do," I whispered. My voice was surprisingly steady, fueled by a cocktail of lingering jealousy an

REIGN’S POVThe door to the master suite gave way with a silent, heavy click. My heart was a frantic, jagged thing in my chest, fueled by the toxic scent of my father that still clung to the hallway air. I had walked in here with a blade in my mind, ready to dismantle Ruth, to use her body as a weapon against the man who had just branded Emma as his own.But the moment I stepped into the room, the air changed.The master suite was a sanctuary of soft colors and expensive silk. It smelled of roses and fresh laundry—the smell of a "home" that didn't actually exist. Ruth was sitting by the window, a book in her lap, looking every bit the graceful, untouchable queen of the Blackwood home. When she looked up, her eyes didn't hold the fire of Emma’s or the cold calculation of Jordan’s. They held a devastating, pure kindness."Reign?" she asked, her voice a soft melody that cut through my rage like a knife through paper. "Is everything alright, sweetheart? You look... pale."The "warrior" i

RUTH’S POVBefore there was the glass-and-steel perfection of the Blackwood estate, there was the small, drafty cottage in the valley and the man who taught me how to fear my own heart.Emmanuel. My first husband. We fell in love as teenagers, and when our families noticed I was pregnant at twenty, we had no choice but to get married. He was a man of quiet obsessions, and from the moment the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, his obsession had a name: Daughter."She’s going to be the light of this world, Ruthie," he’d whisper, kneeling at my feet as if my skin were an altar. "I’m going to give her a name similar to mine. Emma."I wanted a boy. I was terrified of the weight of a daughter. I was scared I wouldn't know how to protect her from the very intensity Emmanuel was already projecting onto her. When Emmanuel died—a sudden, violent cardiac arrest when Emma was only three—the world shattered. I was left with a toddler who had her father’s eyes and a legacy of "protection" I didn't kn

REIGN’S POVThe dining room felt like a funeral for a person who was still sitting at the table.I leaned against the archway, my lungs still burning from the ride home. My skin felt grimy, coated in the thin, oily residue of Janet’s desperation and the cheap vanilla perfume that seemed to have bonded to my pores. It was a peasant’s scent—common, loud, and shallow. It was the exact opposite of the room I was standing in.I felt my father’s gaze hit me like a physical weight. Jordan didn't look like a man who had just been "correcting" his children. He looked like a wolf who had just finished a kill and was still licking the blood from his coat. He was calm. Too calm. He sat there in his charcoal suit, the lighting from the chandelier catching the silver at his temples, looking every bit the "Saint" Ruth believed him to be.But I knew better. I could still smell the bourbon on the air—his scent, mixed with hers."You're late, Reign," my father said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble t

JORDAN’S POVThe evening light was a bruised purple, bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room. It was that deceptive hour—the "witching hour"—where the house held its breath, pretending to be a sanctuary.I sat on the deep, charcoal leather sofa, still armored in my bespoke suit. My tie was a noose I hadn't yet loosened, a physical reminder of the man I performed as: the stoic CEO, the pillar of the community, the husband who had never once raised his voice in seven years of marriage.To my right, the kitchen was a hive of domesticity. I could hear the rhythmic thwack of Ruth’s knife against the cutting board, the sizzle of butter in a pan, and the soft, off-key humming of her favorite jazz record. She was happy. She was safe in her ignorance, talking to me through the open archway about guest lists and flower arrangements, entirely unaware that the foundation of her world was currently being dissolved by the girl lying across my lap.And then there was Emma.