Catherine's Pov
The dining hall had been unbearable. I'd barely touched my meal, shoveling food into my mouth just fast enough to be polite before making my escape. The weight of everyone's stares had pressed down on me like I was being buried alive. Now safely back in my room, I slumped against the door, finally able to breathe.
Questions swirled in my mind. Who was he really? Why did everyone jump to obey his every word like he was some kind of god? And why did he call Evander by name like they were equals instead of father and son?
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus. My typewriter sat waiting on the desk - my only real escape in this gilded prison. While the others got phones and MacBooks, I'd been given nothing. This old machine and whatever paper I could scrounge up were my only outlets.
Clearing my throat, I flipped through the previous pages of my novel, finding my place. The afternoon light was fading - I'd skipped lunch entirely, surviving on a single apple while lost in my story. Now I visualized the next scene, fingers poised over the keys.
[Paul held Emma by her neck, the blade slicing through her chest in repeated, brutal strokes. Blood gushed from her wounded heart - that same heart that had once raced at his touch. His eyes burned with...]
Then his eyes flashed in my memory - that same intense gaze from last night - and my train of thought derailed completely.
[...his fingers that had once explored her most intimate folds were now painted crimson with her blood and...]
"Shit." I cursed under my breath, yanking the paper from the typewriter with more force than necessary. The sheet crumpled in my fist. "You need to get it together, Catherine," I whispered, rubbing my temples.
Reaching into the desk cabinet, I pulled out a fresh sheet with careful reverence. Paper was precious here - it had taken me months of begging the butler just to get this small stash after I'd discovered the typewriter gathering dust in the basement. Later, I'd found an old supply in the library, but even that would run out soon if I kept wasting sheets like this.
Just as I cracked my knuckles and positioned the new paper, a knock shattered my concentration. My heart leapt into my throat. In one frantic motion, I shoved the typewriter under the blanket and swept all evidence of my writing out of sight.
When I opened the door, my body went rigid. There he stood, dressed in another form-fitting sweatsuit, his dark hair damp with sweat. Airpods nestled in his ears, droplets tracing down his neck. Against my will, I imagined running my hands through that hair, feeling those lips on mine again - rough, gentle, anything. The intensity of the fantasy shocked me.
He snapped his fingers in front of my face, snapping me back to reality. "You're not going to let me in?"
My traitorous mind supplied an entirely inappropriate answer to that question.
"Umm...sorry," I stammered, stepping aside to let him pass before shutting the door behind us.
His gaze swept the room as he spoke. "I didn't see you at lunch. Everything okay?"
"I...umm...I fell asleep," I lied, watching as he settled on the edge of my bed. I maintained a careful distance, fixing my gaze determinedly on the balcony. If I looked at him too long, I'd lose what little common sense I had left.
"Okay."
Drawing a shaky breath, I forced out the words I'd been rehearsing. "I'm really grateful for your help at breakfast and with Gen, but please can you—"
"You don't want me to do it again because it'll get you in trouble?"
Was I that transparent?
"Yes."
"Okay."
The next words stuck in my throat, but I pushed them out. "Can you forget about last night too?" My voice sounded small even to my own ears. "I was drunk and got carried away. I'm really sorry. I didn't know you were...my stepson."
The term felt absurd. He looked older than me - late twenties at least - while I'd just turned twenty-one. Thanks to Evander's polygamous habits, I was the same age as my youngest stepdaughter.
"Okay." He shrugged.
"Why do you keep saying that?" I snapped, frustration boiling over.
He laughed then, a rich sound that sent unwelcome shivers down my spine. "I'm sorry, I was trying to get under your skin." His expression sobered. "But if you really want to know what I think..."
Before I could react, his hand captured mine, pulling me toward him. My body moved without conscious thought, letting him guide me until I was straddling his lap. My hands automatically circled his neck for balance, every point of contact burning through my clothes.
"I can't forget about last night," he murmured, hands settling on my waist, "and I won't stand by while they treat you like shit. You know that."
"We shouldn't be doing this," my conscience protested weakly, even as I felt my body betray me, growing damp with desire.
"I know."
"Then why are you here?" I whispered. "Evander would kill me if he saw us like this. And I don't even know you."
His grip tightened when I tried to pull away. "If it helps, I'm only here for a few days to patch things up with him. My mother's sick - it's something she's always wanted."
That nearly made me bolt. "You're here for a few days and you want to get me killed?"
"Evander wouldn't dare." His voice turned serious. "And trust me, I won't leave without making sure you can contact me if anything happens." His thumb traced circles on my hip. "For the record, I'm not his actual son. My father died years ago. My mother married Evander as a rebound and left him a year after I was born."
"That doesn't make this okay," I breathed. "I'm married. Why are you even interested in me?"
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I found a drop-dead gorgeous woman holding back tears at my welcome party." His fingers crept under the hem of my sweatshirt. "Interested? Catherine, can't you see I'm obsessed?"
The word "obsessed" lingers between us just as his hands finally find the curves of my breasts, and I feel myself growing impossibly wetter. My eyes lock onto his, then drop to his lips. I can't decide whether to surrender completely or push him away, but the last shred of my morality vanishes the moment I cup his face and crush my lips against his in a ferocious kiss that he returns with equal hunger.
This isn't gentle. It's desperate, messy, and so intense it steals my breath. I kiss him back just as fiercely, letting him dominate the exchange. The taste of mint mixes with the salt of his sweat from his run, and the combination has me moaning against his mouth. My fingers tangle in his hair while one of his hands fists in mine, tilting my head back. The other rips my blouse open, exposing my stomach to the cool air.
I should be terrified. Maybe I am, but my fear is hopelessly tangled with white-hot desire as his mouth leaves mine to trail down my throat. His teeth scrape over my pulse point, and I whimper. "You taste so good," he growls against my skin.
The world tilts as my back hits the mattress, his hard body pressing me down. My eyes dart to the door. "It's not locked," I whisper, pressing a finger to his lips to stop him.
He bites my fingertip, his gaze locked on mine, and my stomach flips. "They're not here."
"Just lock it. Please." The plea slips out before I can stop it. He nods and rises, giving me just enough time to shove the typewriter to the far side of the bed. When he returns, he yanks his shirt off, and the sight makes me ache. He's more muscular than the sweatshirt suggested, his torso adorned with delicate tattoos that make my mouth water.
He strips completely, and my breath catches at the thick length of him. Bigger than his father. The thought should horrify me, but it only fuels my hunger.
Then he's on me again, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand while the other peels away my sweatpants and underwear. "Look at you," he murmurs when I'm bare beneath him. His gaze burns across my skin. "So perfect."
Perfect. Not whore. Not slut. None of the venomous names Evander would hiss before his fists drove them home.
I don't get to dwell on it. His knee presses between my thighs, parting them with a gentleness that feels foreign before his mouth meets my core. His tongue is searing hot against my folds, and pleasure jolts through me like lightning.
I arch off the bed with a choked gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets. His tongue flicks and teases, and my hips jerk instinctively, seeking more. He groans against me, the vibration making me shudder, and his hands clamp on my thighs to hold me still.
"Soren," I moan, tugging his hair as my insides clench. The familiar wave crashes over me, and I come undone with a cry.
The aftershocks haven't faded when he's on me again, kissing me through the haze of sensations I can't begin to name. Tears streak my cheeks—I've never felt like this before.
When he finally pushes inside, we both groan like we've been starving for it. "Fuck, you feel so good," he grits out, staring into my eyes as he fills me inch by agonizing inch. I gasp when he bottoms out, my body stretching to accommodate him.
Every thrust is measured, controlled, like he's determined to ruin me with pleasure rather than force. And it's working. My nails rake down his back, and the growl it pulls from him vibrates through my entire body.
"Again," he demands, his voice rough. I obey, scratching harder this time. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping skin, my broken moans, his filthy praises. Pleasure coils tighter until I'm sobbing his name, until my world narrows to just him—his hands, his mouth, the way he moves inside me.
"Louder," he growls against my ear, thrusts turning punishing. "Let me hear you."
I cry out as another orgasm rips through me, my back bowing off the bed. He follows with my name on his lips, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me.
Afterward, he stays buried in me, his weight pinning me to the mattress as we both struggle to breathe. Then something primal shifts in him. His grip on my wrists tightens, and his lips find my neck. I gasp as his fangs protrude and pierce my skin—a searing pain mixed with the aftershocks of pleasure.
He pulls back, eyes wide as he searches my face for a reaction. I kiss him gently, tasting my blood on his lips. I don't understand what just happened. Don't know what it means. All I know is he's 'fucked' me better than my husband ever has, and now I'm ruined for anything else.