“Claimed by my Stepbrother”

Chapter 6:Behind The Gym

The final bell couldn’t come fast enough.

All day, I felt Dante’s presence even when he wasn’t around. It was like his name was stitched into the back of my mind, whispering reminders of what he’d said:

“Because I’m done staying away.”

Every time I thought about it, my stomach twisted. What did he want? Why now? And most importantly… why me?

By the time classes ended, my palms were sweaty, my heartbeat too loud, and I couldn’t focus on anything except the echo of his voice.

Aisha caught up with me at my locker.

“So,” she said, bumping my shoulder, “are you going?”

I swallowed. “Going where?”

“Don’t play with me, bestie. Behind the gym. Mr Tall-Dark-Mysterious basically summoned you.”

I sighed. “I don’t know if I should.”

“You’re going,” she said confidently. “You and Dante have a whole… thing happening.”

“We do not have a thing.”

“Then why does your face look like that?” she teased.

I glared at her, and she laughed.

“Look, Sophie,” she said softly, “you’re scared. But you’re also curious. And curiosity wins every time.”

I hated that she was right.

I shut my locker and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m going.”

She grinned like she was watching the first episode of a drama series.

“Text me everything.”

“I’m not—”

“TEXT ME.”

I rolled my eyes and walked away before she could embarrass me further.

⸻

The air behind the gym was different.

Quiet. Cold. Heavy.

I hugged my arms as I stepped around the corner — then froze.

Dante was already there.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, showing the veins on his arms. He looked almost… troubled.

When he heard my footsteps, he lifted his head.

And everything in me stilled.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

His honesty caught me off guard. Dante wasn’t the type to admit anything, especially doubt.

I took a small step closer. “You wanted to talk.”

He exhaled slowly, as if preparing for something.

Then he said the last thing I expected:

“I want to know the truth about you.”

My heart skipped. “What truth?”

“All of it,” he said. “Why you look at people like you’re ready to run. Why you flinch when someone raises their voice. Why you never talk about your family.”

I froze.

His eyes softened. “You think I don’t notice? I notice everything when it comes to you.”

“Dante…” I whispered.

“I’m not asking to be annoying,” he said. “I’m asking because—”

He stopped, jaw clenching.

“Because you matter to me.”

My breath caught in my throat.

He looked away, like he hated admitting that.

“I tried ignoring you today,” he continued. “Didn’t work. I tried staying away. Didn’t work. Then I saw you with Lucas and—”

“And what?” I whispered.

His eyes met mine again, stormy and intense.

“I wanted to break something.”

I swallowed hard. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t.”

He moved closer, slow, deliberate, giving me time to stop him. I didn’t.

“You get under my skin,” he said quietly. “And I don’t like losing control.”

My voice shook. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one losing it.”

He was now standing only inches from me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.

Then his voice softened.

“Sophie… I need to understand you. I can’t stop thinking about you, not when I don’t know who you really are.”

Panic flickered in my chest.

My past.

My father.

Everything I spent years hiding.

“I can’t tell you,” I said, stepping back.

He grabbed my wrist — gently, like he was afraid I’d break.

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll look at me differently.”

Dante’s gaze locked on mine.

“Try me.”

For a long moment, we just stood there — two people who didn’t know how to talk but somehow spoke the same language.

Finally, I whispered, “My father… wasn’t a good man.”

Something dark flashed in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“He was dangerous,” I said softly. “And everything he did… everything he left behind… it still ruins things for me.”

Dante’s jaw tightened, not in anger — in understanding.

“You think I’d judge you because of something you didn’t choose?”

“You don’t know the things he did—”

“I don’t care what he did,” Dante cut in. “You’re not him.”

A breath escaped me.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding it.

Then he said, “If anyone talks about your past, they’ll answer to me.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“You don’t need to protect me.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I want to.”

Before I could respond, he let go of my wrist slowly, his fingers brushing my skin like he wasn’t ready to lose contact.

Then, quietly, he added:

“Next time you have something to tell me, don’t run. Tell me first.”

I nodded without thinking.

He stepped back, eyes lingering on mine like he was memorizing something.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said softly.

As he walked away, I realized something terrifying:

I wasn’t scared of Dante anymore.

I was scared of what he was starting to mean to me.