The Stripper Toy for My Hot Stepbrothers

Chapter 13

Caspian's POV

The silence in the house felt different now. It wasn't the tense quiet of suspicion anymore. It was heavy and awkward—the kind that settles in when you know you've done something wrong but can't bring yourself to say it out loud yet. I stood outside Lyra's door holding a stack of books, the leather warm against my palms.

My own books.

It felt stupid. I didn't do things like this. But I couldn't stop thinking about her story—the hollow, dead look in her eyes when she told us the truth. Raphael believed her. And I... I was starting to believe her too. The gold-digging schemer I'd imagined didn't match the broken woman who'd stared at the wall for three days straight.

I knocked. Nothing.

"Lyra. It's Caspian." Even I could hear how stiff I sounded.

A long pause. Then, quietly, "Come in."

She sat by the window, wrapped in a thick shawl. She looked smaller than before. Paler. Her eyes were still empty, but they flickered to the books in my hands. Not with interest exactly. Just... noticing.

"Thought you might want something to read," I said roughly, holding them out. "From my collection."

She looked from the books to my face. "Why?"

Simple question. Should've had a simple answer. I didn't. "Because staring at ugly wallpaper gets old," I finally said, setting the stack on the table beside her. "Nietzsche. Dostoevsky. Some philosophy. It's heavy stuff. Might help kill time."

She reached out and touched the worn leather cover of Beyond Good and Evil. Her fingers were gentle, almost reverent. It was the first real sign of life I'd seen from her since the library.

"You read these?" Still that flat voice.

"I do."

She opened the book and scanned a random page. Quiet for a moment. Then, without looking up, she said, "Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster."

Word perfect. Even her accent nailed the German. My eyebrows went up. "You've read Nietzsche?"

"In the dark," she said, eyes still on the page. "When they left me alone. They gave me books sometimes. To see if certain ideas would... trigger something. Philosophy. Poetry. It was another kind of test."

She said it like she was reading a weather report. That casual horror knocked the breath out of me. I pulled a chair over and sat down facing her. "Did it work? Did it trigger anything?"

She finally met my eyes. "It made me think. Didn't make me special. Just made me lonely in a way they couldn't measure." She closed the book. "Do you believe it? That hunting my mother might turn you into what you hate?"

Direct hit. I leaned back and crossed my arms. "I'm not hunting for fun. I'm hunting for justice. There's a difference."

"Is there?" She tilted her head. "Your eyes when you interrogated me—they weren't looking for justice. They were looking for a target. Something to burn so your pain would have somewhere to go."

Her words cut clean through my bullshit. It rattled me. "You're pretty sharp for someone who worked in a strip club."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. Didn't reach her eyes. "You learn to read men in the dark. Their wants. Their anger. The real things they hide behind money and expensive suits."

We talked. Started awkward, circling around philosophy and revenge. But it became... real. An actual conversation. She wasn't just repeating lines. She had her own ideas, sharp ones born from suffering I could barely imagine. She talked about Camus and the absurd, about finding meaning when the world gives you nothing. My world gave me a mother who sold me, she said. The absurd part is I still wake up every morning.

I found myself actually listening. The empty-headed gold-digger I'd imagined dissolved, replaced by this sharp, wounded, intelligent woman. The realization hit cold. I was wrong. The thought made me uncomfortable, but it settled in my gut like truth.

"Dinner," Silas announced from the doorway hours later, cutting through our discussion on freedom. He looked at us, at the open books, and his cold eyes showed a flicker of surprise. "Family dinner. You're expected, Lyra. We're keeping up... appearances."

She went tense, the brief spark leaving her face. She nodded once.

The dining room was a stage. Crystal sparkled, silverware lined up perfectly. We were all actors in a play called 'Normal Family'. Lyra sat between Orion and Raphael, right across from me. Rowan at the head, Silas at the foot. Jeremy's chair sat empty.

Rowan watched Lyra constantly. Not with anger. With cold, surgical focus. He studied every bite she took, every sip of water. Assessing. Measuring. Somehow more disturbing than my fury had been.

Lyra felt it. I saw her hand shake slightly as she lifted her wine glass.

Under the long tablecloth, my foot found hers. She jumped, a tiny gasp catching. Her eyes flew to mine. I kept my face blank, cutting my steak. Slowly, I pressed my shoe against hers—not moving, just steady, solid pressure. I see it too.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction. A barely-there release.

Then my hand found her knee under the cloth. She froze, fork halfway to her mouth. I didn't look at her. Just let my palm rest there, heat seeping through the thin silk of her dress. Then my fingers started moving—slow, deliberate strokes up her inner thigh.

Her breath hitched, barely audible. A flush crept up her neck. She stared at her plate, but her body went rigid, reacting to the secret touch. My own blood started pounding. This was a game. Dangerous and stupid. But feeling her warm and tense under my hand, watching her calm mask crack... it was a different kind of power.

Orion, beside her, noticed the change in her breathing. His sharp blue eyes narrowed. He leaned in, whispering something about the wine. His hand drifted below the table too.

Lyra shook her head slightly, a weak refusal. "I'm... I'm finished," she said suddenly, voice strained. She pushed her chair back. "May I be excused?"

"No," Rowan said pleasantly. Final. "The first family dinner isn't over until I'm finished. Sit down, Lyra."

She looked trapped. Panicked. Without a word, she bolted—not toward the hall, but through the archway that led to the old conservatory. Now just a dusty arcade with a few antique game machines.

Orion and Raphael exchanged a look. Silent communication. Then they stood and followed her.

I counted to thirty before going after them, pulse kicking up. The arcade was shadowy, lit only by the dead glow of old pinball machines. I spotted them immediately.

Lyra was backed against a heavy wooden column. Orion had her pinned, his body caging hers. His mouth was on her neck, sucking hard. "Running just makes it worse, little mate," he murmured against her skin. "You feel the bond. You're shaking with it."

"Stop," she breathed, but it was weak, threadbare. Her hands pushed at his chest with no real force.

"That's not what you want," Raphael said from behind her. He was close, body heat at her back. His hands slid around her waist, moving up to cup her breasts through the silk. "You want to stop thinking. We can help with that."

Orion's hand slipped inside the deep V of her dress. He didn't fumble—he knew exactly what he was doing. He pushed the fabric aside, exposing one pale breast to the cool air. Lyra whimpered. Orion dipped his head and took her n****e in his mouth, sucking deep and hard.

The sound she made was pure need. A choked-off moan that echoed in the quiet. Her head fell back against Raphael's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Her resistance melted into something else—desperate, hungry surrender.

Raphael's hands went lower, gathering her skirts. He yanked the fabric up to her waist. "Hold her," he growled to Orion.

Orion kept his mouth on her breast, one arm locked around her back. Raphael dropped to his knees behind her. I watched his hands grip the backs of her thighs, pulling her toward him, bending her over his shoulder. He buried his face between her legs from behind, his tongue finding her in one long, wet stroke.

Lyra cried out, body arching. "No... god, please..."

"Please what?" Raphael's voice was muffled against her. He didn't stop. He devoured her, tongue working in slow then frantic circles. I could hear the wet, intimate sounds. Lyra's legs trembled. One hand tangled in Orion's hair—not pushing away, but holding on.

The mate bond. It crackled through the room like a live wire, charged with shared need. Her fear burned away, replaced by something sharper, more primal. She was panting, hips making tiny, helpless circles against Raphael's mouth. Orion switched to her other breast, biting gently, then soothing with his tongue.

I stood in the shadows, my own body tight with furious, jealous arousal. She was responding. To them.

Suddenly, all three froze.

Lyra's eyes flew open, glazed with pleasure. Orion and Raphael pulled back, heads c****d like they were listening to something distant.

Jeremy's voice sliced through the mind link we all shared—cold and sharp. "The perimeter's been breached. All of you. My study. Now."