Claimed By My Stepdad

Chapter 3

Sophia Pov

The sting on my cheek lingered long after I slipped out of Damien’s suite, a warm reminder of the power he had exercised over me. My legs felt unsteady as I made my way through the hotel corridors, my body deliciously sore from the way he had claimed me—thoroughly, relentlessly, and without apology. The expensive whiskey I had consumed earlier mixed with the lingering haze of pleasure and shame, making the world tilt softly around the edges.

I couldn’t stay in that room. The intensity of what had happened between us—of how eagerly I had surrendered to a stranger—felt too overwhelming in the aftermath. I needed space. I needed another drink. I needed to process the wreckage of the last twenty-four hours.

I left the hotel and drove to another upscale establishment a few blocks away, one with a reputation for discretion and an elegant bar overlooking the city skyline.

The valet took my car, and I checked into a new room, dropping my suitcase inside before heading straight to the top-floor bar. The lighting was low and intimate, the leather stools plush and inviting. I chose a seat at the far end and ordered the most expensive whiskey on the menu—the aged single malt that cost a small fortune per pour.

The bartender, a polished man in his thirties with calm, knowing eyes, poured it neat and slid the crystal glass toward me without comment. I took a long sip, letting the liquid fire spread through my chest and warm the numbness that threatened to swallow me whole.

“You look like you’ve had quite the evening,” he said gently after a few minutes, his voice professional yet kind.

The words poured out of me like the whiskey itself. I told him everything. How I had come home early with wine to surprise Ethan, only to hear those devastating moans—“Ah, f**k me harder”—echoing from our bedroom. I described walking in on them, the raw eroticism of Marcus thrusting deep into Ethan, the way Ethan had arched and begged for more. The way his body had responded with a hunger I had never seen in our years together.

The bartender listened quietly, refilling my glass as I continued. I spoke of the confrontation—how Ethan had remained calm, defending Marcus and their connection as something natural and right. How he had explained his sexuality and his failed attempts to suppress it for the sake of our relationship. I even told him about the question I had asked—“Do you love me?”—and the heavy silence that had answered it.

By the third generous pour of the costly whiskey, my voice grew thicker. The alcohol blurred the sharp edges of the pain, but it also loosened inhibitions I had clung to for years. I found myself confessing the next part—the stranger I had met in the previous hotel bar. How Damien had looked at me like I was something to be consumed. How his hands and mouth had explored me with expert dominance. How he had brought me to shattering climaxes and then, when rage at Marcus had surged, how he had slapped me—twice—claiming my fire for himself.

The bartender nodded sympathetically, a quiet listener in the storm of my emotions. “Sometimes the night after a betrayal pushes us toward extremes,” he offered gently. “To feel alive again.”

I drank deeper, the expensive whiskey coating my throat and clouding my thoughts. My skin still tingled where Damien had touched me. My core ached with the memory of him inside me. The combination of heartbreak, alcohol, and lingering arousal left me dizzy and unsteady when I finally paid the tab and left the bar.

The mansion my mother shared with her new husband wasn’t far. In my intoxicated state, it seemed like the only place left that might offer some semblance of safety or familiarity. My mother was away on business, leaving the sprawling modern home quiet and empty. I let myself in with the spare key, the suitcase dragging behind me like an anchor.

I wandered the halls, the whiskey making my movements loose and uncertain. I took another swig straight from a bottle I had brought with me, the burn grounding me momentarily. Seeking somewhere to collapse, I pushed open a door on the second floor, assuming it was a guest room. It wasn’t.

The room was unmistakably masculine and commanding: dark wood furniture, a massive king-sized bed with crisp black sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the glittering city. A faint, familiar scent of expensive cologne hung in the air—the same one that had surrounded me in the hotel suite earlier. On the dresser lay cufflinks I recognized.

This was Damien Blackwood’s room. My stepfather’s private sanctuary.

I froze in the doorway, heart pounding, the whiskey bottle still clutched in my hand. The realization crashed over me slowly, dulled by alcohol but impossible to ignore. The man who had just ruined me so beautifully was married to my mother.

I didn’t know when I entered my stepfather’s room as I began to drink.