The worst part isn’t that I hate them. It’s that I know every f*****g detail of their faces by heart.
I know Ryder's eyebrow scar and River's crooked smirk. I recognize Ryder's stormy anger and the green flecks in River's eyes when he laughs. I know their faces better than my own.
Right now, the boathouse smelled of damp wood and forgotten summers.
I came here to escape them—three months of pretending my stepbrothers didn't make my pulse race across dinner tables, three months of hating myself for it.
Living with them was hell. River's "accidental" touches and burning gazes left me exposed, heat pooling traitorously in my belly.
Ryder was worse—sharp smiles, sharper words. "Lost, little stepsister?" he'd purr against my ear, trapping me against kitchen counters.
They always circled
