My StepBrother's Vow

Audrey I can't stop smiling. Which is humiliating, really, because I never smile like this. Not unless I'm about to win something or ruin someone. But the man lying next to me is neither of those things. He's worse. His arm is draped across my waist, fingers still curled possessively against the curve of my hip like he owns me. The sheets are tangled at our feet, early sunlight streaming through my curtains to kiss his chest, his jaw, the little scar near his collarbone I hadn't noticed in the desperate darkness of last night. His black hair is a mess, lips still swollen from the way he kissed me—like it had been five years in the making. Because it had been. I still can't believe he's really here. That after all this time, Malakai found me. "You're staring again," he murmurs without opening his eyes, voice low and sleep-rough. Heat creeps up my neck. "So?" He grins lazily, and God, that smile still does things to me. "You're going to burn a hole through my face, Blue." Blue. My chest tightens. I forgot how it sounds when he says it—like it tastes different in his mouth than anyone else's. Like it means something sacred. I want to punch myself for how much I still melt at that stupid nickname. "It's not my fault you got hot," I say, fighting to sound cool even though I'm probably as red as my nail polish. Curse my pale skin. "You used to be this awkward annoying stick of a boy with giant glasses. I had to squint just to see you properly." "And now?" His voice drops lower, teasing. "Now you're annoying and hot. Worst possible combination." He laughs—soft and genuine—and it tugs at something deep inside me I thought I'd buried years ago. It's crazy how easily we fall back into this rhythm, like the five years between us never existed. But they did. And I need to know why he's really here. "Why'd you reach out again?" I ask, my voice quieter now, more vulnerable than I want it to be. "After all this time. Why now?" He opens his eyes then—stormy grey and still half-lidded with sleep—and studies my face like he's trying to read between the lines of my question. "Guess I missed you," he says simply. My fingers drift down his arm before I can stop them, tracing the intricate tattoos that now cover his skin. He's a canvas of darkness and sharp lines and shadows—so different from the boy I used to know. But it's one particular spot that makes my heart stutter. His hand. The side of it, near his thumb. The place where a small, faded tattoo lives—barely visible now under newer ink, but still there. The one he got when we were kids. When he was sixteen and I was fifteen and I told him I wanted a tattoo but was too scared of needles. He didn't laugh at me. Didn't mock my fear. He just... did it. For me. Got the nickname ‘Blue’ tattooed on his hand with an agapanthus (Lily of the Nile) flower underneath, like some ridiculous romantic gesture that made my teenage heart explode. "You still have it," I whisper, tracing the faded letter with my fingertip. He follows my gaze, and his lips twitch into a smile I can't quite read. "Looks different now." "Yeah." My voice comes out softer than I intended. "So do you." He doesn't respond, just watches me with those intense grey eyes like he's memorizing the way I look when I say things that might still matter to both of us. The weight of his stare makes me suddenly self-conscious. I sit up, pulling the sheet with me, hyperaware of how naked I still am. I reach for my dress—the little black body con I wore to the bar last night—draped over my desk chair. But before I can grab it, he moves. Fast and confident. I freeze. Because when he stands to stretch, completely unbothered by his own nakedness, my eyes catch on something that makes me do a literal double-take. "Seriously?" I blurt out, unable to stop myself. He glances down, following my horrified gaze, then grins wickedly. "What? You didn't notice last night?" "You have a piercing down there?" I hiss, trying not to scream-laugh because what the actual hell. "That's absolutely deranged." He shrugs like it's the most casual thing in the world while reaching for his jeans. "If that surprises you guess I really did change." "Yeah, no kidding. You went from nerdy chess club to full-blown freak show." He leans down close to my ear as he passes, voice dropping to a whisper that makes my skin pebble. "Still let the freak f**k you senseless though, didn't you, Blue?" I flush so hard I might actually combust on the spot. "Shut up," I mutter, yanking my dress away from him and slipping it over my head with as much dignity as I can manage. I watch him get dressed—leather jacket, dark jeans, boots that probably cost more than my car payment—and try to ignore the way my stomach flutters with nerves. "Are you going back to New York?" I ask, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. He pauses in pulling on his jacket. "Nah. I've got something to handle here first." I wait for him to elaborate, but when he doesn't, I push. "Like what?" His eyes meet mine in the mirror above my dresser, and something shifts in his expression. Something darker. "Just some unfinished business." The way he says it makes my skin prickle with unease, but before I can ask what he means, my mother's voice cuts through the morning quiet like a nail scrapping a board. "Audrey! Come downstairs now!" I groan, recognizing that particular tone. It's her something important and you better not embarrass me' voice. "Wait here," I tell him, already heading for the door. "Oh, I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs, but there's something in his voice—something almost predatory—that I don't quite understand. Mom is rushing around the kitchen like we're hosting the damn Queen of England. She takes one look at my wrinkled dress, tsks disapprovingly, and tugs at the hem like she can somehow make it more respectable through sheer force of will. "This will not do," she mutters. My brows furrow. "Do for what?" Instead of answering, she thrusts an expensive-looking garment bag into my hands. "Your dress was delivered this morning. Wear this tonight." "Why?" I narrow my eyes suspiciously. "What's tonight?" "We're having dinner." "With who?" "Your father." Correction, stepfather. I scoff, unable to hide my irritation. "You mean the senator who's been conveniently absent for the past three weeks?" She shoots me a warning glare. "Don't start, Audrey." "No, seriously. Why is Jonathan suddenly showing up for family dinner like we're some happy little family? What's the occasion?" "He's bringing someone." Dread pools in my stomach. "His latest political donor? Another one of his boring colleagues? Or wait—" I gasp dramatically, "—his new mistress?" "Audrey!" Mom looks genuinely scandalized. "What? You married a psycho politician, Mom. Comes with the territory." She takes a deep breath, like she's preparing herself for battle. "He's bringing his son." I blink. "Son? You mean the stepbrother who wants absolutely nothing to do with us? The one who didn't even show up to your wedding? That stepbrother?" Before she can answer, a floorboard creaks behind me. Mom's frantic searching suddenly stops, her eyes focusing on something past my shoulder. Her breath catches audibly, eyes widening as her fists clench tightly around the table. "Oh..." she trails off, voice barely a whisper. Confused, I turn around. Malakai is standing in the doorway. Fully dressed now. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching us with an unreadable expression. My mouth drops open. "I told you to stay upstairs—" The front door opens with a bang, and Senator Jonathan Hawthorne—my stepfather, the bane of my existence, the reason for approximately ninety percent of my current anger issues—strides in like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. His calculating eyes sweep over the scene, taking in my mother's flustered state, my obvious discomfort, and finally landing on Malakai. His face immediately transforms into that warm, practiced politician smile that makes my skin crawl. "There he is." Jonathan walks right past Mom and me like we're furniture, clapping a firm hand on Malakai's shoulder with genuine affection. "Right on time, son." My heart stops beating. Jonathan turns to me with that same plastic smile, gesturing between us like he's introducing strangers at one of his political events. "Audrey," he says cheerfully, "I'd like you to meet Malakai. Your stepbrother."