Possessed by my Step Brothers

4.

Blake’s POV

“Cadell Security, how may I help you?”

I grit my teeth as the overly cheerful voice of our receptionist rings through the office phone line. It’s been two years, and I still don’t understand how the hell I ended up here.

Two years ago, I was a Marine—Special Forces, serving my country. Standing beside my brothers, facing more volatile situations than I care to remember.

Back then, I would sit with my brother Callan and our best friend Gage, talking about our future—how we’d reach seventeen, sign up, and fight to protect people who couldn’t protect themselves.

Gage and Callan both chose the Army, a path they walked together. But I had my heart set on the Marines, and nothing they said could persuade me to follow them when they went to enlist.

The day I turned seventeen, I walked into the recruitment office without a second thought, signed away four years of my life, and never looked back.

I loved everything about being a Marine—the structure, the purpose, the brotherhood. But when Gage and Callan didn’t re-enlist after their first terms, each of them returning from war with scars that couldn’t be seen, they decided to join my father’s private security firm.

I stayed. I didn’t want to leave my brothers in arms. So, I signed on for another four years, still determined to fight for what was right, still committed to my duty.

Fate, though, had different plans.

Six months into my second tour, my team and I were sent on a rescue mission deep within enemy territory. It was supposed to be a routine extraction—simple, straightforward, a five-man team sent to retrieve a journalist held by a militant group. We knew their camp inside and out, our surveillance on point.

But the mission fell apart within minutes. The group we were sent to handle wasn’t working alone anymore, and the firepower we faced was more than we could manage.

My team was decimated in the first exchange of gunfire. I can still hear the screams of my brothers as they fell, the chaos around me as the militants closed in. The journalist was killed in cold blood, broadcasted for the world to see.

And then, I was on the ground, barely conscious, surrounded by the wreckage of our mission.

I managed to crawl out of that hell, barely alive, only to be evacuated and sent to a military hospital. The next year of my life was spent in that sterile environment, a blur of doctors, painkillers, and endless therapy sessions to remove the bullets that were lodged deep in my leg.

Once I could stand again, I was handed a medal and a pat on the back with a firm “thanks for your service.” That’s when I was shown the door, discharged with honor, but left with nothing but the scars on my body and a broken sense of self.

With nowhere else to go and nowhere to turn, I ended up back at my dad’s place.

He didn’t hesitate to welcome me home. He set me up in my old room, the one that still had the posters of scantily clad women draped over muscle cars, and hired the best physiotherapy team he could find.

Now, after months of grueling rehab, I don’t need a walking stick anymore. But there’s still a limp that follows me wherever I go. It’s the kind of limp that reminds me every day of what I lost, of what I can never go back to.

I absentmindedly rub my fingers over the scars on my leg, hidden by the denim of my jeans. Fourteen months, and it’s still hard to look at. I don’t wear shorts—ever. Even when it’s scorching hot here in Maine, I never let my scars see the light of day.

“Mr. Cadell?”

The receptionist’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I glance up. She’s standing in the doorway, a brunette with an uncertain look on her face. Her hand is halfway raised, poised to knock, but she hesitates, clearly unsure of whether I’m busy.

I let out a sharp breath, trying to hide the frustration that always rises when people interrupt my work. The last thing I need is a distraction.

“What is it, Jenna?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even, though I can feel the annoyance creeping through.

She shifts nervously on her feet, biting her bottom lip. “There’s someone here to see you,” she says, her voice tentative. “A woman. She says it’s urgent.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to suppress the irritation that surges at the mention of an unexpected visitor. “Did she give a name?” I ask, glancing back down at the files on my desk, already feeling the weight of the day’s tasks piling up.

“She didn’t, sir,” Jenna replies. “But… she insists it’s important. She’s waiting in the lobby. Said you’d recognize her.”

I pause, my mind immediately flicking to a few possible scenarios. A woman who knows me? That could be anyone—someone from my past, someone from my military days. But why now? Why here?

I can feel a knot forming in my stomach, the familiar feeling of unease creeping over me. I haven’t had much contact with anyone from my past since I left the military. And yet, something about this feels off.

“Send her in,” I say, my voice firm, though my gut is telling me this is more than just a simple visit. Jenna nods and retreats from the doorway, leaving me alone in my office, the silence almost suffocating.

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest. I don’t know what’s about to happen, but I can feel the tension building in the air. My heart beats a little faster as the door to my office opens again.

She walks in, her steps hesitant but purposeful. I don’t recognize her at first—her hair’s longer than I remember, and her clothes are more polished. But there’s something about the way she holds herself, something familiar in the way she stands.

And then she speaks, and all the air in the room seems to freeze.

“Blake,” she says softly, her voice trembling slightly. “It’s me. Ava.”

My chest tightens at the sound of her name. Ava. My sister, my half-sister, the girl I haven’t seen in years. She was a child when I left for the Marines, and now she’s standing in front of me, a woman—grown up, different, but unmistakably her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, my voice betraying the shock I feel.

Her eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of guilt and uncertainty. “I need your help,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “It’s about Mum.”

A cold wave of fear crashes over me, and my stomach drops. “What happened?” I demand, every protective instinct inside me flaring to life.

Ava looks down, her hands trembling as she fidgets with the strap of her bag. The silence between us stretches, thick and suffocating, before she finally looks up, her eyes pleading.

“I think she’s in danger.”