Forbidden to Love My Stepbrother

Chapter 9

I arrive home and it’s still empty, no Grey. I’m beat. The bruises and cuts are singing through my body now. I need a long, hot bath and sleep for hours. Maybe a little wine would help, but I just know my stepmom has probably had the house swept and taken the bottles away.

I'm halfway up the stairs when I hear voices, and then the dining door squeaks open. My stepmom steps out. “Freya,” she calls, laughing softly from a conversation she was having with someone, blue eyes dancing with mirth. “I'm so glad you are back.” All the smile drains when she sees my face.

Shit. s**t.

I turn my head away as if that would hide anything. “Freya!” she rushes up the stairs in alarm. “What happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” I say, aiming for soft and unaffected. I don’t want her blowing this into a full-blown drama like she always does.

“Fine?” She cups my face. “Oh my God, who did this? Who hurt you like this?”

I inhale, soaking in the attention. It almost feels good, and strange to be held like this. I can’t remember the last time Mom looked at me with actual concern. Usually she either expects the worst or lectures me for causing it.

“Don’t worry, I got my revenge,” I reply, half-joking, but that wipes the concern from her face and her hands fall from my cheek. She starts shaking her head.

“Don’t tell me… another fight?” Her breath tightens before I can answer.

“Jesus, Freya. Why are you always doing this? You know people will record this and put it online. Your father is about to launch a new product line and this kind of thing brings bad publicity. Don’t you get that? And my album is drops next month. God.”

And just like that, the worry is gone, replaced by disappointment. It lands like a blow to my chest, leaving me with the usual feeling of emptiness. She didn't even ask why I got into a fight. Is the reason not important? What if I was defending myself, which I was, he was bigger and stronger. Apparently that isn’t important. Only their careers and brands do.

“Look at your face,” she says, lifting a hand as if the bruise is a moral failing. “As a young woman, how can you keep bruising your face? Freya, learn some self-control, for goodness’ sake.”

I clamp my jaw to hold back hot words, fist tightening at my side. “You don’t even know what happened.”

“What happened?” she snaps, but doesn't wait for an answer. “Did he call you names again? Lie about something? You don’t have to start a fight over every little thing someone does.”

That cranks my anger meter straighter to boiling. “So what, I’m supposed to let people walk over me? Be weak and perfect while bastards like Scott mock me?” I grit out.

“Scott?” Horror floods her features, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God, no– ”

“Yes.” I grind the word between my teeth. I don’t care who his father is, anyone who f***s with me gets f****d back. Period. I turn for the stairs, already done with this conversation.

“Freya!” She calls, but I ignore her and keep walking until I reach my room. Damn it. Why is she even here? Mom is rarely around , I see her once a month, sometimes once every two months , and now she shows up again. I would’ve liked having her around any other day. Why did it have to be today?

Frustrated, I dump my things on the table, peel off my clothes and drag myself into a hot shower. Steal fills the bathroom, clinging to the mirror. I wipe it clean and stare at my reflection. Damp, my hair looks almost grey, plastered to my skin. The bruises look worse than I thought: Split lip, that’s from Johanna , a cut over my brow, purple bruises on one cheek and along the side of my head. No wonder Mom looked horrified.

I let out a breath, open the cabinet, and grab something for the pain. My head is pounding and my whole body feels wrecked. I haven’t been in a fight like that in a while. No one’s pissed me off enough for this. Just my luck it happens the same week Grey comes back. Now Mom will dutifully tell him everything.

I change into clean clothes , shorts and a camisole , and flop onto my bed with my phone. For an hour I doom-scroll until the meds kick in, I drift off. I start awake at a sharp knock on my door.

It’s Grey.

My heart jumps. I rush to the mirror and smooth down my hair. I slept with it damp, huge mistake. I need at least thirty minutes to fix it. Grey keeps knocking. Oh well. I open the door, leaning casually on the frame.

“What?” I say, but his blue-gold eyes just stare at me. My heart hurts at the sight of him. I’ve missed him, missed talking to him, looking at him, touching him. There isn’t anything I haven’t missed. Right now I want to fall into him and be taken care of, but I can already imagine his reaction.

He scans my bruises and doesn't say a word. “Come downstairs. Mom and Dad are waiting.” Then he turns and heads for the stairs. My stomach drops. No reaction at all.

“Wait,” I call, hurrying to catch up. “Why are they here? Is it because of me?”

Grey doesn’t answer and he doesn’t stop. “Why don’t you see for yourself,” he says, walking ahead of me.

Grey has always reacted fast when something happened to me. I remember the boy who shoved me to the ground when we were kids, he was the same age as me, someone I should’ve handled. But Grey rushed in, grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt, dangled him off the floor, and snarled in his face.

“If you ever touch my sister again, I’ll break your hand,” Grey had said. That kid had been so scared he pissed himself. His mom reported it to Grey’s school, and he got suspended. Dad didn't bother stepping in. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t care now. Grey is playing the role of ordinary stepbrother now. Not the man I love. Not the man who loves me anymore.

I clench and unclench my fists and follow him into the living room. When he said “Mom”, I wished he had added “Johanna.” I stiffen at the sight of her.

All three of my parents are seated in the living room, and between them is a new face, a girl with bleached, ash-blonde hair. She perches between Dad and my stepmom, talking in a melodic, sing-song voice about who knows what.

I lift a brow. Something about her ticks me off. Maybe it’s the way she talks like a child. Or the length of her hair, a mirror of how I used to wear mine. Or maybe it’s the way all three of them are looking at her like she is joy personified. My lips twitch, caught between a grimace and a sneer. What kind of show is this?

“Oh, it’s Freya,” the girl chirps, noticing me first. Grey moves to stand at the far side of the couch while I halt in front of the opposite one.

“Do I know you?” I ask, skipping preamble or friendliness. Whoever she is, she shouldn’t think there’s a relationship between us.

She beams, but Dad answers for her. “You don’t know her yet, Freya.”

“But I’ve heard so much about you it feels like I do,” she says, a bright grin still glued on her face. It makes my own twitch, like I want to smile back, but every muscle is also trying to grimace.

“Why?” I ask warily, glancing at Mom and Johanna’s exasperated faces.

“Because she’s your stepsister, dear,” Mom says warmly, but tired. “We’ve talked about this. You should know her by now.”