He used his fingers to raise my face—thumb under my chin, gently.
Eyes locked on mine—dark, conflicted, still glassy from whatever war he’d just lost inside his head.
“Don’t you ever dare, Steph,” he said suddenly, voice switching back to that low, commanding tone he used in lecture halls and when he was trying to pretend he had control.
“Go to your room. Now.”
What the hell?
Few minutes ago he was on his knees begging—*“I’ll be a good boy, Steph, please… let me go”*—voice cracked, hands shaking on my neck like he was terrified of me and addicted to me at the same time.
Now he was standing tall again, jaw set, hoodie zipped up, joggers adjusted like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just thrust into my mouth while Mom was right outside the door.
Like he hadn’t come dow
