Stepdad’s Pet; His Son’s Plaything

The predator’s dinner

JORDAN’S POV

The dining room of our home was designed for elegance, but tonight, it felt like a pressurized chamber. The clink of silver against fine china sounded like a ticking clock, and the scent of the roasted lamb was nauseating, masked by the heavy, invisible cloud of what had happened only hours ago in my study.

I sat at the head of the table, the seat of the patriarch, but my skin felt as though it were vibrating. Every time I shifted, the fabric of my shirt brushed against my chest, reminding me of the heat, the frantic gasps, and the way Emma had looked—shattered and reborn—on my desk.

Ruth sat to my right, her posture perfect, but her face was a mask of pale porcelain. Across from her, Emma was picking at a salad she hadn't touched. Her eyes were fixed on her plate, her blonde hair falling forward like a curtain to hide the marks I knew were hidden beneath her collar.

I reached for my wine glass, and to my horror, my fingers trembled. I had to grip the stem with a white-knuckled force to keep the Cabernet from sloshing.

I was a man who handled billion-dollar mergers without blinking, yet sitting here, across from the woman I’d just possessed and the wife I was betraying, I felt like a house of cards in a hurricane.

"Reign is late," Ruth said. Her voice wasn't its usual melodic hum. It was a dull, flat blade that sliced through the silence. She didn't look at her plate. She looked directly at me, her eyes narrow and searching. "Jordan, did you speak with him after... after what happened earlier?"

What happened earlier?

The words hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. My heart didn't just race; it leaped into my throat, choking off my air. My mind raced through a thousand terrifying possibilities. Had she seen us through the gap in the door? Had she heard the desk hit the wall? Had she found the discarded lace on the floor?

I took a slow, agonizing sip of the wine, using the movement to hide the fact that I had forgotten how to breathe. I glanced at Emma. The horror on her face mirrored mine—a raw, naked terror that threatened to expose us both.

She had frozen mid-gesture, her fork hovering over her plate, her skin turning a ghostly shade of grey. We were both standing on the edge of the abyss, waiting for Ruth to push us.

"He’s a grown man, Ruth," I managed to say, my voice sounding strained and thin to my own ears. "He comes and goes as he pleases. I don't keep a leash on him."

"He came to see me," Ruth whispered, her gaze finally dropping to her lap. "He was... upset. He collapsed, Jordan. He cried into my lap like his heart was breaking. I’ve never seen him like that. Not in seven years."

I felt a sharp, icy prickle of annoyance cut through my panic. He went to her. The coward had run to the one person in this house who still believed in his "troubled boy" act. He had used her kindness as a shield.

"Why would he be crying?" Emma asked. Her voice was a fragile thread, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. She was looking at her mother now, her eyes flickering with the secret we had just cemented in blood and bourbon.

"I think you know why, Emma," Ruth said. Her voice was surprisingly firm, vibrating with a new, dangerous authority.

She looked at her daughter with a mixture of pity and a terror that made my blood run cold.

"I think we all know that the 'friction' in this house has reached a breaking point. I saw you, Emma. I saw you coming out of the study. You looked... distraught."

My heart hammered against my ribcage so hard it felt like it would crack a bone. I felt the sweat start to gather at the small of my back. She saw her. "Ruth," I started, my voice a warning, but she cut me off.

"Is it enough to just ignore what's happening under our roof?"

Ruth leaned forward, her eyes bright with a frantic, misplaced energy.

"I know you're trying to protect him, Jordan. I know you're trying to cover for your son because you love him and you don't want to admit what he's becoming. You did it at the balcony the other night, and you did it today in the study. You were in there with them, weren't you? Trying to mediate? Trying to stop Reign from... from whatever he’s doing to her?"

A heavy, silent sigh of relief almost escaped my lips. She didn’t know.

The "Saint" was still safe. Ruth wasn't suspecting a betrayal from her husband; she was suspecting a predatory obsession from his son. She had seen Emma’s disarray and attributed it to Reign’s aggression, assuming I was the one holding the line, the father correcting his wayward children.

I felt a dark, twisted sense of irony. My wife was handing me the perfect alibi, and she was doing it out of a desperate need to believe in my integrity.

"Ruthie, darling," I said, my voice dropping into a low, soothing whisper—the "Perfect Husband" tone I had mastered over a decade. I reached across the table, covering her hand with mine. "We shouldn't discuss this here. Not in front of Emma."

"But Jordan, he's hurting her!" Ruth’s voice rose, a hint of hysteria creeping in. "I saw the way she looked. If he’s laying a hand on her, if he’s forcing himself into her space…"

"I was correcting them, Ruth," I lied, the words tasting like ash and silk. I looked her dead in the eye, projecting the image of the stoic protector. "I was being a father. I was letting Reign know that his behavior is unacceptable and ensuring Emma felt safe. You have to trust me. I would never allow anyone—not even my own son—to hurt her. Rest assured, I have it under control."

As I spoke the lie, my gaze drifted to Emma. Even with the terror of discovery still fresh, the sight of her made my pulse spike. I found myself fantasizing about clearing this very table—sweeping the china and the silver to the floor just as I had the papers in my study—and taking her right here, in front of the woman who thought I was a saint. I wanted to see if she would scream for her mother or moan for her "Daddy."

“Hello, mom… I’m here and I’m not a child. Reign had never hurt and I’m sure he’ll never do that, it’s just siblings-fight.” Emma said defensively.

I heard Ruth let out a shaky breath of relief.

The silence returned, but it was different now. It was no longer a trial; it was a conspiracy. Ruth nodded slowly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction, her faith in me restored like a broken bone set in a cast.

"I just... I want her to be safe," Ruth whispered.

"She is," I promised, my thumb stroking the back of Ruth’s hand while my eyes stayed locked on Emma. "She’s exactly where she belongs."

Suddenly, the front door slammed open. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot, shattering the fragile peace we had just manufactured.

Reign was home.

He didn't go to his room. He walked straight to the dining room archway and leaned against it. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under a leather jacket that smelled of stale adrenaline and a cloying, cheap vanilla perfume that definitely didn't belong to anyone in this house. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like a man who had just crawled out of a wreck.

He didn't look at Ruth. He didn't look at me. He looked straight at Emma, a dark, jagged smirk pulling at his lips—the look of a man who had a secret of his own, and was just waiting for the right moment to burn the whole house down with it.

"Am I late for grace?" he rasped, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that made the hair on my neck stand up.

The "calm" was officially over.