Stepdad’s Pet; His Son’s Plaything

The mirror’s edge

REIGN’S POV

The house was suffocatingly quiet the morning after the terrace explosion. It was that heavy, artificial silence that follows a storm, where every floorboard creak sounds like a confession.

I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the cold marble of the island, my knuckles white as I gripped a mug of coffee I had no intention of drinking.The liquid was bitter, mirroring the taste in the back of my throat.

My mind was a jagged mess of the night before—the salt of Emma’s tears, the frantic way she’d pulled me into her, and the haunting, rhythmic thudding of my father in the next room.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the two of them: the "Saint" and the "Daddy’s Girl," playing their roles while the foundation of this family turned to dust.

Then, Ruth walked in.

I had never really looked at her before. For seven years, she had been a background character in my life—"the wife," the soft-spoken woman who curated my father’s perfect image and kept the domestic gears grinding.

But today, with the ghost of Emma’s touch still burning like a brand on my skin, the scales fell from my eyes.

She was forty-two, and the morning sun hitting the kitchen windows was unforgiving, yet it only made her more striking. There was a groundedness in the way she moved, a quiet, effortless intelligence in her eyes that Emma hadn't quite mastered yet.

She had the same blond hair as Emma, same heart shaped face and piercing eye color, she was just as beautiful as her daughter but she was the more feminine, more grounded, more intelligent, more intentional and more emotionally mature version

Emma was a fire—wild, flickering, and prone to burning herself out. Ruth was the embers—steady, deep, and capable of holding heat long after the flames died down. She was the finished product.

As she reached for a ceramic mug, her silk robe dipped, revealing the elegant curve of her neck and the steady pulse at the base of her throat. Suddenly, it clicked in my brain with the force of a physical blow.

I finally understood why Emma was so obsessed with my father. It wasn't just some cliché "Daddy" complex; she was chasing the weight of authority. She wanted the stability of a person who had already survived the storms she was currently drowning in. Jordan was the anchor she thought she needed.

And looking at Ruth, I realized I was falling into the same trap. I wanted that maturity. I wanted the woman who didn't need to play games because she already knew how they ended. I wanted to see what happened when that calm, "perfect wife" composure was finally shattered.

"You're very quiet this morning, Reign," Ruth said, turning to me with a gentle, maternal smile that made my stomach churn with a dark, new hunger. "Still thinking about your argument with Emma on the terrace?"

"Something like that," I muttered. My gaze dropped, trailing from her eyes down to the soft swell of her lips.

I began to fantasize right there, in the bright, clinical morning light. I imagined vaulting over this marble island, grabbing her by the waist, and forcing her to forget my father’s name the way I’d made Emma forget it the night before.

It wasn't just about s*x anymore; it was about the ultimate conquest. If Jordan was the king of this castle, Ruth was the throne. Taking her wasn't just an act of lust—it was a declaration of war. It was about proving that the son could conquer the Queen just as easily as the Princess.

"You have your father’s eyes," she said, stepping closer to adjust the collar of my shirt. It was a gesture she’d done a thousand times, but today, her proximity felt like a threat. I could smell her—not the sugary, floral scent Emma wore, but something deeper. Sandalwood and expensive skin cream.

Her fingers brushed the skin of my neck, and I had to lock my jaw to keep from reacting. The electricity I felt was jagged and wrong, but God, it was potent.

"So intense," she whispered, her eyes searching mine with a kindness that felt like a knife. "You should try to relax, Reign. Life is too short to carry all this anger around. You and Emma... you're family. You need to find a way to coexist without all this friction."

"I'm not angry, Ruth," I whispered, my voice dropping to a low, predatory rumble that made her blink in surprise. "I'm just starting to see things clearly. For the first time in seven years, I see exactly how this house works."

She patted my cheek—a lingering touch that felt like she was trying to soothe a beast she didn't realize was already at her throat. When she walked away, the silk of her robe fluttering behind her, I stayed exactly where I was.

“Ruth…” I called out.

She turned back, that sweet, effortless smile returning to her face. "Do you want something, sweetheart?"

That was it. She was always like that. For years, it had meant nothing to me because she was the perfect "mother figure." She was the mother I never had, the one who cared if I’d eaten or if I’d slept. But not anymore. Now, that kindness was just another wall I wanted to kick down.

"Can I get a hug?" I asked. It was a test. A weapon disguised as a plea.

She smiled sweetly, her eyes softening. "Of course, darling."

She walked back to me and wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me into a motherly embrace. But as I felt her soft body against mine, the scent of her hair filling my lungs, I didn't feel like a son. I felt my c**k rising, straining against my jeans.

The contrast was intoxicating—the pure, innocent warmth of her hug clashing with the dark, filthy thoughts screaming in my head. I squeezed her back, perhaps a little too hard, a little too long.

"Thank you," I whispered against her hair as she finally broke the hug.

She stepped back, patting my head with a look of genuine concern. "I’m not going to ask or force you to tell me, but if anything is bothering you, I’m here to listen."

I nodded, watching her walk away. She looked at me pitifully, as if I were a wounded animal. She had no idea she was the one in danger.

The resolve in me was cold, hard, and absolute. My father thought he was the only player on the board. He thought he could have the daughter in the dark and the mother in the light. He thought he could keep us all in our little boxes.

He was wrong. If Emma wanted the father, then I would take the mother. I would peel back every layer of Ruth’s "perfect" life until there was nothing left but the raw, shaking reality of what her husband had turned us into. We were going to burn this whole house down, and I was going to be the one holding the match.

I watched her disappear down the hallway toward the master suite, and I felt a dark smirk pull at my lips. Jordan didn't know it yet, but his empire was already falling. I was going to take his legacy, his pride, and finally, his wife.

The mirror was cracked, and soon, the whole image was going to shatter.