Stepbrother’s Luna

The Boy I Should Have Forgotten

Emery Carter never liked milk. It tasted too clean, too soft, too much like a childhood she couldn’t crawl back into — not after her mother died, not after she learned to fold herself into something sweet and quiet for her father’s sake.

Yet here she sat, cereal soggy, spoon slipping between pale fingers as her father spoke three words that cracked the shell she’d built around herself piece by piece.

“We’re getting married,” he said, voice bright and easy, the same tone he’d used when telling her she’d be fine at a new school or that Mom was just sleeping in the hospital bed that last night.

The news dripped into her lap like the milk seeping through the pages of her textbook. The ring on her finger — Jackson’s ring — felt suddenly heavier than the cheap gold band should. She traced it absently while her father raved about love at his age, about second chances, about how she’d be so proud to stand beside him.

“She’s wonderful, Em. Claire’s got a son, too. Roman. He’s your age, actually. I think you’ll get along just fine.”

Roman.

The name was a blade she’d buried deep in her ribs when she was fourteen and stupid enough to believe the boy with wolf eyes would always belong to her.

He didn’t, though. He belonged to the night and the wind and the wild things her mother had whispered about when Emery was a child — stories about the Hayes family who weren’t quite like the rest of them, stories her father called nonsense every time he heard her repeat them.

Roman left when she was fourteen, leaving behind nothing but a folded note that still bled ink under her fingertips when she pulled it out, years later, upstairs in her old bedroom while her father clinked glasses downstairs to celebrate his new life.

Stay away from me, Em. I’m not good for you.

He’d written it in block letters, sharp and angry. But when she closed her eyes, she could still feel his thumb brushing her cheek, could still hear him call her firefly under his breath when they hid in the treehouse behind the trailer park, the night so thick with summer heat they’d pretended not to see the way his hands trembled near her thigh.

She should have forgotten him. Should have loved Jackson harder. Should have buried her old dreams somewhere they couldn’t wake her up in the dark.

But Emery Carter was good at pretending — never forgetting.

⸻

Three weeks later, her entire life was stacked in three cardboard boxes on the front porch of a house that smelled too clean, too new to feel like home. Her father was beaming beside her, Claire fussing with her hair, telling her how lovely she looked, how thin she’d gotten, how Roman would be so happy to see her again.

Happy. Sure. Maybe he’d smile that sharp smile again, the one that never reached his eyes. Maybe he’d look at her the way he did before he vanished — hungry and guilty and like he wanted to tear down the world if it meant she’d be his.

Inside, the walls gleamed fresh white. The floors shone under her sneakers. There were no pictures yet, just a few taped boxes marked kitchen, linens, Christmas.

Emery’s chest ached for the familiar creak of her old front door, the way the porch step dipped under her weight, the cracked sidewalk that led to Jackson’s truck idling at the curb on weekends.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Three new messages.

Brunch with my parents tomorrow.

Wear the blue dress.

Don’t be late this time.

Jackson always liked her in blue. Said it made her look pure, sweet, untouched. He liked her soft, pliable, easy to explain to his mother with the perfect hair and the sharper tongue.

She almost texted back — I’m here, I’m safe, I’m good. But the words died when Claire touched her elbow.

“Roman’s upstairs. Go surprise him, sweetheart. He’ll be thrilled.”

Her father’s hand landed on her shoulder. Warm. Steady. “Go on, Em. Make him feel welcome. He’s family now.”

Family. The word tasted like blood.

⸻

The stairs creaked under her weight, each step an echo of something she hadn’t dared to think about in years. The smell hit her halfway up — not paint or sawdust, but something darker, richer, like smoke trapped under pine needles and the wet earth after a storm.

It wrapped around her throat, made her skin buzz like static. Her breath turned shallow, chest rising too fast, heartbeat hammering against the ring on her finger.

The hallway light was dead except for a sliver of gold under the last door. A low hum — music maybe, or a fan — drifted out when she pressed her palm to the wood. She didn’t knock. She never did, not with him.

The door swung open and she saw him.

Roman Hayes didn’t look up at first. He was bent over an old wooden desk, shirt hugging shoulders that had once been lanky and boyish but now stretched the seams with new muscle, dark tattoos peeking under the rolled sleeves. He smelled like motor oil and smoke and rain, and when he finally lifted his head, the boy she’d loved was nowhere to be found.

The man who looked at her now had lines carved into the corners of his mouth, scruff shadowing his jaw. His eyes were still the same — liquid gold and something sharp in the dark — but older now, rawer, like the rest of him.

The silence crackled between them. Neither moved. Neither breathed. The only sound was the rasp of her pulse roaring in her ears.

Roman’s mouth curved, slow and deliberate. Not soft. Dangerous. The corner of his lip twitched like he was fighting a laugh.

“Look at you, Firefly,” he murmured, voice so low she almost missed it. “All grown up.”

The nickname slithered down her spine, coiling around bones she’d thought were solid. Her throat tightened. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

She should have said something clever. Asked about the years, the note, the broken promise he’d carved into her ribs when he vanished. But her eyes dropped instead — to the mark at his throat, half hidden by his collar. A jagged scar she didn’t remember. A tattoo she couldn’t read.

His eyes flicked down, caught the glint of gold on her left hand. The smile that wasn’t a smile stretched wider. His teeth flashed white — too sharp, too wicked.

“Daddy’s little princess all ready to play house with her human doll?”

The way he said human made her stomach flip, her skin break out in goosebumps. She opened her mouth — for what, she didn’t know — but he was already moving.

One moment Roman was slouched at his desk. The next, he was in front of her, bigger than she remembered, heat rolling off him in waves. One arm braced above her head, palm flat against the door, the other ghosting over her hip. Not touching — not quite — but close enough she could feel the promise of it.

His scent poured into her nose, sharp and wild and electric. Something deep in her belly twisted.

“You left,” she whispered. The words trembled, pathetically small.

His breath skimmed her jaw, warm and rough. “Yeah,” he said, voice more growl than speech. “And you were supposed to forget me.”

Her fingers curled around the doorframe to keep from reaching for him. She wanted to push him away. Wanted to slap him for every year she’d woken up from dreams she never told Jackson about. But the part of her that was good and soft and safe melted when Roman dipped his head, nose brushing the hollow of her throat.

He inhaled. Slow. Deep. Like he could drink her down to the bone.

“Why do you still smell like mine, Firefly?” he murmured, lips ghosting over her skin. His breath left sparks behind. Tiny fires under her ribs.

She tried to pull back, but his hand slid lower, thumb grazing her hip bone. A spark shot down her spine so sharp she gasped. Her free hand pressed flat against his chest — hard muscle under her palm, heat radiating through thin cotton.

Roman’s pulse thudded under her skin, not human-fast but something different, slower, heavier, as if the beat echoed from somewhere older. The wild scent tangled with the memory of his voice, the broken note.

She could feel her body betraying her — knees soft, thighs pressing together, lips parted on a breath she couldn’t catch. Her phone buzzed again in her back pocket. Jackson. Safe Jackson. Clean Jackson. The boy she’d promised to marry because it was the right thing.

Roman’s mouth curled against her throat. She felt the edge of his teeth — sharper than they should be. “Go back downstairs, princess,” he whispered, voice wrapping around her like a leash. “Before I forget what they want me to be.”

Emery stumbled back. The door banged against her shoulder as she fled, heartbeat roaring in her ears. She didn’t look back — didn’t dare. His eyes burned into her spine all the way down the stairs.

⸻

At the bottom, her father was laughing with Claire over cheap champagne and stories about how they’d met. A photo album lay open on the coffee table — snapshots of two families about to be forced together under the pretense of something pure.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out with shaking fingers.

Blue dress tomorrow.

No more excuses.

You’re mine.

Upstairs, Roman’s door slammed shut. A low thud followed — something heavy hitting the floor.

Claire caught Emery’s eyes and smiled so warmly it made her chest ache. “Isn’t it wonderful having everyone together?”

Emery forced a smile. Nodded.

But under her ribs, something ancient coiled awake. Something wild that whispered that she was never Jackson’s. Never safe.

And that her stepbrother was never really gone.