The Incest

Chapter eight

Xavier’s POV

I shouldn’t do it. That was the truth I kept telling myself every damn morning.

I shouldn’t look for her. I shouldn’t wait for the sound of her door creaking open, shouldn’t listen for her quick, light footsteps across the hall, shouldn’t anticipate the way she’d deliberately avoid looking in my direction if we crossed paths. I shouldn’t want any of it.

But I did.

Cora was… a paradox I hadn’t figured out how to solve. She was all defenses and sharp comebacks, yet underneath that, I caught glimpses of something softer—something fragile she tried desperately to hide. And maybe I was a bastard for this, but I loved pulling at those cracks, teasing her until she showed more than she meant to.

Teasing her wasn’t cruelty. It was survival. Mine, at least. I couldn’t have her—not in any way that mattered—so I made do with what I could get. A smirk across the dining table, a brush of her elbow in the hallway, the satisfying way her cheeks heated when I called her “adorable.” They were crumbs, maybe, but I clung to them like a starving man.

She didn’t see herself the way I did. She thought she was hiding. She thought she was cold, unapproachable, impossible to read. But I saw the way her hands shook when she picked up her fork, the way she pressed her lips tight when she wanted to scream, the way her whole body went stiff when I leaned too close. And God help me, every little twitch of hers was addicting.

Why? Because she was the only thing in this entire sprawling, suffocating house that felt real. Everyone else walked around like they were on stage, rehearsing their lines for some play about perfection. But not her. Cora was messy, raw, unpolished. She hid it, sure, but I saw through the act. And I liked it. No—I craved it.

That’s why I couldn’t leave her alone.

That’s why I leaned against her doorframe even when I knew she’d glare at me.

That’s why I sat across from her at breakfast, even when she clearly wished me six feet under.

Because as much as she hated my presence… she reacted. And in this family, in this house, in this world where everyone wore masks so tight they barely breathed, Cora reacted to me. She felt. And she made me feel too.

I knew the rules. Hell, I’d written them myself: Don’t cross the line. Don’t let it get too far. Don’t make her hate you for real. Keep it light, keep it playful, keep it survivable. The step-sibling boundary wasn’t something I could erase, no matter how many times my chest ached with wanting to.

So I became the villain in her story. The tease. The pest. The one she plotted escape routes from like a general waging war. I wore the smirk, I played the part, and I told myself it was enough. Because what else could I do?

Still… when the house went quiet at night, when everyone was asleep and the world finally left me alone, I let myself think about it. Think about her. Think about what it would be like if things were different. If we weren’t bound by names and bloodlines and the suffocating weight of family.

But those thoughts were dangerous. Too dangerous. So I always stopped before I let them bloom.

Instead, I replayed her glares. Her groans. The way she’d bury her face in a book just to avoid looking at me. Those little battles, those scraps of fire—that was my fuel.

And in some twisted, unspoken way, I think she knew it too. Because for all her groaning and hiding, she never told me to stop outright. Not really. She shoved, she yelled, she called me impossible—but she never shut the door completely. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe a part of her needed me just as much as I needed her.

That was enough to keep me going. Enough to keep me waiting outside doorframes, enough to make me lean against library shelves like I owned the place, enough to keep me smirking even when I wanted to say something real.

Because the truth?

If I stopped teasing her, if I stopped pushing, if I stopped being everywhere—she might forget me. And that was the one thing I couldn’t let happen.

Breakfast in this house was always a production. Too many forks, too much silver, too much silence. I hated it. But that morning, I didn’t care about any of it—because I knew she’d be there.

Cora always came down earlier than she wanted to. She hated the big dining table more than I did, but she hated being late even more. Predictable, in her own way. And I loved that about her.

When I walked in, I spotted her instantly—small frame hunched at the far end of the table, eyes glued to the tablecloth like it held the secrets of the universe. She shoved eggs onto her plate like she was in some kind of eating competition, jaw tight, movements sharp. Avoidance was her whole strategy, but I knew her too well.

I slid into the chair across from her, ignoring the ten other empty seats. The air shifted instantly. I could feel the tension spike, like I’d pulled a live wire and held it in my hands.

“You’re quiet,” I said, leaning back casually, tone laced with amusement. I already knew how she’d respond. She always took the bait.

Her fork paused mid-air. “I am not tense,” she said, voice sharper than the knife by her plate. But I heard it—the tiny crack in her voice, the way it shook before she steadied it. That small fracture was mine.

“Sure you’re not,” I murmured, smirking. Her glare could have burned holes straight through me, and God, I wanted her to use it. To unleash it.

She sat straighter, fork clutched like a weapon, refusing to look at me. I let my eyes linger on her anyway, just enough to make her fidget. It was cruel, maybe. But I lived for those little shifts.

“You’re… adorable when you try to act normal,” I said finally, the words slipping out smoother than I intended.

That one landed. Her cheeks flushed, and she stuffed another forkful of eggs into her mouth just to avoid answering. I nearly laughed. That was the thing about Cora—she’d rather choke on scrambled eggs than give me the satisfaction of a comeback.

“Step-brother, boundaries. Remember them?” she snapped finally, voice muffled around food.

The word step-brother hit like a stone in my gut. A reminder. A wall slammed down where I didn’t want one. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t let it show.

“Oh, I remember,” I said smoothly, smirk widening even though it hurt to keep it. “I just… choose to ignore them.”

Her groan was priceless. The kind of frustrated sound that told me I’d gotten under her skin again. I leaned back in my chair, satisfied, watching her shovel eggs like her life depended on it.

But underneath the game, underneath the smirk, I felt it. That ache. That gnawing guilt. Because I knew I was walking a razor-thin line. Every tease, every word, every smirk—it was all an attempt to get close without really crossing. But sometimes, I wondered if I was just building myself a cage.

Cora thought she was the one trapped by me, always looking for escape routes. The truth was, I was the one trapped. Trapped in this endless push-and-pull, in this craving I couldn’t satisfy and couldn’t kill.

When she finished her plate, she pushed back from the table so abruptly her chair squeaked against the polished floor. She didn’t look at me, didn’t give me the satisfaction of one last glare—just grabbed her books and stalked out, shoulders stiff.

But I was already smiling. Because I knew exactly where she’d go next.

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The library at night was mine. At least, that’s how I liked to think of it. The rest of the house belonged to everyone else—the chandelier-lit dining room, the suffocatingly polished living spaces, even the hallways that carried footsteps like secrets. But the library? That was different. Darker. Quieter.

I leaned against one of the tall shelves, the leather spines lined up like soldiers at attention behind me. My arms were crossed, my posture casual, but inside I was anything but calm. I wasn’t here to read. I wasn’t here because I liked the smell of old books or the hush of the carpet underfoot. I was here because I knew she would come.

Cora always came to the library when she wanted to vanish. It was her hiding place, her retreat, her fortress. She thought no one knew. But I knew. I always knew.

I shouldn’t be here. I knew that too. I should be in my room, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, pretending I cared about texts from friends who didn’t matter. Instead, I was standing in the dark, waiting like some kind of predator, smirk already tugging at my mouth at the thought of her walking through the door.

Why? Because I couldn’t help myself. Because teasing her, watching her bristle, listening to the way her voice cracked when she tried to sound calm—it was all I had. The only way I could be close without crossing the line.

The door creaked, and my heart jumped.

There she was.

Hair loose around her face, notebook hugged tight to her chest, eyes scanning the shelves like she belonged here more than anywhere else in this house. She froze the second she spotted me. Her whole body stiffened, and I almost laughed out loud.

“You again?” she said, voice dripping with disdain, though I didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around the notebook.

I let the smirk widen. “Where else would I be? You’re predictable, Cora. Library, notebooks, hiding from the world… and from me.”

Her glare was sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re fun when you’re mad,” I shot back. I pushed off the shelf, taking a lazy step forward. She instantly stepped back, hitting another row of books with her shoulder.

The tension between us sparked like static. She hated it. She loved it. She didn’t even know what to do with it. And I… I thrived on it.

“Stop following me,” she snapped.

“Why would I stop?” I tilted my head, grinning. “You’re the only entertainment in this entire mansion. Annoying you is basically my full-time job.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “You think this is funny?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice dropping lower, softer, just to watch the way her breath caught. “I think you’re funny. Cute. Infuriating. All of it.”

Her jaw dropped, and then she snapped it shut like she was sealing in every possible comeback. Her cheeks flushed, red blooming across her skin. She looked like she wanted to set me on fire with sheer willpower.

“God, you’re…” she muttered under her breath, so quiet I almost missed it.

“What was that?” I teased, leaning in just enough to make her retreat another inch.

Her hands tightened on the notebook. She looked like she wanted to throw it at my head. Instead, she shoved me, hard. I let her push me, but my hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could pull away.

And suddenly, the air between us wasn’t playful anymore.

Her eyes locked on mine, wide and burning. Her pulse fluttered against my fingers. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.

That was when I knew. Something was about to break.

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Her wrist was small in my hand, pulse quick, skin warm. I wasn’t even gripping tight—just enough to stop her from storming off like she always did. But the way she froze, the way her eyes widened like she’d been caught, made me feel like I was holding something dangerous.

“Let go,” she whispered.

I tilted my head, smirk tugging at my lips. “And miss the look on your face right now? Not a chance.”

Her chest rose and fell, sharp little breaths that didn’t match the calm glare she was trying so hard to wear. She wanted to scream at me—I could see it in the tight line of her mouth. Instead, she did something else. Something reckless.

She leaned in and kissed me.

One second I was teasing, and the next, her mouth crashed into mine—hard, clumsy, desperate. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t slow, wasn’t anything like I’d imagined a hundred times in my head. It was angry. A shut-up-already kind of kiss. A I hate you, I want you, I can’t stand this anymore kind of kiss.

My brain flatlined. Completely blank. All I could register was the warmth of her lips and the fact that Cora—Cora—had actually kissed me.

For a split second, I forgot every reason why I shouldn’t kiss her back.

But then she pulled away, eyes blazing, lips parted like she was waiting for me to mock her. And the laugh broke out before I could stop it.

Not mean. Not cruel. Just stunned. Disbelieving. Breathless.

Her face went scarlet. “What the hell is so funny?” she snapped, shoving me again.

I shook my head, still laughing under my breath. “You. That. Cora, you don’t even know how to kiss, do you?”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You just—” I mimicked her messy lunge, leaning forward with zero technique, zero hesitation. “That was your strategy? Just slam into me and hope for the best?”

“Shut up!” she hissed, mortified, cheeks on fire.

God, she was beautiful like that—furious, embarrassed, alive in a way she tried so hard to hide.

“Was that your first?” I asked before I could stop myself, my voice softer, curious more than mocking.

Her lips pressed into a tight line. She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

Something twisted in my chest. I should’ve stopped. I should’ve let her go, let her escape before she hated me for real. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice until it was just for her. “You know… for a first time, that wasn’t so bad. Messy, yeah. But…” My thumb brushed over her wrist before I finally released her. “Adorable.”

Her whole body stiffened. Her eyes flashed. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. You keep saying that,” I said lightly, stepping back, masking the ache in my chest with another smirk. “But you kissed me, not the other way around. Remember that.”

Her mouth opened like she had a comeback ready, but no words came out. She looked furious at herself, at me, at the entire universe. And maybe she had a right to be.

Because truth? I wasn’t laughing at her. I was laughing at myself. At how completely undone I was by a kiss that lasted barely two seconds. At how much I wanted more.

But wanting more was dangerous. Too dangerous.

So before I could do something reckless—like pull her in again, like kiss her the way I actually wanted to—I forced myself to step away.

“I should go,” I said, smirk still plastered on my face even though it felt heavy. “Before this… feeling eats me alive.”

Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. Didn’t stop me.

I walked out of the library, every step echoing too loud in the silence. My lips still burned, my chest still ached, and my hands felt empty without her wrist in them.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure if teasing her would ever be enough again.

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