Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Lilian, this isn’t—”
Before I can finish, she moves forward with lightning speed, rising up onto her tiptoes to press her lips against mine. The kiss is clumsy, inexperienced—the impulsive action of a sixteen-year-old making her first romantic move. Her hands come up to rest tentatively on my shoulders, her entire body trembling with nerves and determination.
For one dangerous second, a heartbeat, a moment in time, I’m frozen—the unexpected contact short-circuiting my carefully maintained control. Electricity renders me motionless, heat flaring and rippling through my body, evidence of everything I’ve been denying to myself.
Then cold common sense flashes through the heat, restoring logic.
Taking her by the biceps, I firmly push her away, holding her at arm’s length. The confusion bleeding into her eyes quickly shifts to hurt, then finally embarrassment as she registers my expression.
“Aries, I—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice deliberately cold. “This can’t happen. You must be confused.” I continue, “Mistaking familial affection for something inappropriate. Something impossible.”
Her gaze widens, hurt blooming across her features. “I’m not confused. I know what I feel.”
“What you feel is nothing more than a childish crush,” I continue mercilessly. “A textbook case of misplaced emotion due to proximity. It’s embarrassing, Lilian. For both of us.”
She flinches as if I’ve struck her, but something in her—that same determination that brought her here—rallies.
“You’re lying,” she whispers, stepping closer despite my hands still gripping her arms. “I see it in your eyes. You feel something, too.”
“What I feel is concern that my stepsister has developed an unhealthy fixation.” The words taste like poison, designed to wound, to create distance that can’t be bridged. “One that reflects poorly on her emotional maturity.”
Tears gather in her eyes, but rather than retreating, she makes one last desperate attempt. Breaking free from my grip, she surges forward again, hands framing my face as she presses her lips to mine a second time.
This kiss is different—less hesitant, more insistent.
And for one terrible, perfect moment, I respond.
My control slips, and my hands move to her waist as my lips soften under hers, revealing the truth I’ve tried so hard to deny. For a heartbeat—no more—I allow myself to consider what could be, in another world, maybe if we’d been born to another fucking family.
Then reality crashes back, bringing with it all the reasons this can never happen. Father’s manipulation. The family’s toxic influence. Her youth and vulnerability. My own darkness I fight to contain.
I push her away with more force than necessary, genuine anger mixing with self-loathing. “Enough!”
She stumbles back, anger replacing hurt as she registers that moment of response. “What do you mean? You kissed me back.”
“I did not.” The denial is swift, cold, absolute. “And the fact that you’d delude yourself into thinking so only proves my point. This is a pathetic fantasy, Lilian. One that makes me uncomfortable to even be around you.”
Each word is calculated for maximum damage, designed to create a wound so deep she’ll never approach this subject again. I force myself to continue, to be cruel beyond any previous interaction.
“Did you really think I could see you that way? My teenage stepsister? It’s not just inappropriate—it’s repulsive.”
The color drains from her face, the anger slowly receding, leaving her pale and hollow-eyed. She drops her hands down to her sides, her body seeming to fold in on itself as each word lands like a slice.
“I thought...” she says, voice small and broken.
“You thought wrong.” I turn away, unable to watch the devastation I’m causing. “This conversation is over. I’m taking you home, and we’re never speaking of this again.”
When I glance back, the transformation has already begun—humiliation hardening into a shield. The softness in her expression calcifies into dignified hurt. The vulnerable openness closing like a door slamming shut.
“I can drive myself,” she says, voice steadier than it has any right to be. “I don’t need your help.”
She moves toward the door, each step stiff with the effort of maintaining composure. Her hand trembles on the doorknob, the only outward sign of the emotional earthquake I’ve just triggered.
“Lilian,” I call, some masochistic need to witness the full extent of my cruelty making me want to see her face one more time.
She pauses but doesn’t turn. “What?”
“This was a mistake. One we’ll both pretend never happened.”
Her shoulders straighten almost imperceptibly, pride rallying even in devastation. “Don’t worry,” she says, voice barely audible. “I won’t embarrass you with my pathetic feelings again.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow cuts deeper than a slam would have. No dramatic exit, no teenage histrionics—just quiet dignity in retreat.
I move to the window, watching as she emerges into the drive below. Her posture remains perfect—chin up, shoulders back, the Hayes family training evident even in devastation. Only when she reaches her car does a crack appear in the facade. She fumbles with the keys, dropping them once before managing to open the door.