SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER novel Chapter 4

4 /30

I woke up with the taste of panic in my mouth and one single thought screaming through my head: leave. Pack the bag, steal the keys if I had to, drive south until the snow turned to rain and this house was nothing but a nightmare in the rear-view mirror.

I was already yanking on jeans and a sweater when reality slapped me. No keys. Even if I found them, where would I go? Back to the apartment with the broken door? Back to the men who promised to come collect in pieces?

My hands shook so hard I could barely zip my boots.

I opened the bedroom door, fully prepared to sprint, and stopped dead.

Cassian was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, coffee in one hand, looking like he’d been waiting for hours. He wore a black thermal that stretched across his chest and dark jeans that did criminal things to his thighs. His hair was still damp from a shower, and the faint scent of his soap drifted down the hallway and wrapped around me like smoke.

“Going somewhere, little girl?”

I hated how calm he sounded. Hated how my stomach flipped at the nickname.

“I can’t do this,” I said, voice cracking. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re doing with those women, I’m not part of it. I’m leaving.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just took a slow sip of coffee.

“You leave, you have exactly six days until your deadline,” he said conversationally. “Those men don’t bluff, Ivy. They’ll start with the house. Then they’ll start with you. Broken fingers first, probably. Then they get creative. And trust me, what I have planned for you is a fucking vacation compared to that.”

My knees threatened to fold. I gripped the doorframe to stay upright.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping just close enough that I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze.

“Sit down and eat breakfast,” he said softly. “Then we’ll talk.”

I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. Instead I followed him downstairs like a sleepwalker, because he was right and we both knew it.

The dining table was set for two. Poached eggs, fresh berries, toast that smelled like it had been baked that morning. He pulled out my chair—the same chair I used to sit in when I was fourteen doing algebra homework while he cooked pancakes—and waited until I sat before taking the seat across from me.

I stared at my plate. My stomach was a knot, but I picked up the fork anyway.

He watched me take the first bite, then leaned back, completely at ease.

“You saw me working last night,” he said. Not a question.

Heat flooded my face. “I saw everything. It was disgusting.”

He laughed—low, genuine, the sound I remembered from years ago when I told him boys were stupid and he agreed. Only now it wasn’t funny.

“Disgusting,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s interesting. Because the woman on the grass last night begged me for two hours to let her come, and when I finally did she cried from how good it felt. She’ll be texting me before noon to schedule the next session.” He tilted his head. “How can you call it disgusting when other women line up for it?”