SEVEN NIGHTS WITH MY STEPFATHER novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I woke to the sound of my name, low and comfnanding, slicing through the last threads of sleep.

“Ivy. Get up. They’re here.”

Cassian was already in my bedroom, framed in the doorway like he belonged there. Gray morning light outlined the width of his shoulders; he wore black again, sweater clinging to his chest, expression unreadable. I sat up too fast, clutching the duvet to my throat even though I was fully clothed in yesterday’s sweater and leggings.

I opened my mouth to snap something (anything) about knocking, but the words died when I saw the calm expectation in his eyes. He had heard me last night. He knew. And he was acting like nothing had happened.

“Ten minutes,” he said, then turned and left the door open behind him.

I scrambled out of bed, heart racing. My reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost: pale skin, huge eyes, lips bitten raw. I splashed ice-cold water on my face, dragged a brush through my hair, and twisted it into a messy knot. No makeup. No armor. Just me, raw and rattled.

Downstairs smelled like fresh coffee and something sweet, cinnamon maybe. I followed the voices to the living room and stopped dead in the archway.

Two people sat on the leather sectional, a man and a woman, both gorgeous in that effortless, moneyed way. She had honey-blonde hair twisted up in a loose bun, diamonds flashing at her ears and throat. He was tall, dark-haired, wearing a wedding band that caught the light every time he moved. They were laughing softly at something Cassian had just said, their hands intertwined like newlyweds who still couldn’t believe the other was real.

Cassian stood by the fireplace, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed and devastatingly in control.

He glanced over when I appeared.

“There she is.” He smiled, warm and paternal, the perfect host. “Come in, Ivy.”

I walked forward on legs that felt borrowed. The couple turned to look at me, curiosity bright in their eyes.

Cassian gestured to the empty spot on the couch right beside him. “Sit.”

I wanted to refuse, to stand awkwardly by the door like hired help, but the weight of his stare left no room for argument. I perched on the edge of the cushion, as far from him as the small sectional allowed.

He sat down next to me anyway, thigh brushing mine, and rested one arm along the back of the couch behind my shoulders. Possessive. Casual. Terrifying.

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“Marcus, Elena, this is Ivy,” he said smoothly. “My stepdaughter.”

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The word landed like a slap for the second time in twenty-four hours. I felt heat crawl up my neck.

Elena’s smile was kind and curious. “How lovely. Cassian said you were helping him this week.”

Marcus reached across to shake my hand, his grip firm and friendly. “Big shoes to fill. Cassian’s work is legendary.”

I managed a tight smile, unsure what to say. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. Cassian’s hand dropped from the back of the couch to my thigh.

His palm settled just above my knee, warm and heavy through the thin fabric of my leggings. His thumb began a slow, deliberate stroke, back and forth, back and forth, like he was petting something he already owned.

My entire body locked.

He kept talking as if nothing was happening.

“Marcus and Elena were married three days ago in Gstaad,” he told me, fingers still moving.” They want something intimate, something only they will ever see. A private anniversary gift to themselves every year.”

Elena laughed softly, leaning into her husband. “We’ve followed Cassian’s work forever. When he agreed to shoot us, we nearly cried.”

Marcus kissed the side of her head. “We trust him completely.”

Cassian’s hand slid an inch higher. His little finger brushed the inside seam of my leggings, dangerously close to where no one had touched me in months, and certainly not in front of strangers.

I tried to shift away. The movement only pressed his palm more firmly against my leg.

He squeezed once, gentle warning, then resumed the slow stroking.

I stared straight ahead, pulse roaring in my ears. My skin felt like it was on fire under his touch. Every nerve ending zeroed in on that single point of contact.

“So today,” Cassian continued, voice perfectly level, “we’ll start soft. Silk sheets, candlelight, the two of you tangled together exactly as you were on your wedding night. Then we’ll move downstairs and play a little.”

Elena bit her lip, eyes sparkling. Marcus’s grin turned wicked.

I wanted to bolt. I wanted to slap his hand away and scream that I wasn’t his prop, his plaything, his anything. But the memory of last night’s shower, my own broken moan

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Chapter 8

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echoing off tile, kept me pinned to the couch.

Cassian leaned in, lips almost brushing my ear, pretending to reach for his coffee on the table.

“Behave,” he whispered, so low only I could hear “Or I’ll make you kneel right here and apologize to our guests for being rude.”

His thumb swept higher; a promise and a threat.

I swallowed a gasp.

Elena stood, stretching like a cat. “We’ll go change. Give us ten minutes?”

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“Take your time,” Cassian said, finally lifting his hand from my thigh, but not before one last slow stroke that left me trembling.

The couple disappeared upstairs, arms around each other, already kissing before they reached the landing.

The second their footsteps faded, I rounded on him.

“Stop calling me that,” I hissed. “I’m not your stepdaughter. Not anymore.”

He turned fully toward me, one brow raised, utterly calm.

“You’re whatever I say you are in this house.” His gaze dropped to my lap, where my thighs were still pressed tight together. “And right now you’re the girl who came screaming my name last night while pretending she hates this.”

I opened my mouth, closed it, cheeks burning.

He leaned in until his forehead nearly touched mine.

“Six more nights, Ivy,” he murmured. “Keep fighting me if it makes you feel better. It only makes the moment you finally break that much sweeter.”

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