Midnight Distraction

POV

The heavy thud of his footsteps vibrated through the floorboards on the other side of the wood, each stride unhurried and deliberate. The brass latch clicked, and the heavy mahogany door swung wide open.

Standing right in front of me was my stepfather. He was stripped down to a pair of loose, dark grey lounge shorts hanging dangerously low on his narrow hips. His dark hair was messy, thick strands falling across his forehead, and his jaw carried the shadow of rough stubble. The scent of sleep and raw, suffocating heat rolled off his bare skin, washing over me the second the barrier between us vanished.

My gaze dropped before I could stop myself. My throat seized, the air trapped in my lungs, when my eyes caught the thick, unmistakable outline of a hard erection straining against the thin fabric of his shorts. The heavy shape of his cock pressed distinctly against the cotton, hard and prominent.

A wave of sickening guilt and sheer vulnerability crashed over me. Standing in front of his towering frame, clad in only an oversized t-shirt, I felt small, stripped bare, and cornered. The memory of his hands and mouth from earlier in my room flashed behind my eyes like a burn. I forced my chin up, anchoring my stare directly to the center of his broad, bare chest. I refused to let my eyes drop back down to his groin, and I refused to cross the threshold into his dark bedroom.

He leaned his massive shoulder against the doorframe, crossing one arm over his chest while his dark eyes bored into mine. "What is this about?"

The draft from the corridor chilled the soles of my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the furnace-like warmth radiating from his body. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "I want to know how you feel about Mom's absence."

His expression shifted, his brows pulling together in genuine surprise. He stepped forward onto the threshold, pulling the door shut behind his back. The distance between us shrank to mere inches. "Where did that come from?"

I kept my eyes pinned to the hollow of his throat, refusing to look him in the face. "I got curious. That's why I came here to ask."

His eyes darkened with an intense, probing weight. "Hold on. Is this about what happened in your room earlier? Are you standing here because of..."

"No, it has nothing to do with what happened in my room," I snapped, cutting him off before he could drag that forbidden heat out into the open.

My heart hammered against my ribs at the mere mention of it. He rubbed a large thumb across his forehead, letting out a low, rough breath that sounded almost uncomfortable.

He leaned back against the dark wood of his door and stared down at me. "Then what is this about? If you want an answer, give me the context."

"It is a simple question," I said, shifting my weight to my left foot to keep from trembling. "I just need a simple answer."

He kept massaging his temple, his silence stretching until the tension in the hallway grew thick enough to choke on. Seeing his hesitation, I narrowed down the question to the only truth that mattered tonight.

I forced myself to tilt my head back and meet his gaze directly. "My mom. How do you feel about her? Do you love her?"

His features hardened into stone, the casual sleepiness vanishing from his face. "Yes, I do. I love your mother."

The words cut through the quiet corridor with clean, sharp certainty. A cold sense of relief washed through my veins, but right behind it came a hollow, bitter ache that sank deep into the bottom of my stomach. It was an unsettling reaction, a petty sting I had no right to feel, and I pushed it down instantly.

I forced a faint, distant smile onto my face and offered the advice I had come to give. "Mom is not in town. I advise you to look for her and bring her home. This house is her home."

His brows knit together in sharp curiosity. "Why are you telling me this?"

"It is just advice. Go find her," I repeated softly, already stepping backward down the hallway.

He did not answer. He stayed rooted against the doorframe, his half-naked frame silhouetted against the dark opening of his room, his heavy stare burning into my back as I walked away. I did not turn around. I slipped into my bedroom, turned the deadbolt until it clicked, and fell face-first onto my mattress. The emotional whiplash drained every ounce of strength from my limbs, dragging me down into a dreamless sleep.

A series of shrill, bloodcurdling screams ripped through the house, shattering the quiet and jolting me awake.

My eyes snapped open to the digital clock glowing on my nightstand. It was twenty past two in the afternoon. The shrieks tore up the stairwell again, frantic, raw, and choked with hysterical rage.

I threw the tangled sheets off my legs, hit the floor running, and bolted out the door. The commotion grew louder with every step I took along the mezzanine. By the time I reached the grand staircase and gripped the banister, absolute madness was unfolding across the marble foyer below.

My mother was thrashing in the center of the hall, her designer blouse torn at the collar and her face red, puffy, and wet with tears. She looked manic as she threw her fists against the chest of a towering private security guard. Her palms cracked against his dark suit jacket repeatedly, her voice cracking as she clawed at his sleeves. "Let me go! Get your hands off me, you animals! Let me go!"

The guard stood like an iron pillar, taking every blow without flinching, simply keeping his arms extended to bar her path toward the double front doors.

A few yards away, my stepfather leaned back against the arched entryway of the formal dining room, detached from the circus. He wore dark trousers and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His ankles were crossed, and a freshly lit cigarette rested between his fingers. A lazy spiral of grey smoke drifted past his face as his thumb scrolled unhurriedly across the glowing screen of his tablet. He did not spare her a single glance.

The instant my mother saw me running down the final steps, her fists dropped. A broken wail tore from her throat. She pulled away from the guard and threw her shaking body directly into my chest, wrapping her arms around my neck with desperate force.

Her fingers dug through my shirt, clutching at my skin as she sobbed into my shoulder. "Sweetie! Oh, sweetie, thank god!"

I wrapped my arms around her trembling waist, steadying her before she collapsed onto the tiles. "Mom, stop crying. What happened? Why are you screaming like this?"

She ripped herself out of my embrace and turned, her hand shaking as she pointed an accusing finger at my stepfather. "Ask your father about it! He broke down my hotel door before dawn and dragged me out of bed like a criminal!"

The accusation echoed off the high ceiling, yet the man in the corner did not even blink. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and flicked an ash into a small crystal tray resting on the console table beside him.

My mother choked on a wet gasp, clutching my arm so hard her nails pinched my flesh. "He brought his thugs into my suite. He ordered them to beat Warren until he stopped moving. They tore the room apart, sweetie. I think they killed him. They beat Warren to death, and now this bastard has me locked in my own house!"

My stomach dropped at her words. He had tracked her down immediately after our conversation last night. He had driven out of the city, kicked down her door, and ruined the man she was sleeping with.

Looking down at her splotchy, tear-stained face, a cold, rational part of my brain reminded me that she had brought this entire catastrophe upon herself. She had packed her bags, lied through her teeth, and run off to another city to play house with a wealthy stranger while laughing behind her husband's back.

Yet seeing her like this, terrified and falling apart at the seams, stripped away my judgment. I raised both hands and gently cupped her damp, burning cheeks, forcing her to look me in the eyes. "Mom, breathe. Look at me. Take a deep breath."

She blinked through her swollen eyelids, her chest heaving with ragged sobs.

I kept my voice low, steady, and soothing. "You need to calm down. I will handle this, okay? Stop screaming and go upstairs to your room. Take a shower, lie down, and get some rest. I will talk to him."

Her chin trembled as she glanced nervously toward the corner where my stepfather stood. "Are you sure? He won't let me leave."

"I am sure. Go upstairs, Mom. Trust me," I said, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze.

She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, nodding weakly. With slow, unsteady steps, she dragged herself toward the stairs, clutching the mahogany handrail as she climbed out of sight.

I stayed frozen at the base of the stairs, listening until the click of her bedroom door echoed from the floor above. The moment the hallway fell silent, every ounce of patience drained out of me, replaced by a surge of pure fury.

I turned around and marched across the marble floor straight toward the corner. I planted my bare feet firmly on the tile, set both hands on my waist, and glared up at him. The bitter smell of tobacco hung heavy in the air between us.

"I didn't ask you to hurt her," I groaned.

He stopped swiping his tablet, lifted his head, and looked at me.