by Gabriel Love
Step Brother Undone
Copyright 2015 Gabriel Love
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© 2015 Gabriel Love
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A note to my readers:
My writing journey has been incredible. I hope to keep traveling with all your wonderful support. You’ve kept me going, and all the messages, emails, and facebook conversations have really helped guide me along the way. Thank you.
About This Book:
Declan Dark is an arrogant bastard.
He's also a mouthwatering hunk with an insufferable personality. And that twisted grin he flashes all the time makes me want to slap him.
Worse, he's a stranger. He's just some guy my mom sent to bring me home after I "ran away" to college.
But something about Declan has worked its way under my skin. And I think he feels it too.
When I fall, I fall hard.
There's just one problem: Declan Dark is my new stepbrother.
Too late I learn Mr. Dark has a secret.
A secret that could tear my heart in two.
I wish it was something as simple as spanking.
Step Brother Undone
“Okay, Willow.” Mom sounds bored. That’s typical, though. She could have just told me my dad died, the world is ending, and aliens are the one true threat to mankind and she’d still sound like she’s struggling to stay awake on the other end of the call.
Maybe I have that effect on people.
“Honey,” she says, and I snap to attention. Is that a hint of excitement in her voice? “We’re sending Declan to pick you up and bring you home for the holiday.”
Declan. Nice name. But it doesn’t ring a bell. Yet she said it like I should know who he is.
Wait. She also said we.
“We?” I ask, unable to keep the bite of enthusiasm from my voice. I’ve got to get to the bottom of this. Mom and dad split my senior year of high school, two years ago. So there shouldn’t be a we. No, it should be I.
“Darling,” Mom drawls, bringing an image of Cruella De Vil to mind; not that mom’s evil or anything. She just adopts that lofty, frosty attitude occasionally. “I must get off the phone now. I feel a stress headache coming on. Surely you understand.”
And there it is. I feel guilty for asking. For inflicting a headache on her. There’s a reason I chose to go to school in Sweden. It’s not just because of Pewdiepie or that Sweden has incredible classes and a teaching method that suits my style of learning more than American schools ever did.
It was to put some distance between me and the woman I love and hate with the intensity of a thousand suns.
“I do, mom. Get some rest.” The words are hardly out of my mouth before the dead silence clues me in that she’s no longer on the other end.
I slip the phone into my pocket with a sigh. Sure, she’s my mom so I have to love her. But as a person, she annoys the hell out of me.
She’s so delicate. And there’s always something wrong, be it a headache, stress, or exhaustion; any little trigger can send her into some state of misery.
I’ve never understood it. Maybe I’m not cut from the same cloth she is.
Maybe I’m more like dad; strong, capable, fearless. Oh, and snarky. Don’t forget snarky. But mom is an enigma, confusing, perplexing, and absolutely impossible to figure out.
Whereas I get odd looks from people because I’m honest to a fault and not good at dancing around the truth.
Sigh.
“Mom trouble?”
I glance up into Brian’s startling golden eyes. I’d forgotten he was here, across the table from me in the library thanks to all the mom fuss and the flood of thoughts that follow every conversation with her like a loyal, albeit stupid, dog.
“She’s…” I have no idea how to even begin to describe her, so I use the nearer go to. “sending someone to pick me up and bring me home.”
But why?
I don’t need a chaperone. I’m not a child. There’s no need to send someone to fetch me. All my comparisons are turning to dogs. I blame Pavlov.
“Sounds like a right proper mess.” His lilting British accent soothes a bit of the wounded gashes talking to mom leaves in my very soul.
He’s been my study companion since I got here. Both of us being foreigners seems to have created a bond between us, one I’ve considered moving forward with, but I’m constantly blocked by worry. If we complicate things who will I have to understand me then?
“I’m sure she has a reason.” But whatever it is, it’s elusive to a fault and not worth my time. I’ve got other things to worry about.
“Do you need my notes from Mr. Andersson’s class?” He takes a handful of papers and offers them to me across the table.
We’re in the library, arguably the most beautiful place on campus, but we’re oddly alone. Most people have left early for break, but I’ve been using every last second to cram. There’s no excuse to not be prepared.
“Sure, I’ll look them over to see if I missed anything.” I take the notes, glad for the billionth time, that Brian’s handwriting is stunningly neat and clean. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he types everything up and prints it out, that’s how perfect every single letter he puts to paper is.
Furthermore, he’s the kind of note taker that writes everything, word for word, while I’m more of the type to note what I don’t understand or am interested to peruse further.
We make a good team.
“Willow,” he says, his voice hesitant. I look up from his impeccable notes to meet his clandestine lion-like eyes. How are they that shade of hazel? Maybe the sun tagging every surface has something to do with their sparkling color.
“Yes, Brian?” I study him, noting how he shifts just a fraction to the right and his expression betrays just the tiniest hint of worry. He seems to be unable to put voice to the thoughts circling his mind.
I let my gaze wander his fresh, clean-shaven face. There’s a certain appeal in his features; he’s got a strong jaw, an almost Roman nose, and deep set eyes that peer from behind dark, slashing brows.
“Perhaps we could enjoy a spot of tea. Together.” His expression is sure, but the words are not.
Oh. I feel my eyebrows furl together before lightning strikes.
Oh! He’s asking me on a date!
“Brian,” I begin, unsure how to proceed. I’d love to, but the complications that might arise really worry me. And so does the concern that the only reason he’s asking is because we’re really each other’s only options at the moment.
I mean, sure, I know other guys, but there’s a social barrier. I’m an American through and through. Most of my classmates are reserved and quiet, and are tactful and respectful to a degree I can’t duplicate.
I’m too outspoken. And they rightly see me as brash and rude, not that I ever intend to be.
He speaks softly and my heart aches at his words. “There’s no need to placate me. I understand you’re focused in your studies. I just want you to know I’ve grown fond of you.”
A sharp sting lances through my insides at the implication that I’d treat him delicately like one does when they’re trying not to upset a child. We’re adults, and I’d like to think he’d trust me to speak freely. Anyone who knows me would expect that.
“I wasn’t going to placate you. I’d love tea, but I have some concerns is all.” I smile at him and his serious expression eases up a bit and I understand my anger is unfounded. This is obviously a gut-wrenching experience for him. Patience is in order, not that I’m always one to be lo
gical first. No, I react, then step back and think. It’s a terribly inefficient system, sure, but I’m human.
Sensing the end of the conversation, I sink back into notes and enjoy reliving the lecture written on paper. There’s something so lyrical about reading something I’ve already heard spoken.
Then again, there’s something lyrical about Mr. Andersson’s speaking as well.
He’s passionate. Overly so. His unique mixture of flamboyance, seriousness and passion ignite a slew of emotions in me every time I’m in his class, and he’s responsible for my grades rising in a subject I’ve never quite been one hundred percent behind.
His passion bleeds into his students, which is why it’s one of the most sought after classes on campus. Sometimes all a dull subject needs is someone who sees the beauty and wonder of it to strike fire into the hearts of others.
I lift the papers. “Would you mind if I photocopied these?” I ask Brian, who glances up from his text book to nod his head.
With his permission granted, I stand and hurry over to the copy machine. I could scan them into my phone, but I like paper notes. Class is the only place I really prefer paper.
That’s another thing that Brian and I have in common. He told me day one that he’s not fond of keeping notes on his tablet. He’d flashed a crooked grin and told me that it’s hard to write neatly when he’s unable to rest his hand above the words.
Then again, he’s a southpaw, so I imagine that would be harder.
The machine hums to life as I touch the button, but my thoughts are a million miles away. I’m not looking forward to going home. Maybe that makes me a terrible daughter, but I’d rather stay here and study.
I love my mom. I really do. But I prefer her in small doses. Like phone calls. And e-cards. Emails and texts. Not face to face, sit down to dinner and feel the full scope of her disapproval bearing down at me.
Ugh. It’s going to be a long holiday.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a tall stranger entering the library. His tawny hair is carefully styled to look like it wasn’t styled at all and his body is downright drool worthy. I know, I know, I’m disgusting. But he’s all muscle and sinew even at this distance I can see his arms and shoulders threatening to hulk out of his white fitted shirt.
Under the shirt I can see a dark tribal tattoo slashing along his left shoulder and ripping down his back. His presence commands attention, and I can’t look away, even as he stalks over to Brian and halts, speaking in a gravelly voice that belongs in a Bruce Banner movie.
Brian gets to his feet and I notice the sheer difference in size. Brian is a few inches shy of six foot, but the stranger is well over that mark and towers over Brian like a dragon over a lamb.
Both males turn to look at me and my cheeks blaze stingingly red hot.
I glance down at the notes and place the next one on the glass, my heart galloping in my chest like a gazelle desperately evading a cheetah. My hands tremble, ruffling the papers and I lower the top of the copier and wait for it to spit out the next page.
I want to look over my shoulder.
Then again, I don’t.
So I stare at the papers instead. That’s safer than drooling over some random stranger like a desperately horny teenaged girl. I lower my head further and my dark hair falls forward like a curtain to hide my face. And that’s fine with me. Let me look buried in what I’m doing.
“Willow.” Batman voice is saying my name. And I feel like it’s supposed to be a question, but there’s no upward inflection to make it one. I glance up into artic blue eyes lined by a deep navy ring.
His lips are cruel looking with a thin top lip and a thicker lower lip that gives him a perpetually dangerous air. And the tribal tattoo over his shoulder is stark under his shirt. Up closer now, I can see it licking across his ribs and even lower at the powerful v of his waist.
“I’m Willow,” I say around my tongue as it tries to choke me.
“Declan.” He thrusts his hand between us and I take it, unsure. And he surprises me. I expect him to give a crushingly firm handshake, but instead he brings the back of my hand to his lips and pauses.
I watch his lips touch my skin and leave a tingling sensation in their wake. Something dark flickers in his eyes and one eyebrow arches in an expression that stirs something deep in my belly.
“Pleasure,” he growls and I wonder if he’s capable of talking like a normal person.
“Why do you talk like that?” The question bursts out of me in my typical, rude fashion, but he doesn’t seem at all shocked. He lowers my hand and tucks his thumbs in his jean pockets.
“I had my tonsils out when I was fifteen. One small slip of the doctor’s hand and significant scarring of the pharynx muscles later, here I am, lucky to be talking to you at all.” A small smile on his face lets me know he’s not offended by my question.
But I still feel like a jerk. “I’m sorry.”
His eyebrows furrow as if he can’t figure out why I’d be sorry. “For being curious?”
It’s not something I’d usually apologize for. But in this case, I feel like it’s needed. So I nod.
He seems unruffled, though. Hell, he almost seems amused at my expense, and I kind of want to slap the hint of a bestial little smile off his face.
Then Brian slips an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close and almost off balance. I glance at him, surprised by the unexpected show of affection, but he’s glaring at Declan.
“I’ll be done with your notes in a minute,” I say. He nods and I notice Declan looking from Brian to me with that infuriating amusement and a hint of something darker. But I don’t want to figure out what the hell is going on between the guys. I want to finish with Brian’s notes.
And I was right; I have no idea who Declan is. I would have remembered those eyes and that tight, cruel smile.
I turn away from both sets of eyes and photo copy the last few pages of notes in the looming silence broken only by the whirring hum of the machine.
Could things get any weirder? Or more uncomfortable? Why are the guys acting like this? I almost feel like I’m caught between rutting elk and I’m trembling, waiting for the clash and rattle of bone on bone.
I grab the last sheet and give Brian back his notes. Gathering mine into a pile, I evade Brian’s arm and sail around Declan’s hulking form.
With them both out of range I can almost breathe again, but the discomfort hasn’t eased. It still compresses my chest, squeezing every last molecule of oxygen from my lungs.
At the table, I get all my papers and books and shove them into my pack, too flustered to even sort things like I usually do. I can figure out the mess later. For now, I’m just intent on getting out the door into fresh air and away from the weird tension digging at me.
Across from me, Brian begins packing up too, his gaze locked on me. Behind him a few paces stands Declan, arms crossed. He’s all menacing power and alpha male. And it’s both exciting and a bit frightening at the same time.
“Talk to you after the break,” I say to Brian. He’s not willing to let it go that easily, though. He steps around the table and pulls me into a hug. When his lips meet mine I jerk back and plant my hands on his shoulders to push him away.
“Whoa… easy,” I say, shocked at his out of character actions. And it dawns on me. He’s insecure and on edge because of Declan. Maybe my rutting elk thought wasn’t far off. We just got done agreeing to go for coffee and this damn sexy brute of a dude shows up on the heels of our tentative plan and tramples all over everything.
I lean in and kiss Brian on the cheek. “Have a good holiday,” I whisper. He nods, his features unsure as he glances back at Declan. But I’m done with the awkwardness.
I’m leaving.
The men can either hash it out or whatever, but I’m out. When I glance over my shoulder I see Declan following with an easy, sure, swinging stride. I swear he’s walking like he owns the place. And the few lingering people take notice.
&nb
sp; I stare at the floor. My feet move as quickly as they can without breaking into a run as I hurry out the huge front doors of the university and down the road toward my flat with my bag bouncing on my back with every clipped step.
When I come to a halt before my building, my eyes rush up the old world brick and I breathe a sigh of pure relief. I love this place. And at the price I pay, it’s a steal.
But now isn’t the time for me to stop and think. I need to get inside and pack. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I’m alone with Declan, and I’m not sure I really want to spend too much time listening to my body beg me to get closer to him.
Is he still back there? A furtive glance over my shoulder provides the answer that makes my heart thunder in my chest and my mouth suddenly feel dry as a stone.
Yep. He’s there. And I want to know what keeps working behind his amused and contemplative expression.
What is he thinking? And why was he looking at me like that?
I slap the elevator button with the palm of my hand and look up at the numbers. Good, we won’t have to wait long.
But the thought of being alone and trapped in an elevator with Declan makes my pulse jump oddly. And it’s pounding so hard I’m sure he could see it at the base of my throat if he were to look. Why did I have to wear this shirt?
The elevator door opens and I catch sight of myself in the dull steel walls. I’m wearing a loosely flowing black shirt that’s off the shoulder but has two thin straps holding it in place. Business casual. Along with nice dress slacks and dark heels that are the cause of the dull throbbing in my feet.
But that’s the way it is here. Casual isn’t typical outside the home. As it is, Declan stands out like a tree in a field of freshly cut grass. But how could he know? I’ve been here long enough to know what’s socially acceptable. Plus, I research things to death. I like to know what I’m getting into before I dive in.
Declan steps in beside me and I push the button to my floor. We ride up in silence, and I try to figure out what he’s wearing. Some cologne that’s bold and fresh, commanding and demanding. He’s all male and no give. And it’s invigorating.
