Lies of the Stepbrothers: Billionaire Stepbrothers Romance (2 Wicked Stepbrothers, 1 Innocent Girl Book 3)

by Brother, Stephanie

  Lies of the Stepbrothers

  2 Wicked Stepbrothers, 1 Innocent Girl #3

  By Stephanie Brother

  © 2015 Stephanie Brother

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

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  This is the third book in the 2 Wicked Stepbrothers, 1 Innocent Girl series!

  Part 1 available here on Amazon

  Part 2 available here on Amazon

  Part 3 available here on Amazon

  All books are FREE in Kindle Unlimited.

  Chapter 1

  I’m seething.

  I’m enraged.

  I’m totally insane, mad to the bone.

  I’ve hidden it well for all my life. Pretended I was normal, just like everyone else, while my mind was filled to the brim with darkness. And now it’s going to spill over and I

  Am

  Going

  To

  Go

  Crazy.

  ***

  I’ve searched for him for hours. Been to our apartment – though it never felt like it was mine – tried his job, tried the bar he goes to to get pathetically drunk because of the feelings … All about those feelings.

  Thank God I don’t have any.

  I finally make my way back to Emme.

  My sweet, not-so-innocent Emme.

  She should have been mine – I should have been the first. But he took that away from me, just like he took everything else. Because that’s all that Blane does.

  That’s why I had to punish Emme. She didn’t wait for me. The little bitch.

  I’m coming back though, baby doll, and I’m ready for round two.

  My mind is crazed, my fists clenched at the sides of my body as I walk back to Emme’s house, my old home. But as soon as I turn the corner, I realize I have two problems.

  First of all, there’s a gate. A locked gate. And since I left in a rush, I didn’t grab my keys. And I’m guessing if I ring the doorbell, my little doll might not be inclined to open it and play a good hostess. I have another problem though, and it makes me clench my teeth.

  Because my twin’s car is parked in the driveway, taunting me.

  “Fucker,” I mutter to myself, glaring at the care as if I could destroy it with a single gaze. But nothing happens, apart from the low angry growl that escapes my throat.

  I realize, because I am sane, even though I am mad, that I am at a disadvantage here. I realize Emme’s with him, and he’s probably injected some sick, stupid ideas into her head, just like he always does.

  And as I stare at my childhood home, rage seeping through the pores of my skin and creating a musky scent, I realize this won’t work.

  It’s not the right time. Not the perfect moment. Not now.

  I’ll have to wait and it’s fucking killing me.

  I am not a patient man.

  But I will be.

  I will wait, and I’ll be good – as good as someone as fucked up as me can be – until I get her. Until my hands wrap around her neck, my dick inside her pussy, and I take her for my own, finally claiming her.

  Not now.

  Not now.

  Not now.

  But soon, I promise my twin and my stepsister, a smile spreading over my face as I imagine their blood splattering my face.

  ***

  I split before one of them spots me. I wander, roam the streets. I see everything, inhale their filthy scent, try to discern their dirty little secret from the strained expression they wear.

  Passersby. My favorite kind of amusement.

  I walk around until it starts to get light outside. Walk until my stomach starts to rumble. I get a takeaway coffee and a sandwich with the last money I have.

  I think of the painting I left in Emme’s attic. Her beauty, smeared with blood and guts. My perfect little doll, painted the way I see her. Dark, disturbing and messy.

  My fists clench as I realize there’s next to no chance of me getting her portrait back. It was one of my best – a piece de resistance. I need it, if I can’t have her.

  I try to memorize her as best as I can to recreate it.

  Remember her milky skin, her incredibly long hair with the little kinks and waves she gets when she doesn’t comb it out enough. I think of her sparkling eyes, the innocent curve of her lips.

  And I let the darkness take over.

  I don’t know where I’ll go. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  I have no money, no prospects, no future.

  Without my brother and my stepsister, I have no income.

  But that doesn’t matter, because I always get what I want.

  And what do I want?

  My brother’s warm blood, smeared on my hands. Tasting Emme’s tears as she cries over him. Fucking her as she begs for me to stop. Claiming her life, taking his.

  Let me tell you another thing about myself.

  I always get what I want.

  So I’ll roam the streets, if I have to. I’ll sleep in this dark alleyway, if it brings me closer to my goal. I’ll ignore the trash that litters it – be it people or garbage, it’s all the same to me.

  I pull my hoodie over my face, shielding it from the curious onlookers. I hide, because I don’t want to be found.

  Not just yet.

  Chapter 2

  3 months later

  My life has changed, and not for the better. I’m a man of the streets now, claiming one corner in particular for my own. I snarl at other homeless people who walk by, desperate to keep at least this small piece of the sidewalk as my only possession.

  Sometimes I’m fed, but more often, I’m hungry. I eat when I have the money, or when someone gives me a sandwich, takes pity on me. And instead of feeling grateful I’m consumed by the red mist, angered that someone would think I need help.

  However, I really do.

  I’m not a man that can take care of himself. I’ve been shielded by my father, and later, by my brother, and I’ve never had to work a day in my life.

  Now, I know going back to anywhere where Blane might find me is too risky. So I stay here.

  At first, I tried to find a job, but it proved to be useless. No one is hiring, and since I didn’t even have a shower, they wouldn’t take me as a bartender or something similar.

  So I’ve started doing the one thing I’ve always been good at.

  I’m selling my art. If you can call these diluted, boring, de-personalized pieces art.

  I am good at this, and I know it. But if you want to sell, you have to suit the needs of your buyer. And my buyers, people on the street - tourists and moms with strollers - probably don’t want to buy paintings of a ripped open, stripped naked Emme.

  Which is all I seem to be able to paint at the moment.

  So I’ve settled for landscapes, even an odd portrait. But with every brush stroke, I have to stop myself from smearing red across the canvas. The color calls
to me, begging to be used. The people’s faces asking for me to split their lip, gauge an eye out.

  I fight all of those instincts, and then some, because there’s still only one thing on my mind.

  Revenge.

  I make my first painting with things I find in the garbage of an art supply store, and it sells the same day. Pretty soon, I have a reputation, and people gather around my corner to see my newest works.

  I don’t ever tell them my real name.

  Never look them in the eye.

  I just take their money until I have a small stash in my pocket, the wad of paper notes getting thicker each day. But it’s still not enough, because most of these people are just watchers. They don’t buy shit, just stand around, admiring this and that.

  As much as I want to smash their faces in, I prevent myself from doing so. Instead I smile politely, inquire what they like, try to get in their heads. Convince them I’m the next big thing.

  ***

  It’s just another day, the same as every one in my routine. I’m not selling today, instead fighting a hangover from two bottles of cheap wine I had the previous night.

  I am not an alcoholic.

  But there is no denying the fact - there’s a certain kind of calmness at the bottom of each bottle. And pretty soon, they are becoming the only way I can fight back the red mist.

  I’m slumped on my corner, the wind howling through the streets, but just then, it stops. And in the same second, my time stops still as well.

  Because on the other side of the road, the one with the fancy shops with expensive things in the mirror, is a couple strolling by, their laughter soft and sweet, their conversation friendly. But the man’s hand on the small of the woman’s back suggest there’s more to their relationship, especially when his palm wanders downward, toward her buttocks.

  The couple are Emme and Blane.

  They’re walking by only a few feet away from me, not even noticing me. I immediately feel the red mist settling over me and I spit on the sidewalk, snarling at the sight of them.

  They made me this way.

  They sent me here, to the prison of the streets.

  They’re happy without me.

  The perfect couple.

  Not for long.

  I get up abruptly, my head pounding. Whether it is from the hangover or the anger I’m feeling I can’t be too sure of, but I already know I won’t be able to fight the red mist this time around.

  They look perfect. He is in that stupid pea coat he always wears, his hair longer, ruffled from every time Emme runs a hand through it playfully. She’s wearing a pretty floral dress and a cardigan, her hair long down her back. She looks fucking beautiful.

  An insane desire to sear through her body with my cock consumes me.

  Whenever I see something beautiful, an inner need wills me to destroy it. And wouldn’t you know it, Emme is the prettiest of them all.

  My hands immediately form fists at my sides and I head towards them.

  Ready to smash Blane’s face in.

  Ready to finally claim Emme’s pussy as my own.

  “Are you the street artist?” someone interrupts me, standing right in front of me. A body steps in my way, bigger and broader than I am, and my eyes immediately shoot upward, annoyed.

  “Get out of my way,” I snarl angrily, already moving to get away from him, but he sidesteps me, blocking my way.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” he claims, his hands up in the air, whether to defend himself or placate me, I can’t be too sure. Not that I give a fuck.

  “You’re about to get some,” I growl back at him, finally getting a good look at the man. He’s about fifty, a silver fox. He’s clad in a business suit, sharp and business like. He definitely doesn’t look like he belongs to this side of the street, more suited to the other side with the luxury shops.

  “I’ve heard of your art,” he says, placating, ignoring my outburst. Over his shoulder, I see Emme and Blane going around the corner and I get even more anxious, desperate to get away.

  “What of it?” I ask angrily, refusing to pay him any attention.

  “I’m a gallery owner downtown. I’ve seen your work popping up on social media and blogs, and I’m intrigued,” he explains quickly, and he finally has my attention.

  A gallery owner? This could save me, I think, almost manic.

  “Tell me more,” I say, my anger dissipating, Emme and Blane momentarily forgotten, but always in the back of my mind. I focus on the man in front of me, who pushes a business card in my grimy hands. The stark white paper looks terrible against my palms smudged with paint and dirt.

  “My name is Mark Richardson. And I believe you have real talent. But there’s something more …” He eyes me thoughtfully, flashing a perfect smile that I for some reason don’t want to smash in. Yet.

  “What do you mean?” I ask suspiciously, my heart pounding in my chest. I’m hoping he doesn’t remember my face from a newspaper from when my parents were still alive.

  Fortunately, he has something else in mind.

  “I see something dark in you. I see you suppressing your real talent. And I believe I can help you bring it out. And earn some money while you’re at it,” he says, winking at me.

  He actually fucking winks.

  “So, are you interested?” he asks eagerly, and I only think it through for a moment before nodding slowly.

  He ignores all the dirt from the street that is caked up on my sleeve, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a hug.

  “We’ll do great things together,” he promises me.

  And somehow, I know we will.

  Not that I care about this man.

  The only thing I give a fuck about is getting back at Blane, and claiming Emme.

  He’s a dead man, and she’s mine.

  Chapter 3

  1 year later

  “Oh Aiden,” she moans beneath me as I yank her hair back as hard as I can. She yelps with pain but I don’t stop there, pulling just a little bit more so her throat is exposed to my hungry mouth.

  I kiss her perfect, white and slender neck with determination. I don’t like how perfect it is, like a swan’s. The first time I saw it, I already decided I’d stain it with dark blue and purple.

  That was a year ago, and I’ve been fucking her for the better part of the time that passed since then. As I pound deep inside her, I look at her face, twisted with ecstasy and pain combined.

  She looks so much like Emme …

  Tall and slender, her long blonde hair falling down the back. Unfortunately it’s bleached, while Emme’s has that naturally golden quality to it. As I finger her coarse strands of hair I can’t help but remember Emme’s silky ones, slipping between my fingers.

  Her face isn’t similar, her nose too small, her lips not full enough.

  But she will have to do.

  Though every single time I’m fucking her, only one thought goes through my mind.

  This isn’t the real thing.

  I grab her ass with both of my hands, biting at her neck as I pump inside her. She groans loudly, obnoxiously, like she’s a whore. I guess my cock made her that.

  She gasps as I break the skin on her neck, drawing blood. I let it stain my lips, tasting the iron in it and lapping it up like some deranged monster.

  “Please, Aiden,” she begs, just like I taught her. “Please, I can’t take any more, I need to come now …” She digs her nails into the skin of my back as she pants for more.

  I move my mouth to hers and make her taste her own blood while she writhes under me. She tries to move away, squirming underneath me, but I won’t let her. I grip her tightly, moving her in tune with my own body.

  “Take it deeper,” I order her, pushing as far as I can as she yelps with pain. “More.”

  She does as she is told and her pussy fits my cock perfectly, taking all of me inside her. I can feel her walls contracting against me and she fits perfectly.

  “Here you go, you little slut,” I moan
in her ear. “Here you go …”

  With a groan, I pump a few more times, ignoring her cries of pain as I tear her up on the inside. Finally, I come with a loud curse, releasing my come deep inside of her.

  “Oh, fuck, Aiden,” she moans for me. “Fuck, you’re good.”

  I can’t take any more of her babbling, so I slide my still rock hard cock out of her pussy, our juices leaking out of her, running down the inside of her leg.

  “Want me to lick it?” she asks, trying to sound seductive as she dips a finger in the liquid, bringing it up to her mouth. She sucks on her pointer finger in a way I’m sure she thinks is sexy, but only repulses me now that I’m done with her.

  I turn around without saying another thing and she scoots over to me, kneading my shoulders and whispering what she’d like to do now in my ear.

  “Would you let go?” I say roughly, pushing her off of me none too gently. “Get it together, Marissa.”

  She does as she’s told sheepishly, just the way I taught her. As much as she annoys me, she’s a good fuck - until she opens that goddamn mouth of hers.

  I get my clothes on without bothering to take a shower. I know I reek of sex, but I have no intention of hiding the fact. In fact, it turns me on, knowing who I’m about to go see.

  I don’t say a goodbye to Marissa as I head out, but I do give her ass a smack. The satisfying sound makes me grin widely as I head out.

  I head down the stairs, reaching the studio. I’ve come a long way in the year that has passed, went from a street artist to a house owner, complete with my very own studio where I sell stuff, too. And I’m doing pretty damn well, if I do say so myself.

  “Adam!” a pleasant voice greets me and I turn around in time to see the door of the store opening and my benefactor walking in.

  Mark Richardson is the man who dragged me up from the shithole I’d put myself in. He’s the one I should thank every day for putting me in the position I am in today - a successful, up-and-coming artist.

  And how do I thank him?

  Let’s see …

  Marissa strolls down the stairs, out of breath and reeking of my come.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she says, blushing furiously.