Stepbrother Thief

by Blaze, Violet

  “Dad.”

  Cliff and I both startle, chairs sliding across the hardwood floors. I manage to spill coffee all over my own lap. It drips down my legs, staining my white Herve Leger pencil skirt and splattering my new black suede booties.

  But I don't notice any of that—not my ruined clothes or the stinging burns on my fingers from the hot liquid. All I can see right now is him.

  Gilleon Marchal.

  My stepbrother, long lost love, and the father of my daughter—all wrapped up into one tall, sexy package. A package I haven't seen in over a decade. Over. A. Decade.

  I choke on my own saliva, stumbling to the sink and leaning over as I try to breathe in through my nose.

  “Gilleon?” Cliff sounds almost as shocked as I feel, and he's seen his son a handful of times over the last few years. Plus, they chat on the phone every now and then. For me, though, this is like seeing a ghost. “How did you get in here? Isn't the front door …”

  “I picked the lock,” Gill says, the slightest hint of amusement in his voice and the quirk of his lips. It fades as quick as it came, leaving that gorgeous face of his a blank slate.

  I'm so dizzy that I can barely stand, but I make myself face him, pushing up from the sink and trying to maintain my balance in the four inch heels on my feet.

  “Regina,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. There's no emotion there though, just a simple greeting, a hello he'd give to any stranger. I stare right back, my own voice caught in my throat, struggling to get out, to do something drastic. I want to scream at him, throw something, but at the same time … I want to run into his arms, feel those strong muscles wrap around my body and hold me close.

  He's gotten so … big, I think as I stare at my former lover, at his wide shoulders, his taut abs, his towering height. Guess he filled out a little after he left. I swallow hard and realize that our daughter is screaming some pretty horrendous curse words and flailing around a can of pepper spray. Shit, she must've snagged that from my purse.

  “Solène!” I shout, my voice covering Cliff's as he tries to get his granddaughter under control. Gill turns slowly to look at her, at his own child, and nothing flickers in his gaze, no recognition, no acknowledgement of the life he left behind. Of course, he never knew I was pregnant, but look at her. Just look at her. She looks exactly like him. “Honey, that's your … brother,” I say, my voice coming out in a sharp whisper. My vision flickers and blurs, and I sit down heavy in my chair again, trying to come to terms with what I'm seeing.

  Gilleon Marchal, here, in the flesh.

  I've dreamed about this moment for years, only now … it seems the dream's come true too late. All I feel when I look at Gill is anger, a truly passionate rage that I have to swallow three times to get past.

  “It's just your brother.” My voice comes out in a whisper, drawing Gill's gaze away from Solène and back to me. The sapphire blue of his eyes triggers a mudslide of memories that churn my stomach as I look up at him.

  “Oh dear,” Solène whispers, staring down at the pepper spray and then placing it in Cliff's outstretched hand. “Gilleon, of course.” She glides across the floor and smiles up, up, up at Gill's tall frame as he fills the archway between the foyer and the kitchen. “How lovely to see you again!” I watch as my daughter throws her arms around Gill's imposing form and squeezes tight. His mouth twitches into a small smile as he pats her head, his eyes still on my face. “It's been what, four years?” she continues, drawing some of the awkwardness out of the air with her infectious smile.

  I still can't seem to find my legs, can't seem to stand up with Gill so close. Flickers of memory—his hand wrapped around mine, my body wrapped around his, our lips meeting in a rush of passion—assail me again and I turn away. I've moved on. I have. But this? This is just the sort of thing that could set me back.

  “What are you doing here, son?” Cliff asks, his voice not entirely free of anger. I know he's worried about me, about what my stepbrother's sudden presence might mean. He's so intimidating now with that blank stare, those big muscles, an entire sleeve of black and gray tattoos. And when Solène hugged him? I didn't miss the flash of guns beneath his black jacket.

  “I need to talk to you,” he says, calm, rational, completely free of emotion. “You and Regina.” Where's that passion I knew so well? That heat? The little electric bite in his voice when he said my name?

  I stand up suddenly because I'm not going to sit here and quiver in his presence. I can't. I won't. My fingers curl into fists as I meet his gaze head on, waiting for something, some spark of the love that used to reign king between us. But there's nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  I feel sick.

  “Can we speak in private?” he asks, gesturing lamely at his still beaming daughter. Cliff nods and whispers something to Solène in French that I can't quite hear before leading her away towards the back hallway and the bedrooms. I watch them go, pulling my gaze away from Gill's so I can catch my breath. Even if he can look at me and feel nothing, I feel everything: fear, hope, anger, love. “It's good to see you again,” he says blandly, coming closer, his boots loud on the hardwood floors. My eyes snap down to them, to the black leather, and then travel up the dark denim on his legs, past his tight black T-shirt and jacket, right up to that achingly familiar face. His nose is still straight and perfect, his lips still full and inviting, but there's something missing there, something that I got so used to seeing that I didn't think twice about it. Passion. Gill used to be passionate about me; he's not anymore.

  I stiffen as he moves forward and drapes an emotionless hug over my shoulders, giving me a weak squeeze that's all space and formality, not closeness and love. I don't even get the hug a normal stepsister would get. Just this. This nothingness.

  I swallow hard as he steps back and I look up into his face.

  I don't know why Gilleon is here or why, but I can tell right off the bat that this isn't the reunion I've always dreamed of.

  Gill doesn't love me anymore.

  I try not to be sad about it, to stand there strong and empty, but inside, my heart breaks into pieces all over again. Until this moment, I never truly realized how much I missed the love in his eyes.

  And he will never, ever look at me with that same passion again.

  I barely make it three steps out of that room before Gill's moving after me, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me back into his bedroom.

  The door slams shut behind me as Gilleon pushes me against it with his half-naked body, one arm wrapped around my waist, his other elbow leaning against the wood to the right of my head. We're both panting, staring into one another's eyes like we're not sure how we ever managed to look away in the first place.

  In his gaze, I see it again, that something that I never thought would come back, that I feared was dead forever.

  Love. Passion. Desperation.

  I want to pull away, open this door and walk out.

  But I can't.

  It's irresponsible, and it's stupid, and I know it's probably a big mistake, but I find my fingers traveling up the sides of Gill's face, over the slight stubble on his cheeks, until I curl them in that thick, dark hair of his.

  “I can't do this again, Gilleon,” I whisper, feeling a slight brush of tears, tears that I've fought off since the moment he first walked back into my life, his face blank and empty, but his heart full. That terrifying moment in the kitchen when I was certain he didn't love me anymore, it was all a fucking performance. But he can't fool himself anymore.

  And neither can I.

  I can't keep lying to myself about Gilleon.

  I love him with a passion so bright it blinds, so hot it burns, so wild that it can't be tamed, no matter how hard I try or how long I fight, how mature I think I am or how much distance I put between us. Despite what he did to me, to our daughter, to the life we should've had …

  “No, Regina,” he says, his voice a shattered sea of glass, cutting into me with the rough tenderness in his words. “There's no
again, not ever. I couldn't walk away from you if my life depended on it.” He swallows hard and closes his eyes. “Not even if yours did.” He turns his head away slightly and pulls back, releasing me and leaving my skin hot and aching for him. “I told you,” he says again, “love is selfish.”

  I reach up and find warm tears trailing down my cheeks, the emotions that I've been fighting back for so long just come flooding up and out to the point that my knees go weak and I find myself sliding down the door. Gill catches me before I hit the floor and hauls me up and into his arms like I don't weigh a thing, setting me on the edge of the bed and stepping back. I think we both need some space right now—even if my body's telling me a different story. I want him to fuck me again, fill me up, capture my mouth with his.

  But my heart is rocked with a revelation, and I need a breather.

  “I still love you,” I say, and the words drop from my lips in a near sob. No. I don't want to be like this; I'm strong.

  But then … maybe I'm trying to measure strength by the wrong rules? Maybe strength isn't about how well you push the emotions back, maybe it's in how you embrace them? They don't have to rule your life, but they're always there and they need to be acknowledged.

  That's what I'm doing now. Acknowledging them. And if I thought my heart couldn't hurt anymore than it already did … I was wrong. I feel like I'm being torn into pieces, blood oozing from old wounds as I try to come to terms with everything.

  Gill still loves me—never stopped loving me if he's to be believed. And I do. I believe him.

  And me … I know I never stopped loving him. In fact, that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder bit, I think that's true. I feel so full of emotion that I can barely breathe past the tightness in my chest.

  “I love you,” I say, my voice cracking as I put my head in my hands. “I shouldn't, but I do. I do.”

  Gill says nothing, but I can feel him looking right at me, his gaze cutting straight through my soul.

  “I love you, too, Regina. More than anything. That's why I left before, because I was afraid for you. Karl, he promised me he'd do the same thing to you that he did to your mother.”

  My gaze snaps up suddenly, my hands falling into my lap.

  “What?” I ask, brushing away the tears as I stare wide-eyed at a shirtless Gilleon, his jeans undone, muscles tight, but expression sober. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means,” he says, running a hand down his face, his voice a rough whisper, “that I can't keep secrets from you anymore, Regi. I can't keep ducking around the truth.” Gill's breath hitches and he looks me straight in the face, scaring the hell out of me with his expression.

  “Karl had your mother killed, Regi. Because of me. Elena, she's dead because of me.”

  My heart pounds in my chest, rattling my bones, speeding up my pulse until all I can hear is the sound of my own blood thumping inside my head. Those words spoken by anyone else would mean nothing, a ridiculous statement that I wouldn't give a second thought to.

  But Gill … Gill wouldn't joke about this. Or exaggerate. Or lie. Not about this.

  I stare into his blue eyes, so focused on mine that I wonder if he's even breathing; I know I'm not. The silence stretches uncomfortably between us as I wait for an explanation and he waits for a reaction.

  “I don't understand,” I whisper finally, my chest tight, the tears drying into salty lines on my cheeks. Gilleon turns away suddenly, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head like he's regretting his sudden confession. But no. When he turns to look at me, there's enough fear and hope in his eyes that I can tell: he needs to speak the truth as much as I need to hear it. But he's afraid he's going to lose me in the process … and he's praying to God that he doesn't. “What are you talking about? My mom … she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I stand up, but my legs feel weak, too weak to hold me, so I sit back down again, the mattress dipping beneath me. “Gilleon, you better explain yourself before I have a goddamn heart attack.”

  “Regina,” he says, his voice breaking a little on the last syllable, trailing into a rough growl that brings goose bumps up on my arms. “I'm sorry, baby. I'm so fucking sorry, mon cœur.” My heart.

  “You seem to be saying sorry a lot lately, Gilleon, but before I can forgive you, I have to know what exactly it is that you're apologizing for.” I suck in a deep breath and close my eyes, trying to control my pulse, trying to still my frantic nerves. What the hell is going on here? I can't take a single second more of not knowing.

  He nods, but he doesn't look at me, turning so that his back is facing me, the tail of the panther curving with the movement of his muscles as he bends down to grab a shirt. I guess we're both aware of how much harder this will all be if he doesn't put some clothes on. Gill shrugs the shirt over his head, mussing up his black hair.

  I stare at him as he turns back to face me, and I wonder: if his words are true, will I hate him for it?

  But no. No.

  I watched him kill two men right in front of me, and I can't summon the feelings of disgust or shock or outrage that most people would feel. Gilleon Marchal, he's my weakness and my strength, has been since the day he picked the lock on my bedroom door. I have a feeling that not even death will change that, so what about this revelation of his?

  I reach up and realize that I'm crying again, tears leaking down my cheeks as I stare at the wetness on my fingertips in surprise. I think I'm in shock already, and I still don't have the full story. What's going to happen to me when I do?

  “Karl Rousseau had your mother killed to teach me a lesson, Regina.” He pauses and his voice drops into a deep rumble more akin to a growl than actual words. Gill's angry, but not at me. “My mother, too, Regi,” he whispers, trying to keep the sound from ascending into a yell. “He had my mother murdered, too.”

  I stare at him in stunned silence. Until this moment, I didn't even know she was dead. I let that knowledge brush away some of my fear, focusing on Gill's mom instead of my own. It's just … easier that way. Without even realizing I'm doing it, my fingers curl around my mother's diamond pendant. Gill doesn't miss the gesture.

  “I …” I try to think up some way to respond to the sadness in his eyes, the regret, but there's nothing. I swallow hard and close my eyes. “I'm sorry to hear that.” My words come out in a whisper, but I hope he can tell how sincere they are. I mean, he's Gilleon, of course he can. I open my eyes back up and meet his gaze.

  Gill smiles tightly at me.

  “It was twelve years ago,” he says with a slight shrug, like it doesn't matter. But I know it does. Family's as important to Gill as it is to me, or at least I always thought it was. It was one of the things that drew me to him. When he left, I figured it'd all been a lie. But maybe not? Maybe, just maybe …

  Fuck.

  I just want all of this shit out in the open, so I can stare it straight in the face and figure out what to do about it. I just admitted my feelings to him; isn't that enough for one day?

  “Gill,” I begin, wishing I could just lean back and drop into the mess of blankets on his bed, curl them around my body and close my eyes, forget this day ever happened. I start again. “Gill, I'm sorry about your mom, but I … I don't understand how any of that relates to mine. You were with me the day that she died, Gill—in Paris no less. How could you have been responsible for what happened to her in Seattle?”

  As the seconds tick past, my mind whirs with possibilities, trying to convince my heart that Gill's over-exaggerating or overestimating his influence on the situation. But I know that's not true. Gilleon doesn't make mistakes like that.

  Karl had your mother killed, Regi. Because of me. Elena, she's dead because of me.

  Gill reaches up and rubs at his shoulder, where the bullet grazed his flesh. The wound's mostly healed now, pink and ragged at the edges but closed up. That's how my heart feels—or how it felt before now. The wounds were there, yes, and they still hurt sometimes, but they weren't open and
oozing, waiting for infection to take over. I'm terrified that this conversation is going to rip them wide open.

  “When I lived with my mother,” Gill begins when I don't say anything else, running his hand down his face again. I know he doesn't like to talk about that part of his life, all of the horrible things he endured while trying to keep his mom from plunging into the deep end. He pauses and takes a deep breath, the muscles and tendons in his hands standing out against his tight knuckles as he curls them into fists. “Fuck,” he growls, looking down at the floor and putting his hands on his hips as he tries to pull himself together. Me, I feel like I'm in a dream right now. Okay, nightmare. But I feel like I'm asleep, floating through a fantasy world that'll burst into bubbles at first light. So, since I can't do anything about my own hurting, I decide to focus on Gill's.

  Without thinking twice about it, I stand up and move across the room, sliding my arms around Gill's strong midsection and resting my head against his chest. He sucks in a deep breath before returning the favor, holding me tight, fingers fisting in the back of my white sweater.

  “I remember,” I tell him, my breath coming in short, quick bursts as I push back another set of tears. At this point, I don't even really know what exactly it is that I'm crying about: Gill, my mom, his mom, maybe even … me? I haven't cried for me in a long, long time. “I remember when I was nineteen,” I say, closing my eyes against the warmth radiating from Gill's chest, “you'd just turned twenty, and we were supposed to go to dinner for your birthday. Me, you, and Cliff. I remember you calling your mom because you were surprised she hadn't called you on your birthday. You went into your room, and you didn't come out. You told Cliff and me that you weren't feeling well.”

  “I called my mom's number and some guy answered,” he says, filling in the blanks for me. “He said she'd been shot during some drug deal gone bad.” He takes another breath and scoots me back just enough to look into my eyes. “I didn't tell you because we were so happy then: me, you, and dad. And you'd just started to really smile again.” Gill reaches up and brushes a stray tear away with his thumb, making my breath hitch.