Stepbrother: Scar Tissue - the Complete Serial (An Alpha Stepbrother Romance)

by Lillian Thorne

  “Wait, what?”

  I don’t understand. It was a keepsake from her mother and she never took it off. Not in the shower, not for bed, not even for me. I remember asking her once—and only once—if I could hold it. Not even wear it. She smiled at me as though I just asked her the most ridiculous question. “Maybe when you’re older, dear.” She patted my head and then walked away.

  I hated that locket. She loved it more than me. A stupid piece of metal and I wanted to throw it in a river and watch it float away, never to be seen again.

  But, if it really is gone, what does it matter?

  “She wasn’t wearing a locket when we found her.”

  I shrug my shoulders and begin to get up. Miles places his hand on mine. “Just a few minutes. It’s all I’m asking for.”

  I exhale loudly through my nose, look at him for a long moment, but sit back down.

  “Thanks.”

  His hand is still on mine. My skin begins to tingle. I tear it out from under his and fold my hands on my lap.

  “What do you know about the night Judith was murdered?”

  “Murdered?” I blurt.

  My mouth hangs open. It never crossed my mind. Why would anyone…

  It doesn’t make sense.

  No. It couldn’t be Luke. Luke would never do something like that. Just because he was the last person—last known person—to see her alive doesn’t mean he killed her.

  He told me what happened, and I believe him.

  “I’m sorry, Leah. I’m afraid it’s true.”

  I look down and see that I’m twisting knots in my shirt.

  “Look.” His voice jolts my attention back to him. “I asked you here because I need your help. We have a few leads, but we don’t have all the information. I was hoping you could tie up a few loose ends.”

  My eyes are drawn back to the man I bumped into, sitting only a few tables away from us. I swear he’s staring at me, but I can’t see his eyes. His long fingers are wrapped around a small, stout glass with amber liquid in it. It’s beginning to creep me out.

  “Fine.” I say, picking at my nails. “What do you want to know?”

  “Has Luke mentioned why he was at his mother’s house?”

  “To save me.” I blurt out without even thinking.

  “To save you? What do you mean?”

  He folds his arms across his chest as he looks at me with a furrowed brow.

  Why was he confused? How could he not know after talking to Luke? Did Luke not tell him? How could he not? Something wasn’t adding up.

  “He found out that she was poisoning me. Making me sick.”

  “Uh huh.” He nods. “And how did he know this?”

  I tell him the story—all of it—from the beginning, all the way up to the last moment when Judith attacked Luke. His face isn’t telling me anything. It’s… impassive.

  As I was telling the story, I could feel myself doubting it. There was no physical proof except for my father’s journal and the fact that I kept getting sick when I was back at home. How did I know the food I was eating making me sick?

  It was the first question he asked me, and all I could say was: “I don’t know. I was almost always sick when I was there. You know that. It wasn’t every day, but it was often enough. I stopped getting sick when I left…” I rub my scar underneath the table. “For Millwood. And when I came home… sick again.”

  Miles rubs his chin, considering what I just told him.

  “Okay.” That’s all he said. A single, ‘okay.’

  I look back to where the hooded man was seated, but he’s gone.

  “Don’t you find it odd that Luke discovers this… this secret about your mother. About her harming you. And that she ends up dead the night he comes back?”

  Yes. Wait, no. I don’t know. I know it seems odd, but I know Luke didn’t kill Judith. He’s not…

  “He didn’t kill Judith.” I make sure to keep my voice calm but assertive.

  Miles shakes his head. “I’m not saying that—“

  “But you’re implying it!” I snap back. Oops.

  “Leah. I go where the evidence takes me. And right now it’s pointing me right to Luke.”

  “What evidence? All you know is that he was supposedly the last person to see her alive. Luke would never—”

  I can feel myself choking up. I hate this. I hate Miles for making me doubt Luke.

  “What do you really know about Luke?”

  What do I know about him? I know he didn’t kill anyone. But it doesn’t matter. Miles will paint his own picture no matter what I say.

  “I’ll tell you what I know.” He says, pointing at himself, his eyes wide. “I know he’s intelligent, manipulative, and an excellent liar. He lied about his story at the station. I know that now after the story you told me. He said Judith attacked him because he wouldn’t give her money. Not because he wanted to take you away.”

  Why would he lie about that? I don’t get it. I’m tired of listening. I just want to leave.

  “He’s not who you think he is, Leah.”

  “No, Miles.” I tell him, sternly, as I stand up to leave. “ He’s not who you think he is.”

  He grabs my arm just before I reach the door. He tells me to listen and whispers into my ear what they found in Luke’s car—the pills he had in the glove compartment. They showed up in Judith’s toxicology report. I try to explain to him that Luke needs those pills for his congenital heart defect. And that he should know that, too. He’s been taking those pills since he was a kid.

  I couldn’t explain why they were in Judith’s report, but they wouldn’t have killed her. Miles agrees, but he tells me that the other drugs they found would. And that there was already a team at Luke’s apartment searching for them.

  I rip myself from his grasp and walk away, disappearing around the corner as Miles watches me from the doorway.

  I don’t want to think about it any longer.

  I CAN’T SHAKE THE feeling that I’m being followed.

  But every time I look my shoulder, I don’t see anyone. I’m the only person on the street. It’s quiet. The only noise comes from the slight breeze rustling the leaves of the sycamores that line the street. The breeze brings with it the smell of rain.

  He’s manipulative, and an excellent liar. He’s not who you think he is.

  It couldn’t be true, could it? Why would Luke kill his mother? He had no motive, no reason to do it. Well, other than the fact that she was poisoning me. But that wouldn’t be enough to make him kill his mother, right?

  Six minutes. That’s how long it takes me to get back.

  Ugh. I stick out my jaw and blow a stray tendril of hair off my face as I fish out the house key from my purse. It doesn’t work—the blowing. The hair just falls right back in place.

  The door clicks open just as I hear rapid footfall behind me—the swish of feet against grass, across the cement path leading to the house, then onto the wood steps and porch. I’m too slow to react. Two arms wrap themselves around me, lift me off the floor as I struggle and take me inside.

  A filthy hand with long and even filthier fingers reaches up and stifles my screams.

  “Well, what have we got here.” I smell his breath before I hear his words. It’s sweet with alcohol but putrid. I can picture the slimy yellow teeth peeking through his snarl.

  I don’t have to see his face to know It’s Gabe. I know his voice just as well as his stench.

  I try to scream; my legs flail wildly as he carries me over to the sofa in the living room.

  “Squeal for me. Squeal like the goddamned whore you are. I don’t mind one bit. Gonna make it more fun. Keep it up.”

  The more he talks, the more I feel like gagging. He smells as though he hasn’t showered for weeks, months even. His teeth have probably never seen a toothbrush.

  Our bodies crash against the sofa and his arms are still wrapped tightly around me. The weight of him against me is enough to knock the breath out of me and force m
y mouth open and gasp for air. Small, dirty breaths of air, filtered through Gabe’s fingers, fill my lungs.

  I feel like giving up. No matter where I go or what I do, nothing ever turns out right. What’s the point in trying?

  No! I tell myself. Fight back!

  His hand slides away from my mouth and I can breathe clean air again.

  “Please, Gabe.” I pant. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  He moves back onto his knees and forcibly turns me over onto my back. Taking my wrists in his hands, he pins me against the couch. We’re face to face, only a few inches between us. He’s wearing the same hoody as the man I saw in the corner of the bar. It was him.

  He’s been watching me, stalking me.

  I feel sick.

  “Oh, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He snarls. A wild glint flickers in his eyes. They’re open so wide they’re almost all white. “We’re gonna have ourself a little fun. A good ole time.” He lets go of my wrists to unbuckle his belt.

  This is my opening, my only chance. I can’t count on anyone else to get me out of this situation. It probably won’t work—I’ve never punched anyone before—but what other options do I have?

  Crotch or gut?

  I only have a split-second to decide: Crotch.

  My punch connects and judging by the howl coming from him; it works. He topples over to the side, and I’m able to free myself. I’m on my feet; I scurry around the coffee table and head for the door. His hand shoots toward my leg as I pass by, and he snags my ankle.

  “You ain’t going nowhere, you fucking bitch.” He growls.

  I’m balancing myself on one leg as I try to kick his grip away with the other. But it’s not enough. He has already recovered from whatever damage my punch inflicted and a second hand snags my other leg. With one effortless pull, I fall flat on my face.

  “Please…” I cry as I sputter saliva onto the cold floor. “Please, stop. Why are you doing this to me?” I ask as though I’d get a rational answer. People like Gabe don’t think rationally. They have no moral compass.

  The only compass Gabe has is hanging between his legs, and it’s pointing straight at me.

  “Blah, blah, blah. All you whores do is talk.” He whines.

  I can feel flecks of his spit against my legs as he talks. His hands smear grease and dirt across my legs as he crawls over me, closer and closer. The dread I felt when he first attacked me overtakes me again.

  “Now be a good little whore and take what’s coming to you.” My body falls limp, and I close my eyes. Please stop. Please stop. “You’re mine.” He rasps.

  “The fuck she is!”

  The next sound I hear is a sickening crack of bone as a fist connects with Gabe’s nose. It’s Luke. Gabe doesn’t even have a chance to react. Luke peels him off of me and tosses him to the floor. Gave skids across the floor and Luke pounces on him, unleashing a flurry of lefts and rights. A part of me wants Luke to keep going. I want Gabe to understand that he can’t do this. He can’t treat people this way and get away with it.

  But another part of me is afraid that Luke won’t stop until Gabe’s dead.

  I’ve never seen Luke act like this.

  He’s not who you think he is. Miles’s words resound in my mind.

  No! I throw myself on Luke. I won’t let Luke do something stupid.

  “Luke, stop!” I cry as I try to wrap my arms around him. He’s too strong, and I barely offer any resistance to him. “Stop! You’ll kill him!” And I meant it too. Gabe has his arms up, trying to block Luke’s punches. I can see blood on the Luke’s fists.

  Miles was already suspicious of Luke. What more reason did he need than this? Maybe he was right. I don’t know what Luke is capable of.

  But he stops seconds later.

  “You’re not worth it.” He spits at Gabe as he grabs him by his shirt and pulls him to his feet; I stumble backward as he stands up. “If I so much as see you look at Leah again…” He drags Gabe to the front door and throws him out. There’s a trail of blood drops that leads from me to the door.

  Glass rattles and the floor shakes from the force at which Luke shuts the door. He stands there; his right hand still flat against it and his head down.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  LEAH

  HE SAVED ME AGAIN.

  Why am I always the one who needs saving? Why can’t I be the hero for once? This is my life, and I’m tired of being the victim.

  “Leah…” He begins, his back still facing me.

  It has only been a week, but it feels like ages since I’ve heard his voice. It shouldn’t be affecting me this way, but it is. It always has. It’s warm and smooth and, above all, comforting. It’s what I need right now.

  He leans against the door and slides down to the floor. His hands hang limply over his knees.

  “I should’ve taken you with me that night.” He cups his face with his hands, then runs them through his hair and lets out a long, airy sigh.

  “You had no other choice.” I tell him.

  “But I did.” He snaps back. “I mean. Sorry.” His eyes flit over to mine. They’re wet, but there aren’t any tears. “I could’ve put up more of a fight. Then maybe—“ He glances over at me again, longer this time. I know what he’s looking at. My scar. I cover it with my hand, instinctively. “Maybe things would’ve turned out different.” He looks back at his hands.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe things could’ve worked out, but we can’t change what happened. We can’t sit here thinking about what could’ve been—it will tear us apart. I’ve come to terms with what happened. With my mother, with my father, with Luke, with everything.

  And I’m tired of reliving the pain. I want to move on with my life. Forget this town and everything that happened to me and be happy. I want to live.

  I walk over to him. His knees are up, and his head rests in between his hands as wild tufts of hair sprout in between his fingers. I kneel down beside him and place a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.” I whisper, stroking his arm. My hand traces the outline of his musculature underneath his shirt and my mind flashes back to the night I saw him naked.

  “I mean it.” I reach out to touch his hand, but I stop myself. It’s battered and bleeding from punching Gabe, and it’s already beginning to swell. “Luke! We need to clean that!”

  He shrugs. “It’s not that bad.” He holds his hand out in front of him and inspects it, almost in admiration. Small, meandering rivulets of red stain the back of his hand. There’s dirt, probably from Gabe, smeared along one of his knuckles.

  I can see the one corner of his mouth forming a smile.

  Mr. Tough Guy.

  But, to be honest, it was kind of hot how he saved me like that. I’ll never tell him though; I wouldn’t want to inflate his ego more than it already is.

  “Not that bad? Luke James Hammond…”

  I feel like a mother scolding a child as grab him by the arm and lead him into the kitchen.

  “Sit.” I instruct him, pointing to an open chair. He sits down and rests his bloody hand on the table. He leans back and stretches his other arm against the back of the chair. His V-neck shirt dips low enough to reveal part of his well-defined pecs. My eyes trace their outline and down to his abs. For a moment, I forget what I’m doing, lost in admiration, my heart fluttering.

  I catch myself, but it’s too late. The cocky grin of his returns as his cool blue eyes scan my body.

  I leave for a moment to collect everything I need. “Am I going to make it, Doc?” He asks.

  I let out a deep sigh, and ignore him.

  The chair squeaks against the linoleum as I drag it toward him and sit down.

  “Hand.” I say, looking him in the eye.

  “This feels familiar.” He says, extending his hand to me. “Only I think our roles were reversed—Aggh!” He wrenches his hand away, but not before I doused his wound with alcohol. That’s one way to shut him up. I smile contentedly at myself.

  “Oh, st
op being such a baby.” I chide.

  He snorts a laugh, offering his hand again. Holding it with my left hand, I wipe away the blood and clean his cuts with the other. His hand is firm, rough, and masculine, and I’m trying not to think about it all over my body.

  Oops. Too late.

  I can imagine the warmth of it, wrapping around the nape of my neck, cupping my breasts, spanking my ass. I can feel myself beginning to flush.

  Don’t look up. Don’t look…

  My eyes flit up to his, and he’s not even attempting to hide the fact that he’s looking down my shirt as I’m leaning over, caring for his wound. And I’m not attempting to hide that I like it.

  I like that he finds me attractive.

  I like that he calls me sexy.

  I like how he protects me and will do anything for me.

  But would he kill someone for you. His own mother?

  No! I tell myself, dismissing the thought as soon as it rises to the surface. Luke isn’t a killer. I couldn’t possibly fall for a killer… could I?

  “You know Miles thinks you killed Judith.”

  He laughs. “Of course he would. He’s a terrible detective.” I can feel his eyes on me. “Wait. How did you know that?”

  “I saw him earlier today. He promised me that he’d return Judith’s locket. That’s the only reason I met with him.” I let out a sigh, dropping my hands from his as I look at him. “But he said they didn’t find a locket on her.”

  He grunts. “Weird.”

  “I know. I’ve searched this entire house, but it’s not here.” I return to bandaging his hand.

  “Why do you want it, anyways?”

  “To destroy it.” I say, simply.

  He laughs at me again. “Seriously?”

  “I wanted to destroy the one thing she loved more than anything else.”

  He doesn’t say anything. I’m almost done bandaging. I’m just finishing the wrapping when I add: “He has it out for you. He thinks you hurt Judith.”

  “Do you believe him?” He asks.

  “No.” I mean it, too.

  Luke’s free hand palms one side on my face. It’s warm and comforting, and I can feel myself melting under his touch. I’ve ached for his touch for so long.