Chapter 4

Amelia's POV

I'd gotten home and holed up in my room, pacing and cooking up the nastiest scenarios in my head.

Sure, even his father agreed that he was wanton.

Sure, there was enough evidence that he was every bit the reckless, undisciplined playboy, his excessive personality mere icing on the cake.

For God's sake, he slept with women who were old enough to be his mother and flashed his genitals at teenage girls.

You looked, Amelia.

And now I was going to be living with him in the same house. The house was big enough that if I played my cards well, I wouldn't have to see him at all, but we weren't talking three days, we were talking months.

Plus, we ate meals together in this house. My mother had begged and begged until I'd accepted the tradition.

As if summoning her, she knocks on the door and opens it, sticking her head in and then her entire petite frame. My mum was smaller than me, her head stopping at my shoulders. She's wearing a simple sundress, her red hair in a messy bun, her green eyes surveying my outfit. I'd inherited my blue eyes from my dad. The brown and red hair was a gift from both parents.

I have not changed out of the fitted jeans and big checkered shirt I'd worn over it to school, my hair in a ponytail. My signature school outfit. My entire wardrobe has enough checkered shirts and jeans to last me an entire year. Bianca and my mother hate that I don't dress up more. I'd rather hide than be caught in a skirt or dress except it was absolutely important. The look of disapproval my mother is sending me already makes my stomach tighten in knots.

"Amelia, it's almost time for dinner and you're not dressed."

"Why should I be dressed?" I know why. The idea is ridiculous. Who wore a dress because their stepbrother was around?

She walks past me, straight into my closet and starts scattering, fishing for a dress that I'm so sure she wouldn't find...

She smiles triumphantly, holding up a blue short sleeved dress that stops at my knees. I'd forgotten that my mother bought dresses for me and stuffed them in my closet, hoping one day I'd suddenly change and like them.

Good God.

"Mum." I whine when she throws the dress at my face and it lands on my shoulder.

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Wear that and come down." She makes her way to the door and stops, walking back towards me to hold my hands.

Oh, no, you don't, Mother.

She was about to give me doe eyes and ask for something in her 'I'm delicate' voice.

"You know how important it is that we make sure Miguel Angel doesn't feel unwelcome here. We don't want him to run away, do we?"

Yes, I do.

"No, mum"

Her smile was wide enough to almost make me forget who it was we were talking about. Almost.

"He's Emilio's son. He's important to him. That makes him important to us, doesn't he?"

No.

"Yes, mum."

"Promise you will be nice to him and help him feel at home with us."

My eyes widen to saucers. No way in hell am I going to do that.

"Amelia Rose Hart."

"Mother."

She blinks repeatedly and pouts her lips. For all that my mum was reserved, easygoing and even sometimes shy, she had the will of an ox.

"Fine." I groan and she chuckles, reaching to pat my head and walks out of my room, blowing me a kiss that reminds me I've lost to her. Again.

Standing in front of the full length mirror, my lips curl in distaste at the blue dress and I huff. Let's get this dinner over with.

*****************************************

Dinner was almost always comprised of Emilio, me, my mum and Oscar, Emilio's right hand. He lived in the house, in one of the rooms downstairs with his wife Rachel, the head housekeeper whom I mostly saw when she was assisting my mum in the kitchen and when she came to ask if I needed someone to help clean my room. The answer was the same everytime. No. Emilio's driver, Mr James, –the mister because he was probably older than all of us in the house– lived in the house too, but he preferred to have dinner in his room.

I close my eyes to take a deep breath and ...

Eyes of molten chocolate. A woman's moans. Mrs Hathaway still looked away whenever I saw her.

I blink and squirm in my seat, the anticipation and dread almost eating me alive. Emilio is seated at the head of the table, my mum on his left and Oscar sitting beside her. Rachel was probably going to eat in her room, like she always did. Said she liked to watch the television as she ate. I'm sitting beside Emilio on his right, taking no pleasure in knowing that the empty seat beside me is soon to be occupied by my wanton of a stepbrother.

The last word tastes like ashes on my tongue.

Emilio, Oscar and my mum are talking and laughing, about business? I wouldn't know, because I'm furiously texting Bianca who is more than excited to know how my "hot-as-fuck" stepbrother was doing.

BeeMiles: Does your stepbrother still have his piercings?

Me: Don't call him that. And I don't know.  Not yet.

BeeMiles: Oh my God, what if he grew more handsome than the last time we saw him? Lord knows how big he is down there and if he's pierced too.

I choke and wave the three people on the table with me off when they shoot me concerned looks, grabbing a glass of water and emptying it in two gulps.

I'm tempted to tell her exactly how big Miguel is down there and that he isn't pierced. But there's something more important than that.

Me: You have to promise me something.

BeeMiles: What?

Me: You can't sleep with him. Ever.

BeeMiles: You're seriously saying I can't fuck him? Why the hell not?

Me: Language. And please. I promise, you can sleep with whoever you want when we get to college and I won't bat an eyelid.

BeeMiles: How's that comforting? Only if you promise to join me. Lord knows you need some sexcapades in your life.

Me: Lol. Kay. Promise. Ttyl.

BeeMiles: I'll be waiting by my phone for details.

I've barely raised my head when he walks into the dining room. Black fitted ripped jeans and a black baggy top that hangs loose on one of his shoulders, exposing part of his clavicle. The letters on the shirt are bold and written in white.

CLIMAX.

A woman's cry of pleasure as she hit climax. Her body shaking in relief and eyes hooded.

My eyes move up to his face and sure enough he's smiling. If you could call it that. He looks like he added another inch to his over six feet. Little round earrings dangle from his ears, his left brow piercing intact but my eyes are on his lips where he's drawn his lip ring between his teeth. The smile looks like sin. He looks like sin. His slightly crooked nose which is a testament to the fact that he's no stranger to brawls and should have made him look appalling, only adds to his sex appeal. His dark hair which has grown long enough to rest on his nape is damp, meaning that he'd probably just showered and my vision blurs with images of a naked Miguel, water running down his back, water running down his chest, lower and lower and ...

I blink, horrified that I'm fantasizing about my stepbrother. No, not my stepbrother. We aren't related. Our parents had decided to get married, that was all.

Isn't that what makes stepsiblings?

I can't put my finger on what's different about him, but there's something in the way he walks that definitely wasn't there the last time. If last year he hadn't looked like a teenager, this year he definitely wasn't one in age and looks. My thighs clench together as he takes his seat beside me, his jean clad thigh brushing against my now exposed leg because my dress has ridden up.

I really hate dresses.

I don't look at him, my eyes suddenly fascinated with the plate in front of me. That smile he'd given me told me all I needed to know about whether he remembered that night.

My mum breaks the silence.

"Welcome home, Miguel Angel. I hope you like it here, however long you decide to stay with us." Her smile is wide, warm, welcoming.

I sneak a glance at the boy beside me, watching as he debates how to respond, his eyes glancing at his father's face which remains stoic before giving my mother a dazzling smile that surprises all of us.

"You can call me Angel, Ruby. Thanks for accepting me into your home." Emilio and I are the only ones who probably don't buy into his niceness, but my mum grins and shifts the bowl of salad towards him, the tension on the table evaporating.

Angel, my foot. More like demon.

I don't breathe easy for the rest of dinner, acutely aware of his thigh moving against mine, knowing that it's intentional, because of the occasional tilting of his lips, where the silver ring glitters as if taunting me to see if I'd reach out and rip it off.

I don't breathe easy even when he says his thanks and leaves the table first.

I don't think I'll breathe easy for the next six months.

I'm screwed.