The Forbidden Mark Of My Stepbrother

Kelsie Washington woke up to a throbbing ache that radiated from her lower back down to her thighs. It wasn't the good kind of ache, the kind that promised aftercare or soft whispers. It was the physical residue of being used. She pushed herself up on the expansive mattress, the Egyptian cotton sheets feeling like ice against her bare skin. The other side of the King-sized bed was empty. Not just empty, but pristine, as if Cornelius Wilder hadn't spent the last six hours wrecking her there.

The sound of running water from the bathroom cut off abruptly. Kelsie pulled the duvet up to her chin, her fingers white-knuckling the fabric. The bathroom door opened, and Cornelius walked out.

He was already dressed. His charcoal suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging his broad shoulders. He looked immaculate, untouched, a stark contrast to the disheveled mess she knew she was. He didn't look at her. His attention was entirely focused on fastening the platinum cufflink on his left wrist.

"There is water on the nightstand," Cornelius said. His voice was a low baritone, devoid of the gravelly heat it had held hours ago. It was his boardroom voice. "Take the pill. Emerald lands next week."

The name hit Kelsie like a physical blow to the stomach. The air in the luxury suite suddenly felt too thin to breathe. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and forced a smile that felt like it might crack her face.

"Received, Brother."

Cornelius paused. His fingers stopped on his cufflink. His jaw tightened, a small muscle ticking beneath the skin, but he didn't correct her. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a black American Express Centurion card. He placed it on the mahogany nightstand with a sharp click.

"Get something decent to wear," he said, finally turning his gaze to her. His eyes were the color of steel, cold and impenetrable. "Don't embarrass the family at breakfast."

He turned and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent room.

Kelsie dropped the duvet and scrambled into the bathroom. She gripped the edge of the marble sink, staring at her reflection. Her hair was a bird's nest. Her lips were swollen. And there, right on the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder, was a dark, purple bruise. A mark. A brand.

She turned on the faucet, splashing freezing water onto her face until her skin was numb. Then she opened her makeup bag. She dug out the thickest concealer she owned. Layer by layer, she painted over the evidence of her stupidity. Pat, blend, repeat. Until the purple was gone, replaced by a beige lie.

She dressed in the cheap floral dress she had worn yesterday. It felt flimsy and pathetic in the opulent room. She left the black card on the nightstand for a full minute, staring at it with hatred. Then, with a defeated sigh, she shoved it into her purse. She couldn't afford to be proud. Not with her stepfather's dialysis bills piling up.

She took the service elevator down and exited through the side door, avoiding the doormen. The Uber ride back to Long Island was silent, the driver too focused on the morning traffic to make conversation.

As the Uber turned onto the long, private road leading to the estate, Kelsie heard the faint, rhythmic thumping of helicopter blades fading in the distance. The Wilder's private helipad. Of course. He was already home. When the iron gates of the Wilder estate rolled open, Kelsie felt the familiar weight settle on her chest. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress, and she was the prisoner who had forgotten to escape.

She tried to slip in through the side entrance near the kitchens, but Chen, the head butler, was already there, polishing silver. He looked up, his eyes sweeping over her wrinkled dress.

"Miss Kelsie," he said, his tone perfectly polite and perfectly judgmental. "We didn't expect you. You didn't sleep in your room."

"Library," Kelsie lied quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I was at the university library. All night. Finals are coming up."

Joanne, her mother, bustled out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. She looked tired, the lines around her eyes deeper than Kelsie remembered. She grabbed Kelsie's arm and pulled her into the pantry.

"Look at you," Joanne hissed, smoothing down Kelsie's hair. "You look like a rag doll. Fix yourself. It's family breakfast. Silas is in a mood."

"I'm tired, Mom," Kelsie whispered.

"We don't get to be tired, Kelsie. We get to be grateful." Joanne adjusted Kelsie's collar, her fingers brushing dangerously close to the concealed hickey. "Now go."

Kelsie stepped back into the hallway just as footsteps descended the main staircase. Cornelius came down, dressed in high-end athletic wear, looking fresh and energized, as if he had just returned from a five-mile jog rather than a night of debauchery in Manhattan. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before checking his Patek Philippe watch.

He didn't say a word. He just walked past her toward the dining room, leaving a scent of sandalwood and cold detachment in his wake.