Shattered Innocence: My Brother's Dark Desire

"Stop."

The word scraped against Herminia's throat, dry and cracked, but the movement of her own body betrayed the protest. She woke up not in her bed, but on the thick, Persian rug of the main study, the fibers scratching against her bare skin. Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, a souvenir from the whiskey decanter that now sat nearly empty on the mahogany desk above her.

She tried to push herself up, but a sharp, stinging sensation in her muscles made her gasp. The sound was too loud in the morning silence. Memories flashed in disjointed, violent bursts. The clinking of ice. The taste of oak and smoke. Hunter's hand, heavy and absolute, claiming the back of her neck, thumb pressing against her pulse. Her own voice, lost in a haze of vertigo and surrender.

Panic, cold and immediate, flooded her chest. She scrambled backward, her hand knocking into the leg of the leather sofa.

Hunter was there.

He wasn't asleep. He was sitting on the sofa, legs spread, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing the hard lines of his torso. He was watching her. His eyes were clear, terrifyingly sober, devoid of the haze that clouded her own mind.

Herminia grabbed her discarded silk blouse from the floor, clutching it to her chest as a pathetic shield. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Hunter..." she stammered, the name tasting like ash. "This... last night. We were drunk. It was a mistake."

Hunter didn't blink. He slowly buttoned his cuff, the gold link clicking into place with a sound that seemed to echo in the cavernous room.

"I wasn't drunk, Herminia."

The air left the room. Herminia stared at him, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the blouse. He had been sober. He had known.

"You..." She choked on the accusation. She tried to stand, but her legs were gelatin, refusing to hold her weight. She stumbled.

Hunter moved with the speed of a predator. He caught her before she hit the floor, his fingers digging into her waist, stabilizing her with a grip that felt more like a claim than a rescue. He pulled her close, the heat of his body seeping into hers.

"Let me go," she whispered, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. "If Barbara finds out... she'll kill us. We are family on paper."

"Paper burns," Hunter said, his voice low and vibrating against her ear. "And last night, when you were whispering my name, you didn't seem concerned with legal technicalities."

Heat rushed to her face, burning her neck and cheeks. The shame was a physical weight, crushing her. She tried to push him away, but his arm was a steel band.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Heavy, rhythmic thuds. The morning cleaning crew.

Herminia froze. Her breath hitched. If anyone opened that door, her life at the Randolph estate—her scholarship, her trust fund, her very existence—was over.

Hunter felt her stiffen. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her flush against him, his hand sliding up her spine. He was enjoying her terror.

The footsteps paused, then faded down the corridor.

Herminia sagged against him, sweat trickling down her back. Hunter tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. His thumb traced her lower lip.

"Get dressed," he said, his tone shifting instantly to cold indifference. He released her and walked toward the window. "Barbara will be downstairs in five minutes."

Herminia scrambled behind the heavy oak desk, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't align the buttons of her blouse. She pulled her skirt on, zipping it with a jagged motion. She felt dirty. Used. And terrifyingly, she felt a lingering electric hum where he had touched her.

Hunter pulled back the velvet curtains. The grey morning light sliced through the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

Herminia smoothed her hair and walked toward the door, desperate to flee. She caught her reflection in the glass of the bookcase.

She stopped dead.

A dark, purple bruise bloomed on the side of her neck, stark against her pale skin. It was undeniable. A mark of possession.

"Hunter," she whispered.

He turned. She pointed a trembling finger at her neck.

Hunter looked at the mark, his expression unreadable. He didn't look sorry. He walked to the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a small, silver tin.

"Come here," he ordered.

"No. I need to leave."

"You can't hide that with makeup," he said, unscrewing the lid. "Come here. Unless you want the entire staff to know exactly what you were doing on my rug."