Bully stepbrother

26. Revenge

CADEN

"Now get off me," I snap at the girl straddling me as I hear the front door open and close. Her face drains of color and she scrambles off, tugging her clothes into place.

I need a shower. I need her completely off me. I need to brush my teeth.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asks quietly as I get up.

She's still here?

"Yeah, you're in my apartment." I growl, and she starts packing up her things without arguing.

She insisted on following me from the bar after Paxton bailed me out of my overnight cell. I knew I didn't want anything from her, but I needed Mad to believe what happened between us was just something that would never happen again, so bringing a girl home is the perfect exhibition for that.

The girl without a name finally leaves, and I drag my legs out of the bedroom. The house is quiet, and so is my empty stomach that's been abused by skipping meals for over twenty‑four hours.

The pills I left on the island are gone. She must have taken them.

Bitterness burns down my raw throat, stinging my lungs, and something is wrong in my chest. I try to push back the memory of the drunk night, the forbidden kiss that haunted me the whole time in the cell and at the bar, but now, with a pounding hangover, standing here alone, fighting one memory only to vividly see her face watching me right before I closed the door on her a few minutes ago, it all claws back.

I shower and brush my teeth. I don't feel like a new person after. It still hurts, inside and out. I still feel like crap.

Cooking isn't an option. I'm obviously exhausted, my veins are buzzing, so I place an order for two. They have the chili oil wings Mad would try to make at home for every meal. They have her favorite fried wings, a sandwich, and a drink. She'd have it with fries and mac and cheese. So I got them too.

She actually eats most things. I don't think I've seen a day when she was picky. Maybe she'd lose her appetite sometimes, but she never hated the food.

Enough of that thought.

I'll sleep for fifteen minutes before the delivery comes, just to stop the shaking.

When I wake up, it's two hours later. So much for setting an alarm.

I crawl off the couch and look around. It's still quiet. Mad hasn't returned.

The delivery app says my order has arrived, so I check the door, and there it is. I grab the bags and rush to the island, ripping open the packaging and taking a bite like a starving man.

It's cold, but it doesn't matter. I just need the nutrients, the strength. After barely eating half of my portion, I lose my appetite, like every day since I was ten. I take Mad's share and shove it into the oven, and the drink into the fridge. That's when I spot that scammer from my building by his stupid black truck.

I gave him money to leave Mad alone, but I remember clearly how she came back, teary‑eyed, saying things she would never say, not even after my worst pranks.

Everything has a price. Some things cost more than others. He's crossed a line.

I grab my leather jacket and shove my feet into my boots in a rush, snatch my keys and phone, and bolt down the stairs.

He still hasn't pulled out. He's getting off the phone.

"Clitoris, wait up," I call out, catching a few judgmental looks from a dog walker. I couldn't care less. That's exactly what he looks like to me right now. He rolls his eyes and reluctantly stops.