Claimed By My Stepbrother novel Chapter 88

Chapter 88

Ethan POV

I turned my head lazily, eyes flicking toward the glowing red digits of the digital clock on my dresser. 2:45 AM.

A soft sound followed–plastic hitting hardwood. The bottle of water I’d been holding slipped from my fingers and rolled across the floor. forgotten. I didn’t even flinch. My body was already moving, mind locked on one singular gravitational pull in this cold, dark house.

Her.

I stepped toward the door, my bare feet silent against the polished floors. My hand wrapped around the brass doorknob and twisted it slowly before slipping into the hallway.

The second floor groaned under my weight, old wood and history soaked into every beam. This house had too many rooms, too many corners. But hers? I could hear hers even when she wasn’t speaking. Humming off–key in the shower. Whispering to herself when she thought no one was listening.

She didn’t know I was always listening.

I turned left, pausing right outside Camila’s door. My fingers hovered over the doorknob, and I turned it just a little.

Click.

Locked.

Good girl.

A smile pulled at my lips, slow and warm like syrup. “She’s being security conscious,” I whispered to the wood. “That’s my girl.*

I turned and padded down the stairs, careful not to wake the others–her mom, Greg.

Slipping out the front door took no effort. The cold air bit at my bare arms, but I liked the way it grounded me. The way it snapped the obsession tighter around my ribs.

The moon was low, casting everything in silver. I walked around the perimeter of the mansion, grass whispering around my ankles. I stopped when I reached her window, second floor, right above the hedge that’d probably scratch my shins on the way up.

Didn’t matter.

I bent my knees slightly, and jumped.

The world blurred past me in a second, air slicing past my ears as I shot up and landed on the narrow balcony outside her window without a sound. My body was still humming from the adrenaline, but I stilled myself. Centered. Slid the glass door open just enough to squeeze through.

And there she was.

Sleeping.

On her side, tangled in blankets, legs bare, hair a mess across her pillow–and wearing my shirt.

My fucking shirt.

Something inside me curled tight,

1/3

I took a step forward, and the air in the room shifted. She didn’t wake, just made a soft sound and curled deeper into herself like a kitten. Her lips parted just slightly, and my breath caught.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

My mate.

The thought bloomed in my chest like wildfire. It wasn’t even a full moon, but I could feel the wolf underneath my skin stir and stretch, restless and hungry.

I moved closer, slow, like any sudden movement might break the moment. My hand reached out on its own, fingers brushing a strand of her dark hair back from her face. Silky. Soft. Her skin looked like caramel and sunlight, even in the dim moonlight.

I trailed my fingertips down her hair, down to her jawline. Her pouty lips.

They were practically calling my name.

“You look like a dream,” I whispered, voice thick, rough. “Like a fucking dream I don’t wanna wake up from.”

She stirred just slightly, but didn’t wake. My eyes dropped to where the hem of the shirt rode up on her thighs, just barely covering the curve of her ass. The sight had my dick instantly hardening under my jeans. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to look away.

Running a hand through my hair, I sat at the edge of her bed, careful not to shift the mattress. Just… watching her. Listening to her breathing. Her heart. The delicate thud–thud of it, steady and strong.

She had no idea. No fucking idea what she was to me. What I’d already done for her. What I’d become for her.

And she didn’t need to know.

I leaned down, so close that my breath probably brushed against her cheek. My lips hovered just over hers, a whisper away. I could feel the pull, the bond that tightened every time I got near her.

My chest was aching.

Like physically hurting.

This deep, awful pressure under my ribs that wouldn’t stop unless I gave in–unless I touched her. It was this maddening thing I carried with me everywhere I went. Like an itch under my skin. Like a heartbeat that didn’t match mine. Hers. Always hers.

“I want to hold her,” I mumbled, my voice coming out husky and low, not even sure if was talking to myself or the moonlight leaking into the room like some voyeur god.

I leaned even closer, so close I could feel the soft puff of her breath against my jaw. My hands… god, my hands were shaking. I squeezed the edge of the blanket she’d kicked off in her sleep, needing to touch something or I was going to lose it.

“I want to touch her,” I whispered into the silence.

My fingers twitched.

“Be inside her,” I added, throat tightening as I swallowed hard, heat crawling up my neck and sinking deep into r

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