Under My Mother’s Watch

SCARLETT’S POV

“Breakfast is ready!”

My mother’s voice carried from the kitchen. Loud and cheerful, as usual.

I was stretched out on the living room sofa, a partially eaten chocolate bar in one hand, the remote in the other. I flicked through channels without really seeing them.

My right foot was encased in a thick white bandage, elevated on a cushion like some damsel in distress. I scowled at it. Stupid ankle. Stupid library steps. Stupid me for tripping on campus and having to limp back home because of one misstep.

I resented being here. Well, I didn’t hate home itself, but the reason was… my mother. She could switch from doting to domineering in a heartbeat, and I was already steeling myself for the inevitable inquisition about my studies, my social life, my appearance, my everything.

She had a talent for inserting herself into my affairs, my personal space, and subtly steering every choice I made.

“Scarlett, tell your father to come as well!” she trilled again.

I rolled my eyes until they ached. As if I could navigate the hallway on crutches to summon him. Had she forgotten my injury? The very reason for my convalescence here. Before I could retort with something sharp, a voice answered for itself. Deep, textured, unsettling.

“I’m here.”

My stomach did a slow, treacherous flip.

My stepfather, Dominic Valois, entered the living room and the atmosphere shifted, as if the thermostat had been cranked up.

My gaze locked onto him. Charcoal sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips, a simple black tee stretched taut over a broad chest, the sleeves straining around biceps that defied his forty-two years.

His dark hair was still damp from his morning shower. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a fragrance campaign too provocative for mainstream television.

For a moment, I forgot to inhale. He caught my stare, one eyebrow arching slightly as he raked a hand through his hair. “Good morning, Scarlett.”

The way he said my name. Deliberate and slightly rough, as if savoring the syllables. It sent a direct, unwelcome pulse of heat low in my belly. I clenched my thighs together, shifting awkwardly, desperate to hide any reaction.

“Morning,” I managed, my face flushing.

Then he closed the distance in a few powerful strides, leaned down, and slid one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my shoulders. He lifted me as if I were weightless.

His scent enveloped me—sandalwood and something deeper, spicier, that made my thoughts scatter. My arms instinctively wound around his neck, my fingertips grazing the warm skin at his nape.

“You’ve lost weight,” he observed, his voice a low vibration against my side that made me swallow hard. “Makes my job easier, I suppose.” He gave a soft, husky chuckle, and I felt the resonance of it everywhere.

The delicate silk sleep shorts I’d pulled on this morning suddenly felt scandalously inadequate. His large hand splayed across the back of my bare thigh to secure me, his thumb stroking skin that had only ever been touched by my own hands, in the secrecy of night, while pretending they were his.

I bit my lower lip, trying to force the dangerous imagery away before I did something irrevocably foolish.

He carried me into the kitchen. My mother, Victoria, stood at the stove in her floral apron, flipping pancakes, completely unaware.

He set me down on the sole remaining barstool at the kitchen island. Mom had managed to break the other three during a misguided DIY endeavor she’d found online.

Victoria remained at the stove, humming contentedly as if this were a scene from a perfect domestic tableau.

“Scarlett, I’m making your favorite—blueberry pancakes,” she announced without turning. “I’m sure that dreadful university cafeteria doesn’t make them properly.”

I pressed my lips together and stole a glance at Dominic. Oh, I’d missed something, alright. But it wasn’t pancakes. He was still standing, looking devastatingly attractive. Dominic’s profile was all hard lines and angles. A strong jaw dusted with stubble I had imagined grazing my skin. Lips I had fantasized about in places I had no business thinking about.

I knew it was wrong. A heavy wave of guilt crashed over me the instant the thought formed. I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t want this.

Yet, no matter how fiercely I tried to suppress it, the feeling persisted, stubbornly intensifying the more I commanded it to stop.

I despised myself for it.

I adjusted my position on the stool, squeezing my thighs together tighter, trying to quell the restless ache that had ignited the moment he appeared.

He turned his head. Caught me watching him.

And then he smiled. A slow, knowing curve of his mouth, as if he could decipher every illicit, wicked thought flashing through my mind.