Emrys Harrow was my crush first-then he became my stepdad. Tragic, right?
Dreaming about screwing my mother's man? Yeah, that's a whole new level of messed up.
But this isn't a story about regret. It's about how I seduced my stepdad, made him cheat...
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(KIKI'S POV)
The morning air was warm, the golden light of dawn slipping through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft glow. I stirred, stretching slightly, only to realize I couldn't move.
His arm was wrapped around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest. His grip was firm, possessive, as if even in his sleep, he refused to let me go.
Emrys.
My eyes trailed over his face, peaceful and relaxed for once—so different from his usual sharp, brooding expressions. His hair was tousled, strands falling across his forehead, making him look younger.
Something deep inside me clenched. I was always in love with him.
Maybe I hadn’t realized it then, but I did now.
Back when I was a kid, my mother had banned me from watching Emrys Harrow’s movies. Too vulgar, she had said. Too explicit.
But I had defied her, sneaking under my blanket at night, eyes glued to the screen, watching him in secret.
He was forbidden.
And maybe that’s what made me fall harder.
The more I watched him, the more I wanted to understand him. The way no one truly got him, the way he stood alone, playing roles that blurred the line between fantasy and reality.
I had already fallen for him before I even knew what love was.
My fingers moved on their own, brushing his hair back.
And that’s when I saw it. A fresh tattoo. Near his heart.
Kiki.
My breath hitched.
The ink was still slightly red, slightly raised. It wasn’t old. This was new.
I traced my fingertips over the letters, my heart pounding. What did this mean?
Did he—
No.
I bit my lip. He couldn’t love me.
Emrys wasn’t the kind of man who loved. He owned. He possessed.
But then, why? Why would he mark himself with my name?
I stared at him, waiting for an answer that only he could give.
I slipped out of bed carefully, untangling myself from his hold. He didn’t stir. His breathing was even, his body warm from sleep.
I tiptoed across the room, grabbing a fresh towel and slipping into the bathroom. The hot water cascaded down, washing away the tension, the confusion, the ache in my chest.
Why did I feel this way? Why did he make me feel this way?
I leaned against the cool tiles, closing my eyes. The weight of last night pressed down on me, yet all I could think about was the tattoo inked near his heart. My name.
