My Stepbrother, My Enemy {BL}-Chapter 151: Good Little Boy

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I flinched hard enough that my shoulder slammed against the wall, the old plaster rough against my sleeve, and I instinctively tried to make myself as small as possible. "No, Dad, please, I swear it’s not what you think—" I rushed out, desperate, but my words shattered against the roar that followed.

"Shut your damn mouth!" His voice sliced through the room like a whip crack, and I swallowed the rest of my plea so fast it hurt. I pressed my lips together, tasting blood from where I bit the inside of my cheek. The silence that fell was suffocating, only broken by my ragged breathing and the faint clink of the half-empty bottle on the side table when he shifted.

He stared at me for what felt like forever, his chest heaving, the flush creeping down his thick neck. Then his mouth twisted into something that barely resembled a smile. "You sit in there at night with a flashlight, don’t you?" he said, his tone suddenly quieter, almost conversational, which only made it worse. "Jerking off to those pictures, reading those filthy queer books, rubbing yourself raw like some little fag in heat, don’t you?"

I shook my head so violently that my vision blurred with fresh tears. "No," I whispered, each syllable scraping out painfully. "No, I never—I wouldn’t—"

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, the magazines sprawled between us like evidence in a trial I’d already lost. "You still a virgin, Noah?" The question slithered through the air and wrapped around my throat. "Or did some pervert already bend you over already and turn my son into a cock-sucking bitch?"

"No, Dad, I—" My voice faltered on his name, full of pleading, but he wouldn’t let me finish.

"Bullshit." The word exploded from him, sending spit flying. "I’ve seen the way you walk, the way you talk, hiding this sick shit, blushing like a goddamn girl every time a boy looks at you. I spent your whole life trying to raise you to be a man—making you play ball, keeping you away from those soft friends of yours, checking your phone—and it was all for nothing, wasn’t it?"

His laugh was ugly and broken. "My own son, turning into a filthy little queer right under my roof."

The word ’queer’ hit me like a slap, blooming heat across my face even though he hadn’t touched me yet. Tears flowed faster now, dripping off my jaw and soaking the collar of my hoodie. I couldn’t stop shaking. "I’m not," I tried again, my voice barely audible. "I’m not, I promise—"

"I’m so disappointed in you," he said, and somehow that cut deeper than the yelling. His voice dropped, trembling with rage. "I thought I raised you to be a real man. Thought you were my good boy."

Then, without warning, he shoved himself up from the chair. The recliner rocked hard, the footrest slamming down with a bang that almost made me jump out of my skin. My blood turned icy.

For one terrifying second, I thought he would swing at my face, or my throat, or my hair—anything to beat the "weakness" out of me like he’d threatened for years. I instinctively threw my arms up, shrinking into the corner where the wall met the hallway, my breath hitching in sharp, panicked gasps.

But he didn’t hit me (not with fists).

He stopped just a foot away, close enough that I could smell the sour whiskey on his breath and see the red veins in his eyes. His shadow swallowed me entirely. When his voice came again, it was low and deliberate, each word settling on my chest like a weight.

"Take off your clothes."

My heart stuttered, then slammed against my ribs so hard I thought I might faint.

No one was coming. I was alone with him, pinned beneath those dark, glassy eyes, the word ’please’ looping uselessly in my head while my fingers trembled on the hem of my hoodie. The room spun slowly, the walls closing in, and all I could think was that the last safe place I had in the world had just been ripped away forever.

The word ’why’ barely escaped my lips, a cracked, breathless sound that died the moment his hand cracked across my cheek. The slap was heavy, snapping my head sideways and filling my ears with a high-pitched ring. Pain exploded across my face, and I tasted blood from where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth. I staggered, my shoulder hitting the wall again, and before the sting could settle, he snarled.

"I said take them off!" His voice had become flat and terrible, exactly like it did right before the worst storms. "Every goddamn stitch. Now!"

My hands trembled so violently I could barely grab the hem of my hoodie. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with blood from my split lip, and I found myself thinking, absurdly, that Mom was supposed to be home by five-thirty because the salon closed early.

I held on to that thought like a lifeline—if I could just stall long enough, maybe she would walk in with her purse and tired smile, and it would all stop. But the clock on the cable box blinked 4:47 in dull red numbers, and the house stayed silent except for my ragged breathing and the creaking floor as he shifted his weight.

I pulled the hoodie over my head, the soft cotton catching on my wet cheeks. The T-shirt underneath stuck to my skin, even though I felt freezing. Next came my socks, then the loose sweatpants pooling around my ankles. I hesitated at my plain cotton briefs, the safe, modest ones he used to inspect when I was little, but his eyes never left me, dark and glassy and hungry in a way I had never seen before, and the hesitation cost me another sharp bark:

"All of it."

So I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and let them drop, trying to cover myself with my arms, curling inward like that could make me invisible. The living room air felt sharp against my bare skin, raising goosebumps everywhere, and shame burned so intensely I thought I might throw up right there on the carpet.

He looked at me for a long, horrifying moment, head tilted, breathing through his mouth. Then he gave a soft, humorless laugh. "Look at you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Hiding dirty books about men, jerking off to naked guys. If you’re gonna act like a little fag who wants it so bad, then I guess I have no choice, do I?"

He took a step closer, the smell of whiskey hitting me in waves. "Daddy’s gotta teach you what happens to boys who want dick. That’s my job, Noah. I have to show my son what a real man does to a bitch."

I shook my head, confused, terrified words tangled in my throat. "No—Dad, please—I don’t—"

But he was already moving, thick fingers wrapping around my upper arm so tightly that I cried out. He dragged me down the hallway, my bare feet slipping on the scuffed linoleum, past the kitchen where Mom’s calendar still hung with its neat hearts around hair appointments.

I twisted, trying to dig my heels in, but he was so much stronger, and the world tilted as he hauled me up the narrow stairs. "Stop, please—Dad, I’m sorry—" My voice cracked into useless sobs.

He flung open the door to the bedroom he shared with Mom the one I was never allowed to enter without knocking and tossed me inside. I stumbled, arms flailing, and crashed onto their unmade bed. The comforter smelled like his aftershave, stale cigarettes, and something sour I didn’t want to name.

Before I could scramble away, he was on me, knee pressing into the mattress, weight pinning me down until I couldn’t move. His hands held my wrists above my head, the springs creaking under us, and his face was inches from mine, red and damp with sweat.

"I tried to protect you," he whispered, hot against my cheek. "Kept the world away so no one could turn you into this. But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? So if my boy wants to be a little cocksucker so much... he can learn it right here. Only with me."

I felt his free hand move to his belt, the metallic clink of the buckle loud as a gunshot in the still room. "Don’t worry, baby," he murmured, oddly gentle, as the leather slid free. "You’ll thank me when you’re older. You’ll finally understand what a man is."

I screamed then, raw, animalistic terror tearing from my throat and bucked against him with every ounce of strength left. My legs kicked uselessly; my trapped wrists burned under his grip. I begged, sobbed his name, promised anything and everything, but the weight only got heavier, and the room started to shrink at the edges of my vision.