My deaf stepbrother, Wes, was a damn angel.
Never told on anyone, never fought back. Even when I pushed too far.
One time, I smeared bright red lipstick all over his crisp white button-down, grinning like the devil.
“Go on,” I dared him, cocking my head. “Run and tell your sweet little mommy I bullied you again.”
He couldn’t speak. Just threw a fit in sign language, his hands flailing angrily while the room cracked up.
God, I used to think he’d always be my personal plaything.
Until one day, some girl confessed to him.
That night, I found him sitting alone in the basement, still and silent.
I leaned against the wall, smirking. “Wes, you seriously forgot who runs your life?”
“Quinn, your brother’s getting messed with again. Aren’t you gonna do something?”
I stayed slouched in the back row of the lecture hall, twirling my pen like I didn’t hear a damn thing.
Across the room, a few campus thugs were cornering Wes. Deaf. Mute. Helpless.
I snorted. “We’re not even blood. Why should I care?”
The class had just ended, so it was packed.
Wes was pressed into the far wall, his jacket halfway off, his shirt—white, crisp, perfect—now covered in lipstick kisses.
“Damn, the nerd’s got a girlfriend now?”
“Yo, did she dress you like that, baby boy?”
“Looks all pure and shy, but clearly he’s into some kinky shit.”
He kept his eyes down, lashes fluttering, face blank like he couldn’t hear a word.
My bestie, lounging beside me, sighed. “Quinn… you really gonna let them mess with him like that?”
My eyes slid over to him. That pretty face. That shirt I ruined.
Art.
It looked fucking stunning on someone so squeaky clean.
When they started getting handsy, I shoved through the crowd and kicked one of the punks in the back of the knee.
He yelped and hit the ground. Then looked up, confused. “M-Miss Summers…”
“Who the hell said you could touch my brother?”
He paled. “I—I thought you told me to—”
I gave a sickly sweet smile. “I changed my mind. Now get lost.”
The crowd scattered like roaches.
Wes slowly stood and buttoned his shirt, hiding the lipstick prints beneath his jacket.
His fingers signed, shaky and bleeding: Why do you do this to me?
I tilted my head. Blood on his knuckles. Sexy.
He really was fucking beautiful.
“Why?” I smiled. “Because I can.”
His expression hardened. I’m your brother. You can’t put your lipstick on me. Do it again, and I’ll—
“You’ll what?” I interrupted. “Tell your cheap little mom I’ve been mean to you?”
Sunlight hit his face. Pale, delicate. His lashes trembled.
He looked away.
He always looked away.
No matter what I did, Wes never fought me.
He forgave me. Always.
I rose on my toes and whispered, “If you ever tell Dad, I’ll say you came on to me.”
He froze.
I grabbed his wrist and hissed, “God, Wes, you’re disgusting. Trying to seduce your sister?”
“What do you think Dad’s gonna do when he hears that? You and your mom’ll be out on the street.”
Wes stopped talking to me for days.
Still cooked breakfast. Still left it on the table.
Stayed late at school most nights.
He only said two words all week.
For context? Yeah, we lived together.
The condo was in my name. Dad bought it for me after I graduated high school.
Right after he brought that homewrecker into our family.
I moved out immediately.
Wes’s mom begged him to transfer to my college. Said he needed to “look after me.”
He moved in. Took over the cooking, cleaning, all of it.
Real cute.
He couldn’t hear shit. Burned his arm on the kettle once because he didn’t notice it was whistling.
His mom didn’t say a damn word.
But thanks to Wes, I’d been living like a damn queen. Smooth skin. Curves in all the right places.
He took care of me like a maid on a mission.
But his mom? Clueless. Had no idea what I put him through.
That night, just after sunset, my friend elbowed me.
“Girl, what’d you do this time? He won’t even wave at us anymore. Don’t tell me he’s got a girlfriend?”
A sharp spark of anger twisted in my chest.
I licked my teeth and laughed coldly. “A girlfriend? He can fucking try.”
His mom seduced my dad.
Wes took after her—down to that pretty, manipulative face.
He seduced me.
So he was mine.
He owed me.
I always figured he’d play the quiet, loyal brother for life.
But that afternoon, I saw her.
Some girl.
Smiling. Handing Wes a milk carton like they were starring in a goddamn rom-com.
And he took it.
“Wes, who the hell is she?”
I walked up and slid my arm into his like I belonged there.
He looked down, confused, caught my smile—that tight, poisonous one—and froze.
The girl, way too perky, stuck out her hand. “Hi! I’m Zara Chase, your brother’s classmate.”
I didn’t shake it. Just laced my fingers tighter around Wes’s.
“Classmate? Weird, never seen you around the business school.”
Wes and I were both in the same program. I knew every girl who’d ever flirted with him. Burned most of their notes, too.
Zara beamed. “Oh! He didn’t tell you? He picked up a dual major in physics. He’ll be taking classes in our department for a while.”
My chest twisted.
If that bitch of a mom hadn’t interfered, Wes would’ve gone to MIT. Studied physics.
“Wes,” I said, smiling too hard. “You didn’t tell me.”
He stayed silent. Couldn’t sign with me clinging to his hand.
Didn’t need to. I could see it in his face.
But he didn’t see my nails digging into my palm. Almost drew blood.
I was so jealous I could scream.
He smiled at her. Why wouldn’t he smile at me?
My voice cracked as I forced a smile. “I’m starving. Let’s go home, Wes. Make me something.”
Zara cut in. “Oh, sorry! We’ve got dinner plans with Professor Hale tonight. Big deal. Can’t skip it.”
Her face? Sweet as pie.
But I saw the challenge underneath.
Too bad for her—Wes always listened to me.
Until he didn’t.
He patted my hand.
I’ve got plans tonight. I won’t be home.
I blinked. “What’s more important than me?”
He touched my head like I was a sulking child.
Be good. Don’t stay out too late.
Zara checked her phone. “We’re gonna be late, Wes. Let’s go.”
A cab pulled up.
Wes didn’t look back.
Just got in. Drove off.
I stared at my palm. Half a broken nail. Blood.
“Physics major. Wes. Dinner plans.”
Every damn word pressed down on my nerves.
My brother had thoughts of his own now.
He wanted to leave.
He wanted a normal life.
He wanted to cook for someone else. Learn their favorite dishes. Let their kisses stain his skin.
He wanted to love someone who wasn’t me.
Fine.
Let him grow wings.
I’ll be the one to snap them clean off.
The club was pounding with bass, lights flashing like the world was ending.
I sat in the corner, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the screen.
Half an hour ago, I’d sent Wes a text.
“Wes, I’m drunk. Come get me.”
Nothing. Not even a read receipt.
Was he ignoring me?
Or maybe he’d found someone else—someone he’d run off with the second he graduated?
I kept downing bottles like they were water. My vision blurred, but my stubbornness didn’t.
I started video calling him.
No answer.
So I called again.
And again.
The chat window was now just a graveyard of missed calls.
“Fucking hell!” I muttered. “Is his phone dead or what?”
My bestie leaned over, raising a brow. “He still hasn’t called back?”
“Shut the fuck up!” I snapped.
She snatched my beer away. “Girl, seriously? It’s just a guy.”
I shot her a glare that made her flinch.
Two bottles of some neon-colored cocktails were shoved into my hand.
“Quinn Summers doesn’t beg for attention. If you want him, you know exactly how to make him come running.”
Her words slid into me like poison—and I liked the taste.
Yeah. Wes’s dad was gone, his mom barely gave a damn about him.
What the hell was wrong with me sleeping with him if I wanted to?
Who was gonna stop me? My dad? That useless woman who gave birth to him?
Or him—the deaf, perfect boy?
“Relax,” my bestie smirked. “I checked with the waitstaff. He’s having dinner at my dad’s restaurant. His phone probably died. When he charges it, he’ll see your messages.”
Twenty minutes later, the door to the VIP room slammed open.
Wes stood there, breathless, scanning the room.
He found me—sprawled across my bestie’s lap, fake-passed out.
“Sorry, Wes,” she said, giving him an awkward smile. “I tried to keep her from drinking that much.”
Outside, early fall rain was soaking the streets. He’d clearly run here—his thin jacket was damp, his face pale.
Something in my chest twisted, an unfamiliar pang. Guilt? Regret? Fuck if I knew.
Wes rubbed his cold hands together, nodded at my friend, and without a word, scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
I let myself sink into his chest, my ear against his heartbeat.
The storm inside me? Gone in a flash.
He carried me home.
Since the day I painted his shirt with lipstick, Wes had been keeping his distance.
This was the first time in two weeks we’d been in the same room—without yelling.
He set me down gently on the leather couch, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Probably making some hangover soup, like the good little saint he was.
I glanced at the two glass bottles he’d carried in. Some kind of juice.
A slow smile curved my lips.
An idea bloomed.
I padded barefoot to the kitchen door, knocked twice.
Wes turned instantly.
He couldn’t hear me. But he always knew when I was near.
Ever since that burn on his arm, his senses were razor-sharp—especially when it came to me.
Leaning on the doorframe, I drawled, “Wes, I can’t find my sleepwear.”
He signed: Second drawer in the closet. Left side—slip dresses. Right side—two-piece sets.
“Too dizzy to find it myself,” I muttered.
He lowered the stove flame, wiped his hands on his apron, and headed to the bedroom to fetch it.
My eyes followed him.
Goddamn, he was fine.
Lean frame, tall, broad shoulders that weren’t too much, and that face…
Sharp, clean, with just enough softness to make it sinful.
Even his silence was intoxicating.
Poor guy.
To be born this perfect, only to end up as my stepbrother.
My toy. My target.
While he disappeared into the bedroom, I grabbed both bottles, twisted them open, and dumped their contents into the pot of boiling broth.
By the time Wes came out with my clothes, I was back on the couch, sprawled like nothing had happened.
He hesitated—looked like he wanted to speak—but then covered me with a blanket, quiet as always, before going back to the kitchen.
Minutes later, he returned with a bowl of steaming soup.
He tapped my shoulder gently.
Drink this. You’ll feel better in the morning.
I sat up, wrapped in the blanket. The air smelled sweet—too sweet.
“Hot,” I murmured, lips pouting.
It’s not hot. I blew on it.
I stared at his face. God, I was insane. I’d seen him a million times, but I still searched for cracks—anger, disgust—anything.
I never found it. He was too fucking kind.
“Drink,” he signed, pushing the spoon to my lips.
“Not unless you drink first,” I said. “You drink, I drink.”
If my friend saw this, she’d laugh her ass off. I didn’t care.
When I gave orders, people listened. Wes wasn’t any different.
He lowered his gaze and finished the entire bowl without a word.
Then handed me a fresh one.
See? Good stuff. Now try it.
I smiled, dark and wicked.
“Wes, do you even know what you just drank?”
He froze.
“You don’t feel warm? Your body heating up?”
His eyes flicked to the empty bowl, then to me, wide with horror.
What did you do?
I propped my foot on his thigh, pressing just enough to make his breath hitch. He sank to his knees in front of me, struggling for control.
I took my sweet time sipping the soup.
He reached to grab the spoon, but I kicked him back. He crumpled against the couch, shirt half-open, looking like a fucking fantasy.
“You know,” I smirked, “you’re pretty damn good at cooking. This is delicious.”
His hands shook. Quinn, stop drinking. It’s not safe.
Heat swirled inside me.
His clean scent wrapped around me like cool water in the desert.
I licked my lips, leaning closer. “Wes… I feel so bad. You gonna leave me like this?”
His fingers trembled. He tried to hold the bowl, but his eyes burned.
For the first time, I saw anger on his face. Real anger.
But he didn’t leave.
Of course, he didn’t.
Wes was a saint. My perfect, miserable saint.
Even when he was drowning, he still tried to save me.
I collapsed into his lap, feeling his body stiffen.
Then I kissed him.
Soft lips. Sweet breath.
God, I’d dreamed of this for so long.
And this time?
He kissed me back.
His mouth moved against mine, hesitant but hungry, like he’d wanted this all along.
Like maybe, just maybe, he loved me too.
I dragged my nails through his hair, desperate, breathless. My mind spun with the taste of him, the sound of his ragged breathing.
When I reached for his shirt buttons, his hands shot up, grabbing mine.
Too little clothes. You’ll get cold.
“Really? I don’t feel cold.” I laughed softly. “In fact, I think I need more warmth.”
I’ll get you my jacket.
“Or,” I teased, “you could just hold me. Maybe… do something else.”
His face flushed scarlet. We’re siblings. We can’t—
“Oh, save it,” I cut him off. “You think you’re my brother? Prove it. Stop looking at me like that.”
I expected hate. Fury. Something.
But all he did was shake his head, eyes wet.
No kissing. No brother stuff. No.
Poor, pathetic Wes.
No one to run to.
My dad never scolded me—he was too guilty about everything.
And Wes’s mom? She never dared come near me.
I wondered how they’d react if they knew I’d claimed him.
I leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“Wes… I’m sorry. I’ll stop being mean to you.”
He blinked, stunned. My first-ever apology.
He reached out, like he wanted to ruffle my hair.
I caught his hand. Those long, expressive hands.
“Don’t sign,” I whispered.
“Just help me.”
His face shattered—shock, pain, confusion.
He had no idea what I really wanted.
Poor boy.
Too bad for him—his sister’s a fucking monster.
I knew I’d broken him.
After that night, Wes stopped looking me in the eye.
Didn’t matter how many times I brushed past him, half-dressed.
Didn’t matter how I tossed my hair over his homework, or dropped into his lap like I owned him.
He avoided me like I was made of fire.
Good.
Let him burn.
But that didn’t mean I’d stop.
“You didn’t go to the doctor today,” I said one afternoon, lounging on the kitchen counter in nothing but a silk robe.
He didn’t respond—just rinsed the dishes, eyes locked on the sink.
“Wes,” I sang out, “you promised. Weekly checkups, remember? What if that scar on your back’s healing wrong?”
He stiffened.
I slid off the counter and stepped behind him. My hands ghosted over his shoulders.
“Let me see it,” I whispered. “Just a peek.”
No. He signed it sharp and quick.
“But I’m worried about you,” I purred.
He turned, finally, and there it was—the look I lived for.
That quiet, tortured desperation. Like he didn’t know whether to run or kiss me.
I leaned in. “You keep running, Wes. But you always end up in my bed.”
He didn’t deny it.
Didn’t push me away, either.
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