The Boy Who Makes Me Feel Safe Is My Brother

PROLOGUE

My stepmother s son and I had a secret.

We had a love affair, hidden in the shadows of our blended family.

When it ended, it wasn t just ugly; it was a goddamn demolition.

Now, he was drunk, cornering me in a bathroom, his voice a low growl that vibrated through the tiled walls.

Maybe I m just a glutton for punishment, he slurred, leaning in so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath. Maybe I m destined to be in this toxic mess with you until we re both gray and withered. What the hell are you going to do about it?

01

The holidays were a deadline I kept pushing back.

But after a string of increasingly unsubtle calls from my father, alternating between threats and bribes, I finally caved and booked a flight home for Thanksgiving.

The man waiting for me at the arrivals gate was Jensen Ford.

It was the first time I d seen him since the demolition.

Six months had turned him into a stranger.

The guy who used to live in soft, light-colored sweaters was gone, replaced by a man encased in a sharply tailored black suit.

It clung to a frame that was all lean muscle and long lines, accentuating his height.

Combined with the sharp angles of his face and a stark, unreadable expression, he radiated a cold, unapproachable aura.

Jensen& The name felt foreign on my tongue, stiff and unnatural.

His eyes, a deep, stormy gray, flicked over to me for a fraction of a second. Use my name. I m not your brother.

So that s how it was going to be.

The breakup didn t just kill whatever we were; it had incinerated the flimsy bridge of family we were supposed to share.

I said nothing, just fell into step behind him, a silent ghost trailing in his wake as we made our way home.

02

Every bite of turkey at the Thanksgiving table felt like swallowing glass.

Every sideways glance from across the room was a needle in my spine.

The air was thick with things unsaid, a toxic fog of politeness that choked me more than any argument could have.

My father and his wife, Annette, kept up a strained, cheerful chatter, pretending this was a normal family reunion.

Pretending her son wasn t staring a hole through me from across the table.

As I sat there, trapped in the suffocating performance of the happy, well-adjusted family, Jensen suddenly reached across the table.

His fingers, long and cool, brushed against my ear as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind it.

The casual touch sent a jolt through my system, a phantom limb aching for a connection it could no longer have.

He let his hand linger for a second too long, his gaze dropping to the constellation of seven silver studs marching up the cartilage of my ear.

A ghost of a smile, sharp and cruel, touched his lips.

Seven holes, he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear. You really aren t afraid of a little pain, are you?

My throat closed up.

My eyes burned, an embarrassing, pathetic sting of tears I refused to let fall.

I grabbed my glass of iced tea, a desperate shield, but my hands were trembling.

The liquid went down the wrong way, and I exploded into a fit of coughing, each hack a new wave of humiliation.

Tears streamed down my face, not from sorrow, but from the sheer, choking agony of it all.

This was karma. It had to be.

Throughout my entire, mortifying spectacle, Jensen just watched.

He sat there, perfectly still, his eyes as dark and deep as a frozen lake.

His silent observation offered no escape, pinning my pathetic display in the spotlight.

And maybe I was just being paranoid, but in the depths of that gaze, I saw something that looked a lot like contempt.

That dinner was a masterclass in misery.

I knew something was wrong, something beyond the obvious, simmering just beneath the surface.

I just didn t know what.

Not until later that night, when Jensen knocked on my bedroom door.

He stood in the hallway, the shadows carving hollows under his cheekbones, and the raw animosity in his eyes was impossible to ignore.

That s when I finally understood.

Jensen Ford didn t just dislike me. He hated me. And he was on the attack.

03

You look like hell, Fallon, he said, his voice flat. It wasn t a question. It was a verdict.

You re projecting, I shot back, lifting my chin. I m great. Blissfully happy, actually. My boyfriend treats me like a queen.

The word boyfriend hung in the air between us, heavy and volatile.

Another one already? Jensen s eyes darkened, a storm gathering. He paused, his jaw tight. Who is he? You should bring him around. I ll vet him for you. Your taste has always been questionable. You can t tell the good ones from the trash.

Bringing him home means meeting the parents, I countered, my voice laced with venom. Are you that desperate to see me married off and out of this house for good?

Our eyes locked in a silent, brutal war.

After a long, charged moment, he took a half-step back, conceding the round. Fine. We ll meet somewhere else. When can you set it up?

He s a very busy guy, I lied, the words tasting like ash. I ll talk to him. I ll let you know.

The arrogance dripped from my tone. It was a role I knew how to play around him, the defiant, untouchable brat who feared nothing. It was my armor.

But the Jensen standing before me wasn't the one who used to indulge my theatrics.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. Alright, ex-girlfriend, he said, the term a deliberate twist of the knife. I can t wait to see what part of him is so much better than me.

04

From a young age, I d clung to one cold, hard truth: if a girl loses her mother, she loses her home.

The rest is just a waiting game.

So when I was twelve, and Jensen and his mother Annette showed up, I wasn t angry.

I was almost relieved.

The inevitable had happened.

If it wasn t them, it would have been someone else.

My father was always going to become another woman s husband, another kid s dad.

I don t know if understanding that so early made me mature or just deeply cynical.

Either way, I got it.

I also got that Jensen Ford was devastatingly handsome.

Having him on my side wasn t just a social asset; it was a guarantee that my gaggle of boy-crazy friends would follow me to the ends of the earth.

He was three years older, a quiet, reserved boy who seemed to carry the weight of the world in his silence.

The day he became my stepbrother was the day his peace ended.

My teenage rebellion hit like a hurricane.

I was always in trouble, fighting someone else s battles.

One day I was defending a friend from a rival, the next I was providing backup for one of the guys in our crew.

Jensen, terrified I d get myself seriously hurt, was always there.

If my side was losing, he d jump in.

If we were winning, he d just lean against a wall nearby, doing his homework while we fought.

I woke up the next morning feeling a familiar, sour churn in my stomach.

I barely made it to the bathroom before I was retching, heaving up nothing but bile.

When I stumbled out, wiping my mouth, I saw Jensen standing in the hallway, watching me.

The look on his face was sharp, analytical.

Morning sickness? he asked, his voice tight with suspicion.

He walked towards me, his expression so serious it was terrifying, like he was about to conduct an interrogation.

Any other symptoms?

My stomach lurched again. I couldn't answer. I just shoved past him and bolted back into the bathroom.

When I finally emerged, shaky and pale, Jensen was gone.

A few minutes later, he came bursting back through the front door, breathless from running.

Right there, in front of Annette, he grabbed my arm and dragged me into his room, slamming the door shut behind us.

My heart hammered against my ribs. What the hell is wrong with you? I yelled.

He ignored me, shoving something small and rectangular into my hands.

His voice was low and commanding, leaving no room for argument. Go. Take the test.

I looked down.

It was a pregnancy test.

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