He Hated Me First (Stepbrother Romance)

Isabella

The bass from the speakers in the living room pulses through the floorboards, a low thump I feel in my chest before I even register the song. Some R&B track Michael queued up earlier, the kind with a slow, grinding beat that makes everyone press closer on the makeshift dance floor.

I’m already three shots deep—maybe four—and the room swims in a pleasant, syrupy haze of fairy lights strung across the ceiling and the sharp scent of spilled vodka on the coffee table.

Michael’s hand finds my waist. He’s grinning, that easy, crooked smile he’s had since we were fifteen and he taught me how to sneak out the back door without the hinges creaking. “You’re gonna fall over if you keep swaying like that,” he says, his breath warm and smelling of the whiskey he’s been nursing.

I shove his shoulder, but my palm slips, and I end up gripping the collar of his shirt instead. The cotton is damp with sweat. Around us, bodies move in a tangle of graduation caps repurposed as party hats and red Solo cups raised in toasts to a future none of us have figured out yet. The air is thick with perfume, cologne, and the metallic tang of liquor.

“I’m not gonna fall,” I tell him, but my tongue trips over the words. Michael laughs, a sound that cuts through the noise, and pulls me closer. We dance like we always do—messy, uncoordinated, his hands on my hips guiding me to a rhythm I can’t quite catch.

His fingers press into the dip of my waist through the thin fabric of my dress. I let my head tip back, the room tilting, and for a second I forget about the crowd, about the fact that our parents are on a plane over the Atlantic right now, about everything except the steady anchor of Michael’s grip.

Then the front door opens, and the energy shifts. I don’t see him at first—my back is to the hallway—but I feel the change. A few heads turn. Someone lowers their cup. Michael’s hands tighten on my waist, and I know, even before I twist around, that Donnie has arrived.

He stands in the archway between the hall and the living room, broad shoulders filling the frame. At twenty-one, he’s got three years on us, and he wears them like a badge. His jaw is set, his dark eyes scanning the room with the slow, deliberate sweep of someone cataloging threats.

When his gaze lands on Michael and me, his mouth presses into a flat line. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest, and his arms are crossed in a way that makes the muscle there bunch.

He doesn’t wave.

Doesn’t smile.

Just walks to the kitchen, pours himself a drink from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s someone left uncapped on the counter, and leans against the fridge.

Michael notices. Of course he does. “Ignore him,” he murmurs into my ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. A shiver runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

I try to nod, try to sink back into the music, but Donnie’s presence is a splinter under my skin. I can feel him watching as Michael spins me, as I stumble and laugh, as my stepbrother—the one who actually likes me—catches me before I crash into a lamp.

The song changes. Something slower, heavier. Michael’s hands slide lower on my back, and I lean into him, my forehead against his collarbone. He smells like cedar and whiskey and the cheap fabric softener Leona, my mother, buys in bulk. I close my eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to the beat and the heat of his body.

Then a hand taps Michael’s shoulder. Sharp nails painted neon pink. Heather.

She materializes between us like she’s been waiting for her cue, all glossy lips and a dress that’s more suggestion than clothing. “Mind if I cut in?” she asks, but she’s already wedging herself against Michael, her hip bumping mine.

Michael blinks, glances at me. His expression flickers—apology, maybe, or confusion—but Heather’s hands are on his chest now, and the crowd is swallowing them, and I’m standing alone on the edge of the dance floor with my arms hanging useless at my sides.

My stomach clenches.

The shot glass on the table near the window catches my eye, amber liquid still clinging to the bottom. I lurch toward it, my ankles wobbling in the heels I borrowed from my mother’s closet. The floor seems to tilt sideways, and I throw out a hand to catch the wall, but my palm meets air.

A grip closes around my elbow. Firm. Unyielding.

“Easy.” Donnie’s voice is low, right next to my ear. He’s materialized beside me, his fingers wrapped around my arm like a vise. I didn’t hear him move. “You’re gonna break your neck in those shoes.”

I yank my arm back, but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” His eyes drop to my face, and something flickers there—amusement, maybe, or the particular brand of condescension he’s perfected over the years. “Looked like you were having fun out there. Real close with my brother.”

The words land like a slap. I feel heat crawl up my neck. “We were dancing. It’s a party.”

“Uh-huh.” Donnie’s thumb presses into the crease of my elbow, a small, deliberate pressure. “You always look at him like that when you dance?”

I don’t answer. My tongue is thick, and the room is spinning, and Donnie’s face is too close, his features sharp under the dim lights. He’s got the same dark hair as Michael, the same jawline, but where Michael’s eyes are warm, Donnie’s are a cold, assessing gray. He smells like leather and the sharp bite of the whiskey he just drank.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, and his voice drops, a mocking lilt curling at the edges. “Heather steal your date?”

“Shut up.” I try to step back, but my heel catches on the edge of the rug, and I pitch forward. Donnie’s other hand comes up, catching my hip, steadying me. His palm is hot through the fabric of my dress.

“You’re a mess,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it. His fingers flex on my hip. “Come on. You need to move before you pass out.”

The music shifts again—something with a slow, heavy bassline, an R&B track that vibrates through the speakers and settles low in my belly. Donnie doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls me toward the edge of the dance floor, away from the crush of bodies, but instead of leading me to a chair, he stops in a pocket of empty space near the hallway. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back.

“Dance with me,” he says. It’s not a question.

I should say no. I should shove him away and find Michael and demand he take me home. But Michael is somewhere in the tangle of limbs with Heather’s arms around his neck, and the alcohol has turned my bones to liquid, and Donnie’s hand on my back is the only thing keeping me upright. So I let him pull me in.

The dance is nothing like the one with Michael. Michael’s movements are easy, playful, a shared joke between friends. Donnie’s are controlled, deliberate, each step a challenge. He moves me with the pressure of his palm, guiding my hips to match his rhythm. The bass thrums through the floor, through my feet, through the places where our bodies almost touch but don’t. His thigh brushes mine. His breath stirs the hair at my temple.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs. His lips are near my ear again, and the vibration of his voice travels down my neck. “Relax.”

“I’m relaxed.” My voice comes out too high, too breathy. His hand tightens on my back, pulling me an inch closer. The heat of him seeps through my dress.

“Liar.” He dips his head, and his nose grazes the curve of my ear. A jolt shoots through me, sharp and electric. “You’re thinking about him. About Michael.”

I stiffen. My hands, which had been hovering uselessly at my sides, come up to his chest. I mean to push him away, but my fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt instead. “I’m not.”

“You are.” His voice is a low rumble. “I saw your face when Heather cut in. You wanted to claw her eyes out.”

The song swells, the beat dropping into something slower, dirtier. Donnie’s hips roll against mine, a deliberate, unhurried movement that sends a flush of heat through my core. My breath catches. His hand slides from my back to my hip, fingers splaying wide.

“You’re an asshole,” I manage.

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound offended. If anything, he sounds pleased. “But I’m the one dancing with you.”

I hate him. I hate the smug curve of his mouth, the way his body moves with a confidence that makes my knees weak, the way he sees right through me. I hate that my fingers are still gripping his shirt, that my hips are moving in time with his, that a part of me doesn’t want him to stop. The love-hate of it coils in my chest, a tight, hot knot that I can’t untangle.

The room blurs around us. The fairy lights smear into streaks of gold. Donnie’s thigh presses between mine, and I gasp, my nails digging into his chest. He makes a low sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a growl.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re gonna—”

My heel catches on something—his foot, the rug, I don’t know—and the world lurches. I’m falling, my stomach dropping, but Donnie’s arms are already around me, hauling me up before I hit the ground. My head spins. The music pounds on, oblivious.

“Okay.” His voice is different now, the teasing edge gone. “Party’s over for you.”

I want to argue, but the words won’t come. My eyelids are heavy, my limbs uncooperative. Donnie bends, and suddenly his arm is under my knees, the other behind my back, and I’m lifted against his chest. The ceiling spins above me.

I catch a glimpse of Michael across the room, his face turning toward us, his mouth opening to say something, but then Donnie is moving, carrying me through the hallway and out the front door into the cool night air.

The drive home is a blur of streetlights and the low hum of the engine.

I’m slumped in the passenger seat, my head against the window, the glass cool on my temple. Donnie doesn’t speak. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the intermittent glow of passing headlights.

Our house is dark when we pull into the driveway, a massive silhouette against the starless sky. Both parents are in Italy, the emptiness of it echoing through every unlit window. Donnie kills the engine and comes around to my side. He lifts me again, and I let my head fall against his shoulder, too exhausted to resist.

He carries me up the stairs, his footsteps steady on the hardwood. His bedroom door swings open, and the scent of him surrounds me.

He lays me down on the bed, on my side, and pulls a blanket up to my shoulder. His hand lingers for a moment, brushing the hair from my face.

“Sleep it off,” he says, and his voice is quiet, stripped of its earlier mockery. Then the mattress shifts as he stands, and his footsteps retreat, and the door clicks shut behind him.

I stare at the wall, at the shadows pooling in the corners of his room, and the knot in my chest tightens.

The quiet in his room is thick, almost suffocating, but it only lasts a minute.

I hear his heavy footsteps in the hallway before the door swings open again. A sliver of warm light from the hall cuts across the dark floor. Donnie steps back inside carrying a tall glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in the other.

He sets the glass on his nightstand with a soft clink. Without a word, he uncaps the bottle, shakes two red-and-white pills into his palm, and sits down on the edge of the mattress.

“Sit up, Isabella,” he says, his voice a quiet command in the dark.

“I’m sleeping,” I mumble into the pillow, pulling the blanket higher over my shoulder.

“You’re slurring, and you’re going to wake up feeling like someone beat your head with a hammer if you don’t take these.” His hand reaches out, catching my shoulder and firmly tugging me upright.

I glare at him through the dark, my eyes heavy, but I don’t have the energy for a full fight. I take the pills, tossing them back and washing them down with the water he holds out. The glass is cold against my dry lips.

When I hand it back, I expect him to stand up and leave. Instead, Donnie sets the glass back down, reaches for the hem of his black t-shirt, and pulls it off over his head in one fluid motion. He kicks off his boots, kicks back the blanket, and slides onto the mattress right beside me.

My stomach does a sudden, violent flip that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“What are you doing?” I gasp, my hands coming up against his bare chest to push him back. His skin is warm, smooth, and solid as a rock. “Get out. Go sleep on the couch.”

Donnie doesn’t budge an inch. He grabs my wrists in one hand, pinning them gently against his chest, and uses his other arm to hook around my waist, hauling me flush against his side.

“Stop squirming,” he rumbles, his chest vibrating against my palm.

“Donnie, let go—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he cuts in, his voice low and dead serious near my ear. “You’re three sheets to the wind, you can barely stand, and I’m keeping you safe. I’m making sure you don’t roll over and choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night. So shut up and go to sleep, brat.”

“I am not going to vomit,” I snap, trying to wiggle out of his grip, but my body feels like lead. The warmth radiating off his chest is thick and intoxicating, seeping straight through the fabric of my dress.

“Yeah, well, I’m not taking the chance,” he murmurs, his thumb making slow, possessive circles against the side of my waist. His hold loosens just enough to let me breathe, but he doesn’t let go.

The fight completely drains out of me. My muscles give up, my lashes fluttering shut as a wave of exhaustion washes over my brain. I hate how good he smells—leather, cedar, and the faint bit of whiskey on his breath. I hate that his chest is the most comfortable thing in the world right now.

With a soft sigh I can’t stop, my head drops onto his shoulder. My knees tuck up instinctively, my body curling right into his warm frame.

Donnie shifts slightly, pulling the blanket up over us both and burying his face into the top of my hair. His breath stirs my stray curls as his grip settles heavy and possessive around my waist, anchoring me right where

And before I can summon the anger to tell him off again, the darkness takes me completely.