Fallen Foe (Cruel Castaways, #2)

by L.J. Shen

I place the book on the table, redirecting my attention to the couple on the balcony. They’re still at it, making out without a care in the world. He wraps her hair around his fist, tugging, lifting her face, and kisses her hard. Their tongues swirl together erotically. She cups his cheeks and grins, grazing her top teeth over his bottom lip. My cock strains again. She is completely his, I can tell,

No one is yours, and you belong to no one. We’re all just fallen foes trying to survive this universe.

maybe. Over the years, I perfected the art of managing my stepsister. Using her explosive nature to my own advantage. I am now able to detect the precise moment in which Grace is going to leave me. It’s always when our relationship starts to feel real and serious. When the salacious shine of fucking your stepbrother wears off, and she is left with the aftermath. With a man she despises.

“I’m sure you haven’t. Not that he seems like a memorable character.” I jerk my chin to the woman in red. “He’s getting pretty frisky with the help.” Grace lets out a delighted laugh.

I throw one last look at the couple. Paul isn’t on the balcony anymore. But his wife is, and she is staring right back at me. Intently. With an accusing ferocity. Like she expects me to do something. Has she noticed me staring? Confused, I look behind me to make sure it is me she is looking at. No one else is in sight. Her eyes, big and blue and unrelenting, bore harder into mine. Is this a hostage situation? Unlikely. She looked mighty happy to make out with her husband just a few minutes ago. Is she trying to shame me for watching them? Good luck with that. My conscience

I meet her gaze head-on, unsure what’s happening, but always happy to take part in a hostile confrontation. I arch an eyebrow. She blinks first. I chuckle softly, shaking my head, about to get back to my book. She wipes her cheek quickly. Wait a minute . . . she is crying. Crying.

We are locked in that weird stare again. She looks possessed. I should get up and leave. But she looks so deliciously vulnerable, so misplaced, a part of me wants to see what she’ll do next. And since when do I give two shits about what people do? Coolly, I stand up, grab my hardcover, finish the last of my wine, pivot on my heel, and walk away. Mrs. Ashcroft might have a problem on her hands. But it isn’t mine to fix.

I play along. My end goal has always been making Grace mine for all to see—my father, her mother, my friends. The woman dug her way under my skin. She is permanently inked on each of my bones, and I won’t stop until I parade her as my prized possession. In some ways, I enjoy the way she downplays our relationship. See, the more Grace highlights the fact that we are stepsiblings, the bitterer the pill she’ll later have to swallow when we go public. In my darkest, rawest fantasies, Gracelynn Langston stutters her way into an explanation of how she ended up marrying the person she introduced as her brother for years. She’ll be wearing my ring. Come hell or high water.

“This is my wife, Winnie.” Paul kisses the petite woman’s shoulder. She turns her full attention to me, and finally, I can see it. The reason Paul decided she was worth more than a night between the sheets. She is, objectively speaking, radiant. Her skin is rich and glowing, her eyes bright and curious, her smile infectious and reassuring. She is the kind of woman people say lights up the room. Grace, by contrast, is the kind of woman who makes the temperature drop to arctic level anywhere she enters. My heart included.

“Actually, we’re more known for our biscuits. Oh! And inbred tendencies, of course.” She gives me a saccharine smile. So she does fight back. Didn’t see this one coming.

If he calls her baby doll one more time, I am going to break my wineglass and stab his neck with a shard.

mine. She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Why, all the big, blinding lights, of course. Sex and the City too. I thought, gee-oh-my, living there must be just like in them glitzy films. Oh, and don’t forget that Alicia Keys song. Huge factor. Huge.”

Winnifred Ashcroft is the only thing remotely entertaining about this event, and feasting on her self-esteem is tastier than eating any other dish served here tonight.

“Paul’s more of a Mr. Medium, if the glimpse in the urinal was any indication,” Chip jokes. Everyone laughs. Everyone but Winnie, who stares at me, wondering what she did to deserve this. You asked me to care. Back on the balcony. Now you’ll see just how careless I am with people’s feelings.

I sit back, watching her with open pleasure. She’s like that little ladybug spinning on its axis. Adorably desperate. Too bad I’m dead set on Grace, or I’d sample her for a few months. Paul wouldn’t even be an obstacle in my way. These type of women go for the highest bidder, and I have the deeper pocket. “Fire away,” I say. “What do you do?” she asks. “Jack-of-all-trades.” “Doing what?” Shrugging, I drawl, “Anything that makes money.” “I’m sure you can be more specific than that. This could mean weapons dealer.” She folds her arms over her chest. Fine. Let’s play. “Equities, corporations, currencies, commodities. Though I’m on a recent ban for insider trading. Two years.” All eyes shift to us. I’ve yet to address the subject in this room, having inherited from my father the unsavory trait of never giving people what they want. “Why?” she demands. “Market manipulation charges.” Before she asks what that means, I explain, “They say I misrepresented material to investors, among other misconducts.”

“Did you do it?” Winnifred holds my gaze, looking childlike in her innocence. With the whole room watching, I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, smirking. “I have one issue, Winnifred.” “Just the one?” She blinks innocently before relenting. “And what’s your issue?” “I never play to lose.” Her eyes, as pretty as bluebonnets, are still on mine. An uncharitable thought crosses my mind. She’d probably look ten times better in Grace’s aquamarine earrings. Seeing her in nothing but those earrings would bring me a lot of joy. Oh well. Maybe Grace will misbehave and dump me soon, and I’ll take up a quick affair with this little thing to remind my stepsister that I’m still a man with needs.

A bone-chilling, feral cry. Like someone is wounded in there. Not your problem, I remind myself. I roll my sleeves up, wash my hands, as the wails grow louder, more erratic.

I turn off the faucet and make my way back to the cubicle. “Hello?” I lean a shoulder against it. “Who’s there?” The weeping, which turns into little hiccups, does not subside, but there is no answer either. “Hey,” I try, softer now. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?” Maybe the police? Or someone else who actually cares? No answer. I’m running out of patience, and my nerves are shot as it is. My whole body is reeling with the news about Dad. “Look, either you answer or I kick down the door.”

But I don’t find a baby or an injured animal. Just one Winnifred Ashcroft, curled over the toilet tank in her red dress, makeup smeared all over her face, drinking wine straight from the bottle. Her hair is a mess, and she is shaking like a leaf. Isn’t she pregnant?

“Are you in trouble?” I spit out, asking mainly because it is my civic duty. “Is he hurting you? Abusing you?” She shakes her head. “You’ll never be half the man he is!” There goes my lifelong mission. I glance around us, waiting for her to pick herself up and evacuate the toilet. She’s the most bizarre creature I’ve ever met. “My husband is amazing,”

“Your husband is as unremarkable as my least favorite pair of socks, but that’s not a conversation I’m interested in having now,” I counter. “Now, if there’s nothing I can do—” “Yes, there’s nothing. Even if I did need help, I wouldn’t turn to you for it. You’re stuck up higher than a light pole.” She wipes her nose with the back of her arm, sniffling. “Beat it.” “Now, now, Winnifred. I thought all southern belles were sweet and agreeable.” “Go away already!” She jumps to her feet and slams the door in my face, or whatever’s left of the unhinged door, anyway. For a brief moment, I contemplate giving her my number, in case Paul does abuse her.

“Don’t look down,” I roared, falling to my knees, pulling harder, with everything I had in me. It felt like my limbs were being ripped from my body. But she was too heavy, too wet. “Just . . . just look at me.” The pressuring, unrelenting weight of her was gone suddenly. My body jerked backward. The back of my head slammed against the shingles. A distant splash assaulted my ears. She fell. She fell. Frantic, I crawled along the gutter, squinting down, trying to see past the rain and the mud and the thick bushes. Grace had landed on the canopy covering the empty pool. The belly of it was deep, and there was water all around her. Gracelynn didn’t move. Her legs were in weird angles, and I immediately knew, even before she started screaming, that it was all over for her.

more fancy tulle costumes, Russian tutus, or dance camps in Zurich. My stepsister’s ballet career was over. And so was my life as I knew it.

The latter wasn’t a medical diagnosis, but true, nonetheless. As soon as the painkillers kicked in and her legs were cast, she pointed an accusing finger at me, narrowing her tar eyes. “It’s him. He did this to me. He pushed me, Mommy.” It was the first time I was truly speechless. Pushed her? I’d tried to save her, and she damn well knew it.

And youre low key fucking her as an adult....mkay

“Sure. I pushed her. My only regret is I couldn’t finish the job. Better luck next time, I guess.” And then it registered to Gracelynn. That this was all real. Not a part of our stupid, made-up games. I could see it in her eyes. The flash of regret, followed by the adrenaline rush. The recognition that whatever she was doing, it was working, at least for now. That she was finally winning against me at something. But I would never let her win. Not if I still had breath in me.

This was where my obsession with Gracelynn Langston began. The feral hunger to conquer her at all costs. In the moment of history when she won the one thing that matters—public opinion. But this was a marathon, not a sprint. Gracelynn was about to learn her lesson the hard way. We Corbins always won in the end. Even if it meant we needed to play dirty.

I remind myself that this woman is perfect for me. For multiple reasons. All of them practical and hardheaded. We have the same taste, the same values, the same wants. Christian has Arya, and look—they’re happy. As happy as his miserable ass can be, I suppose. My stepsister and I can have that too. Or at least a fucked-up version of it.

Grace’s face reddens. She turns to look at me, expecting me to intervene. “Are you just going to stand there and let him talk to me like that?” she demands. I smooth out my suit. “I can sit down if you prefer.” Arya lets out a strangled giggle, and so does Alice. “Well, thanks for coming. It is appreciated.” Grace turns around, fuming, then stomps her way back to her mother and a cluster of her friends. Christian elbows me, gesturing with his drink toward her. “Remind me what you see in her again?” “Beauty. Elegance. Lack of submission.” “You know who also fits this bill?” Alice yawns. “A cheetah, and I wouldn’t share a bed with one.” “She puts the ass in nasty.”

“I’m not obsessed with her,” I say, dry amusement in my voice. “I’m obsessed with having her. It’s the circumstances that drive this entire operation.” “You’re wrong,” Arya insists. “The circumstances don’t matter. What matters is you’ll end up being with someone who doesn’t care for you. News flash, Ars—the world is full of people who don’t care for you. So, when choosing your partner, you really want to make sure you find someone who’d be in your corner.”

Her tits are hot, her nipples erect. She nibbles on the side of my neck, licking and biting softly. Her breasts feel heavy. Has she finally put on some weight? “Come to bed, you big grump,” she purrs into my ear, nipping on the shell of it. I stare at the bottom of my glass of whiskey. “Sell it to me, sis.” She cups my crotch from behind. I’m hard. She drags her hand higher, pushes it into my pants, and closes her fist around my shaft. “Jerk you off?” I put my whiskey down on a nearby table, catch her wrist, and tug her to stand in front of me. I flip her around like she is a rag doll, bend her over a side table, grab one of her hips, and use my free hand and teeth to rip a condom wrapper. I always have condoms handy in my pocket. I’m inside her within seconds. She is soaked. I ride her from behind, closing my eyes, remembering all those times. When she stabbed me in the back. When she wronged me. When she took what was mine and taunted me with it. So much for having the blissful fucking fairy tale others have.

Grace finishes first. She always does. Nothing turns her on more than knowing she is getting dicked by the man she loathes the most. I come a few minutes after. Yanking the condom off on my way to the bathroom, I pass by a floor-to-ceiling mirror in the hallway and pause.

I can find a decent woman. The Arya type. A compassionate, smart, attractive companion whose lifelong wish isn’t to see me burn in hell. And yet Christian and Riggs are right. The only woman I have eyes for is my poisonous, fickle stepsister. “This was good, wasn’t it?” she asks when I exit the bathroom. I nod. “Wanna see a movie?” I need to decompress after the wake. “Actually, I’m gonna work on the balcony for a bit.” Grace is unplugging her laptop from its charger in my bedroom. “While the weather’s still nice and all.” We never share a bed for more than sleep and sex. Never watch movies together. Go to museums, picnics, vacations. Never do anything that is remotely couple-like. “It’s fine, I have my own projects to tend to.” I make my way to my office and close the door. It is time to call Dad’s estate lawyer and see what hell he brewed for me before he died.

“I see you haven’t changed at all.” Her pimply chin quivered. “Of course I did.” I smirked, my gaze still hard on the bouncing ball. “I no longer care for you. Not in the slightest.” “I’m your stepsister!” “You’re a liar.” She turned away and slammed the door behind her.

“You know.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I think about that night every day. How come you didn’t try to tell your dad the truth? You just . . . dropped it.” I did try. He didn’t listen.

“Fall! Oh, die already!” She kicked her legs desperately, trying to reach my body. I curled one hand around the vent pipe and grabbed one of her feet with the other, then tugged her down to me. She gasped, turning flat on her stomach, trying to claw her way back up like a wet cat in a tub. I didn’t let go of her ankle, but I did climb up the ledge with her. When we got to the ridge, I flipped her flat on her back and straddled her waist. I couldn’t take any chances that she’d try to kill me again. She raised her fists in the air, attempting to catch my nose, my cheek, my neck. I grabbed both her wrists and slammed them down on either side of her head. She moaned in pain. It took everything in me not to hit her. “What’s your problem? Huh?” I screamed. She panted underneath me. Her chest rising and falling. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I swallowed, feeling weird and tingly and not half as furious as I should be. And it sucked, because even though I hated her, I didn’t hate her body. “Kiss me.” She licked her lips, her dark gaze dropping to my mouth. “What?” I asked, confused. She tried to wiggle free, laughing. “Kiss me, you dumbass. I want you to be my first.” She hadn’t been kissed before? She was almost my age. I was still a virgin, but I’d kissed plenty, made out, and even finger-banged two girls at a ski tournament last winter.

“You hate me,” I spit out. “‘Hate and love are the same mistresses under a different mask.’

think of you.” She smiled up at me, batting her lashes. And that’s when I realized what was happening. She liked the struggle. The fight. The games. She saw Doug and Miranda’s relationship and wanted to reenact it. What I saw as abuse, she viewed as passion.

“You foolish, foolish girl. If you ever try to kill me again . . .” My grip on her neck tightened. “I’m going to break your pretty little neck, even if I’ll get locked up for it. Next time, you won’t be crying wolf—you’ll be eaten by it. Bones and all.” Before I could straighten my spine and get the fuck out of there, she leaped forward, and her lips touched mine. She stole a kiss. It was sloppy and full of tongue and metal. It tasted like venom. Like alcoholic mouthwash and a girl I had no business wanting, but I wanted all the same. “You taste like poison,”

won. I know it. She knows it. Still, the satisfaction of having her in the palm of my hand is not as tangible, as glorious as I imagined it’d be. The fun part about Grace was always—always—the chase.

“I mean coming here. Don’t play dumb.” “Nothing. I . . . I don’t know.” She throws her hands in the air. “Can you blame me? I guess it’s hard, coming to terms with the fact that you’re in love with your stepbrother. A stepbrother you haven’t always been kind to. It’s been a pretty difficult month.” “In love with me?” I splutter. The timing, the convenience of it, makes it all transparent. She isn’t in love with me. With my money, maybe.

much as I want to marry her, her lies are transparent at best and offensive at worst. “Of course I’m in love with you, Arsène. Why else would I be with you for so many years?” Because you’re an attention-seeking Erinyes, and you simply can’t let a good marriage prospect go to waste. Grace is thirty-three. Still young, but not so young not to think about who she’d want to procreate with one day. She is a calculating creature, always five steps ahead in the game. When it comes to profitable ventures—I am one. “You love me?” I ask again, sitting back. “Yes.” She narrows her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Why is this so weird to you? Don’t you love me?” “I’m not sure.” But I am. I’m sure and a half. I’m sure and fucked as a daytime hooker, because loving her brings me no joy. No fulfillment. I’ve come to think of love as a prison guard. Something you resent, not cherish. “Your sudden declaration is awfully convenient. I’m going to need to ask for some receipts for this so-called love,”

She rolls her eyes. “You want proof, fine. What’d you have in mind?” We are having this conversation like we are conducting business. I like it. How like minded we are.

“I want you to move in with me,” I say dryly. She nods. “Okay. I can do that. What else?” “You will also marry me,”

“Although I understand this can be delicate news to break, considering the timing and circumstances. I’ll allow you a few months to smooth out the rough edges. Prepare the soil, so to speak.” “Marry?” Her eyebrows lift, her eyes widening with open, unabashed pleasure. She is keeping her excitement out of it, not wanting to acknowledge her own disadvantage in our nego...

“Is this a marriage proposal?” Her dark eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “It’s a declaration of intention.” “All right.” She gives her shiny hair a pat. “Provided I get a ring big enough to be spotted from Mars. I want something gross and distasteful. Something that’ll make every woman I know despise me.” I don’t have the heart to tell her most women she knows already hate her.

What’s her angle? “You’ll sign a prenup,” I announce. Her face falls. “Why? It’s not like we’re ever going to—” I lift a hand up. “I enjoy you, Grace. More than I should. But make no mistake. I trust you no more than tomorrow’s National Enquirer headline.” She lets out a laugh. “You’re terrible.” “That can’t be news to you.” “Fine. But I reserve the right to have three lawyers go over this prenup.” “Have a hundred, sweetheart.”

When I put on a condom and finally enter her from behind, I find her as dry as a bone. Confused, I pull out slowly, not wanting to necessarily hurt her. “Would you like more time?” I clear my throat, feeling surprisingly out of depth. She reaches over and grabs the hem of my shirt. “No. Continue. It’s just . . . stress makes me that way sometimes. I’m having fun.”

“No offense, but you feel like sandpaper,” I say flatly. “Having sex is not mandatory.” I pull away from her, about to rip the condom off my cock. She turns around and tugs at my shirt desperately. “No, no. Please. You have to fuck me.” “Why?” I ask, flabbergasted. We’ve never had an issue like this before, but I don’t see the necessity in fucking tonight if she is not up for it. “Because!” She is on the verge of crying. “I’ve missed you and I want you inside me, all right? Stop asking so many questions.”

“Please.” She pushes her ass toward me, her voice urgent. “Do it. Please. For me.” Begrudgingly, I fuck her, slow and careful, holding her by the waist, watching her silken, raven hair spilling over her smooth back. She is still mostly dry, but every time I see her wince, I push my fingers into her mouth and use her saliva as lubricant, massaging her clit in the process in the vain hope she’ll get a little wetter. “Are you sure this is okay?” I ask gruffly, feeling like a goddamn high schooler and hating every moment of it. “It’s amazing. Ohhh, just like that. Please.” “You don’t feel like you’re enjoying yourself.” “Men know very little about the female body,” she barks out. “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling. I have my own agency.” Closing my eyes, I try to finish as fast as I can. The sex is about as good as a week-old coffee. I’m half-mast, put out, and

So for the first time in my life I grunt a little, pretending to finish, then pull out as fast as I can. When she rolls over underneath me, she grins up, cupping my cheeks. “That was so much fun, wasn’t it?” Like grinding my dick over a nail file. “Epic,” I mutter. She leans forward to kiss the side of my mouth. Subdued, I slide the condom off as I amble to the bathroom. I throw the condom into the trash and turn to the toilet to take a piss. Frowning, I crouch down to examine the pink residue around the rubber. Another unwelcome first. “Grace?” “Hmm?” she purrs from the room, grabbing the remote and flipping through channels. “I think you bled.”