Love at World's End

"You're mine."

His hoarse voice has my legs trembling as one hand slides up my inner thigh. His calluses catch against my skin.

"All of you belongs to me. Every inch, angel."

The coarse cloth binding my eyes allows only slivers of light to penetrate, heightening every other sensation. Cold, heavy restraints pin my wrists, but I barely notice them. All my focus narrows to the man's hands as they roam my body.

Who is he? I don't remember. I can't remember.

Everything's hazy, except for the feel of his skin against mine.

My entire body quivers beneath him. Anticipating. Wanting more. Never knowing where he'll touch next.

Hot breath ghosts against my belly, and I jerk against the restraints, startled.

"Careful, angel. Don't hurt yourself." Each puff of breath as he speaks sends sparks straight to the core of me, leaving me to writhe as his hand slides higher, unobstructed by any clothes.

I should be cold, but I'm on fire.

I arch into his caress, craving more. The air grows thick with tension, my heart racing as his exploration becomes bolder, rough fingers sliding against my—

A rough hand yanks me from the depths of my dream. The erotic scene evaporates as I blink against bright light, focusing on the sneering face of my stepbrother as he looms over me.

"Get up," Randall snaps. "I'm hungry. Make me something to eat."

Disoriented by the lingering tendrils of my dream, it's hard to process what's happening. My eyes dart to the alarm clock on my nightstand.

"Randall? It's three in the morning," I mumble, my voice thick with sleep.

His fingers dig into my arm as he hauls me out of bed, pulling me right out of the warmth of my comforter. "Did I ask what time it was? Move your ass."

He drags me through the darkened house, my bare feet stumbling over the cold hardwood floors. The remnants of my dream fade with each step, replaced by familiar dread settling in the pit of my stomach.

We reach the kitchen, and Randall releases me with a shove. He plops onto a bar stool, the metal legs scraping against the tile. He reeks of liquor. Bourbon and vodka, probably. Those are his poisons of choice.

I'm a whiskey girl, myself, when I'm forced to drink. It's the only alcohol my family doesn't down by the gallon, and therefore the only one I can stomach the smell of.

My belly churns. "Did you drive?" I ask, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

"What does it fucking matter? Hurry up and make me something. I'm starving." His fingers drum against the countertop, and I take a moment to inspect his face.

Glazed brown eyes, pupils blown out. Flushed skin. A slight twitch in his left cheek.

Whatever he's on, it isn't just alcohol.

As if that isn't illegal enough for a seventeen-year-old senior high school student.

Fumbling for the light switch, I grimace as harsh fluorescents flicker to life. Squinting against the sudden brightness, I shuffle to the refrigerator. "What do you want?"

There's no point arguing over how unfair any of this. No point bitching that I just got home two hours ago, or that I have to be up two more. He doesn't give a shit.

And even if I complained to my father, he'd just tell me to handle it myself, like he always does. Always expecting perfection out of his heir as he pampers his spares.

Nights like tonight keep me bitter, and I wonder—for the millionth time—why I don't just move out. Find myself a nice little apartment by the office. Live in peace. Finally gain some independence.

At twenty-two, I shouldn't be stuck under the thumb of my father and his wife, but here I am, dragged into the kitchen to make my drunk minor stepbrother his dinner at three in the morning.

Three. In. The. Morning.

And it isn't even the first time he's done this to me.

"Surprise me." His words slur together, confirming my suspicions about his inebriated state.

I grab eggs and bacon, setting them on the counter before reaching for a frying pan. The metal clangs as I set it on the stove, and I flinch at the noise.

"Quiet," Randall hisses. "You'll wake everyone up."

Like his Bigfoot-stomping down the hall while dragging me wouldn't have woken them up?

My jaw clenches, but I know better than to voice that thought. Instead, I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them with trembling hands.

"So," Randall drawls, "what were you dreaming about?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "Nothing."

He snorts. "Bullshit. You were making all sorts of interesting noises."

I keep my eyes fixed on the task at hand, willing my face not to betray me. Back to the frying pan, I throw a few slices of bacon in. It sizzles as it hits the now-hot pan, filling the kitchen with its savory aroma.

"Who is he?" Randall presses.

"There's no one," I mutter, flipping the bacon.

"Come on, Lauren. You can tell me." His tone drips with false sincerity. "We're family, after all."

I bite back a bitter laugh. Family.

"It was just a dream," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "I can't remember it anymore."

Randall must have jumped off the barstool at some point, because I can feel his alcohol-laced breath hot on my neck. "You sure about that? Sounded pretty intense to me."

I step away, busying myself with whisking the already-scrambled eggs. My skin crawls at the ghostly memory of his breath. Randall can get handsy when he's drunk.

It's all about power. He likes to watch me cringe away. It's his favorite game.

"Your food will be ready soon. Why don't you wait in the living room?"

He ignores my suggestion. "You know, if you need someone to help make those dreams a reality, I'd be happy to volunteer."

Bile rises in my throat. His hand brushes against my hip, and I sidestep my way back to the bacon to flip it. "That's not necessary."

"Why not?" His hand snakes around my waist. "I could show you a good time."

I twist away from his grasp, nearly knocking the pan off the stove in my haste. "Stop it, Randall. You're drunk."

He laughs, the sound grating against my nerves. "Maybe. But I know what I want."

Still, he backs off. His goal's already been met; he's thrown me off balance, put me on guard. It's hard to remember he's only seventeen. One of these days, we're going to get the call that he's been arrested for doing something terrible to someone. He's twisted like that. Broken from the womb.

My hands shake as I slide the bacon onto a plate and pour eggs into the pan. His glazed eyes watch my every move.

"You're not very pretty, Lauren. You know that, right?"

I focus on the sizzling eggs, willing my hands to stop trembling. Despite his younger age, I'm afraid of Randall's temper. I've sported more than one bruise from his fists.

"There's this new girl at school. Amber. Legs for days, tits that could make a grown man weep."

The spatula scrapes against the pan as I push the eggs around, tuning him out. It's always good when he likes to hear himself talk. Better than ranting and raving. That's when he gets vicious.

"And her ass? Jesus. It's like two perfect melons, ripe for the picking. Not saggy like yours."

My jaw clenches. I work hard to stay fit, spending time at the gym when I should be sleeping. But Randall's always trying to tear me down. He likes me best when I have no confidence.

He continues, his voice thick with lust. "Her waist is so tiny, I bet I could wrap my hands around it. Unlike your thick trunk."

The eggs are done. I slide them onto the plate next to the bacon, my movements stiff. Muscle memory takes over as I grab a fork from the drawer.

"And her skin? Flawless. Like porcelain. Not all blotchy and gross like yours."

I set the plate in front of him, careful not to meet his eyes. "Here's your food."

Randall ignores the plate, leaning in close. His breath, reeking of booze and something chemical, washes over me. "You know what the best part is? She actually puts out. Unlike some prudes I know."

I turn away, focusing on cleaning up the kitchen. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can escape to my room and get a little more sleep. As I wipe down the counter, I hear the scrape of Randall's fork against the plate.

"You know," he says between bites, "Dad's really riding my ass about that project at work."

I freeze, my stomach dropping. I know where this is going.

"I could use some help," he continues. "You're good with all that paperwork crap, right?"

It's not a question. Not really. We both know I'll end up doing everything for him, just like always. He's just an unpaid intern, working weekends, but he can't even handle that.

He wants my position in the company, but without the work. It galls him every day that I'm Dad's only heir. His stepkids can work at the company, but they have to work their way up. Not like me. Not his only legal child.

Randall's chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. He crowds me against the counter, trapping me between his arms. "Come on, Lauren. Don't be selfish. We're a team, remember? You wouldn't want Dad to be disappointed in me, would you?"

Of course I could tell Randall no.

I don't have to do the work. I can let him fail. It isn't my responsibility.

But Randall's cruel. And, most importantly, he hates me. As does his mother. And his sister.

Life with them is already insufferable. If he loses his position at the company—the only thing Dad's stern about with his stepkids—I'm going to be the one to suffer in the end.

Dad lets them all get away with murder. He's told me not to fuss when Randall broke my arm two years ago, all because I wouldn't stay home and entertain him when he was sick.

Instead of taking care of me, the one with the broken arm, he bought Randall a brand new gaming console and promised him a car to keep the peace when Marian blamed me for the entire incident. I still don't know exactly what she told Dad, but—once again—I was the one to suffer.

I close my eyes, defeat washing over me. "What's the project?"

He grins, wrapping his arms around me in a bear hug that would be affectionate between normal siblings.

It just feels like a threat to me.

"I'll email you the details later. Just have it done by Friday, okay?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Randall steps back, stretching lazily. "Well, I'm off to bed. Thanks for the midnight snack."

He saunters out of the kitchen, leaving his dirty plate on the counter. I wait until his footsteps fade before letting out a shaky breath. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. Crying won't change anything.

My movements are mechanical as I clean up the last of the mess before making my way back to bed.

I'm exhausted. Frustrated. Angry.

And, of course, I can't get back to sleep.

Grabbing my phone and grimacing at how it tells me it's 3:45 AM in such cheerfully bright numbers, I enter my passcode and browse apartments in the city.

It's a pipe dream. Dad has no intention of letting me move out. If I leave his influence, he'll take away my job.

Without my job, I have nothing. I have job experience, but I don't even have a proper high school diploma. Dad had no interest in wasting my time in high school when I could learn the business.

Apartment after apartment, I scroll. Cute little studio apartments. Loft apartments. Two-bedroom apartments. Apartment complexes with fancy fitness centers and sparkling pools.

The promise of the American dream and city living, all wrapped up in a pretty bow at the price of $2,000 or more dollars a month.

I have some savings, but not as much as I'd like. Not with these rent prices.

I'd need a good job to cover basic living expenses. Or two jobs. Maybe even three.

I toss my phone aside and bury my face in the pillow, willing sleep to come. Just one hour. That's all I get. One measly hour before I'm up for work.

Twelve hours a day. Six days a week. On a shit salary, because I'm still "learning." Thanks, Dad.

The silence of the house presses in around me, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on my nightstand. Each second that passes is another reminder of how little time I have left before my alarm goes off.

Just as I feel myself starting to drift off, a sharp ding pierces the quiet.

My eyes snap open. Who could be messaging me at this hour?

Work.

It's always work.

Groaning, I reach for my phone. The screen lights up as I grab it, momentarily blinding me. I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the notification.

But it's not a message. It's not anything I recognize.

My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the screen. A countdown timer fills the display, stark white numbers against a black background.

[World's End: 02:23:59:53]

I blink hard, certain I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep. But when I open my eyes, the countdown is still there, the seconds ticking away relentlessly.

"What the hell?" I mutter, sitting up in bed.

I try to swipe the screen, to access my home page or any other app, but nothing happens. The countdown remains, unmovable and ominous.

[World's End: 02:23:59:42]

Is this some kind of virus? A prank? Did Randall mess with my phone while I was making his food?

Pressing the power button, I force a restart. But as soon as it lights up again, the countdown is back.

[World's End: 02:23:58:31]