Chapter 4: The Coward

The water in Elijah's shower had long since gone cold, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He stood under the icy spray, letting it pound against his shoulders as if it could wash away the memory of Sam's skin beneath his hands, the sound of her gasping his name, the way she'd looked at him afterward—vulnerable and hopeful and waiting for him to say something, anything, that would make sense of what they'd just done.

Instead, he'd fled like the coward he was.

His reflection in the fogged mirror was a stranger's face—hair dark and disheveled, lips still slightly swollen from her kisses, a scratch across his collarbone where her nails had dug in during those final, desperate moments. Evidence of his fall from grace written in marks he'd wear for days.

What the fuck have you done?

The question had been circling his brain for the past hour, a vulture picking at the bones of his conscience. He'd crossed every line that mattered, shattered every boundary that had kept their fractured family functioning. And for what? A few minutes of the most intense pleasure he'd ever experienced? The feeling of finally, finally having Sam exactly where he'd secretly wanted her for years?

Yes, his body answered immediately, still humming with satisfaction despite the guilt eating him alive. Worth every second.

But his mind—his rational, responsible, dutiful mind—knew better. This wasn't some romance novel where forbidden love conquered all. This was real life, with real consequences, and he'd just lit a match in a house made of dynamite.

A soft knock on his bedroom door made him freeze, water dripping from his hair onto the bathroom tiles.

"Elijah? Dinner's ready." His father's voice, warm and oblivious to the fact that his son had just fucked his stepdaughter senseless twenty feet away.

"Be right down," he called back, hating how normal his voice sounded. How easy it was to lie.

By the time he made it downstairs, hair still damp and wearing the first clean clothes he'd grabbed from his dresser, the kitchen was already filled with the comfortable chaos of family dinner. His father was carving a roast, Helen was putting the finishing touches on what looked like her famous garlic mashed potatoes, and Sam...

Sam was setting the table with mechanical precision, her movements careful and controlled. She'd changed into dark jeans and a simple white button-down that somehow made her look both innocent and devastatingly beautiful. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, every strand in place, and if he hadn't known better, he would have said she looked completely unaffected by what had happened upstairs.

But he did know better. He could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided looking directly at him, the slight tremor in her hands as she arranged the silverware. She was as shaken as he was—she was just better at hiding it.

"There you are," Helen said brightly, glancing up from the stove. "I was starting to think you'd drowned up there."

The innocent comment hit like a physical blow. If only she knew how close to drowning he'd actually been—not in water, but in the feeling of Sam's body moving beneath his, in the taste of her skin, in the sound of her saying his name like it was something sacred.

"Long day," he managed, sliding into his usual seat across from Sam. The table that had always felt spacious suddenly seemed impossibly small, the distance between them both too much and not nearly enough.

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to relax now that classes don't start for another few weeks," David said, settling into his chair at the head of the table. "Although I hope you're still planning to get that internship application in. The Hartwell Group won't wait forever."

Elijah nodded automatically, though the thought of spending his days in some sterile office building discussing market projections felt about as appealing as root canal. "Yeah, I'll get on that."

"Sam's been working on her portfolio for the summer art intensive," Helen added, beaming with maternal pride. "Show him that piece you finished yesterday, sweetheart."

For the first time since he'd entered the kitchen, Sam looked directly at him. Her blue eyes were carefully neutral, giving nothing away, but he could see something flickering in their depths—a challenge, maybe, or a test.

"Maybe later," she said quietly. "It's not really dinner conversation."

But Elijah found himself curious despite everything. Sam had always been talented, but she rarely shared her work with anyone. The few pieces he'd glimpsed over the years had been abstract, emotional things that seemed to capture feelings too complex for words.

"I'd like to see it," he said, and immediately regretted the words when her eyes sharpened with something that looked dangerously close to satisfaction.

"Would you?" Her voice was honey-sweet, but there was an edge underneath that made his stomach clench. "It's a study in... tension. The way people can want something they know they shouldn't have."

The table conversation continued around them—David discussing some new project, Helen planning weekend errands—but Elijah barely heard any of it. All his attention was focused on Sam, on the way she was looking at him like she was dissecting him piece by piece.

"That sounds fascinating," he said carefully. "Very... mature subject matter."

Sam's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "I find inspiration in the most unexpected places."

The double meaning in her words was clear as crystal, and Elijah felt heat crawl up his neck. Was she really going to do this? Sit here at their family dinner table and play games with him while their parents chatted obliviously just feet away?

Apparently, she was.

"More potatoes, Elijah?" Helen asked, and he realized he'd been staring at Sam with an intensity that probably bordered on inappropriate.

"Thanks," he mumbled, holding out his plate and trying to focus on something—anything—other than the way Sam was running her tongue across her lower lip as she ate.

The meal stretched on like torture. Every casual comment felt loaded with hidden meaning, every accidental brush of hands when passing dishes sent electricity racing up his arm. Sam seemed to take perverse pleasure in his discomfort, finding excuses to lean across the table in ways that gave him glimpses of skin at her neckline, asking him to pass things that required him to reach dangerously close to her space.

By the time dessert was served—Helen's famous apple pie—Elijah's nerves were stretched to the breaking point.

"This is delicious," Sam said, taking a bite of pie with obvious relish. A small drop of cinnamon filling clung to the corner of her mouth, and when she licked it away with deliberate slowness, Elijah nearly choked on his own bite.

"You okay there, son?" David asked, looking concerned.

"Fine," Elijah croaked, reaching for his water glass with hands that shook slightly. "Just went down the wrong way."

Sam's eyes were dancing with wicked amusement, and he realized she was enjoying this—enjoying watching him squirm, enjoying the power she suddenly held over him. It was payback for the way he'd pulled away from her afterward, for the confusion and hurt he'd seen in her eyes when he'd started treating their encounter like a mistake that needed to be covered up.

When dinner finally ended, Elijah volunteered to help with dishes with an eagerness that probably seemed suspicious. Anything to get out of that charged atmosphere, away from Sam's knowing looks and casual torture.

But as he was loading plates into the dishwasher, she appeared beside him with the remaining silverware, close enough that he could smell her perfume—the same vanilla scent that had driven him crazy in her room.

"You seem tense," she murmured, her voice pitched low enough that their parents couldn't hear from where they'd settled in the living room.

"I'm fine," he said through gritted teeth, not looking at her.

"Are you?" She moved closer, ostensibly to put forks in the silverware basket, but the motion brought her hip into contact with his. "You've barely said two words all dinner."

"I'm tired."

"Mmm." She was practically purring now, and when she reached across him to put a knife away, her breast brushed against his arm. "You should get more sleep. All that tossing and turning isn't good for you."

He spun to face her, forgetting for a moment that they weren't alone in the house. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Helping with dishes," she said innocently, but her eyes were blazing with something that was part anger, part hurt, and part pure, unadulterated desire. "What did you think I was doing?"

Before he could answer, Helen's voice drifted in from the living room. "Sam, honey, could you help me find that gallery catalog? I want to show your father the piece by that new artist we discovered."

"Coming, Mom," Sam called back, but she didn't move immediately. Instead, she leaned closer to Elijah, so close he could feel her breath against his ear.

"Running away again?" she whispered. "That seems to be your specialty."

The accusation hit like a slap, mostly because it was true. He had run—from her room, from the confrontation, from everything he was feeling. But what was he supposed to do? Pretend everything was normal? Act like he hadn't just irrevocably changed the dynamic between them?

"Sam—"

"It's fine," she said, stepping back with that careful control that was becoming familiar. "I get it. You got what you wanted, and now you're done. Message received, loud and clear."

She turned to leave, but something in her voice—a brittleness that hadn't been there before—made him catch her wrist.

"That's not what this is," he said urgently, hyperaware of their parents just one room away.

"Isn't it?" She looked down at where his fingers circled her wrist, and he could see her pulse jumping beneath the pale skin. "Then what is it, Elijah? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're treating me like some dirty secret you need to scrub away."

The words were like acid, burning through his chest and settling somewhere in the region of his heart. Because wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing? Racing to the shower to wash her scent off his skin, avoiding her eyes at dinner, acting like what they'd shared had been something shameful instead of...

Instead of what? The most intense, perfect, earth-shattering experience of his life?

"I'm trying to protect us," he said finally. "Both of us."

"From what? From being happy?" Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and he could see tears starting to gather in her eyes. "From finally admitting that this thing between us isn't going away?"

"From destroying our family," he said roughly. "From hurting people we care about. From—"

"Sam?" Helen's voice was closer now, probably wondering what was taking so long.

Sam jerked her wrist out of his grip and stepped back, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. When she looked at him again, her expression had gone carefully blank.

"Don't worry," she said quietly. "I won't tell anyone that perfect Elijah Vance lowered himself to fuck his trashy stepsister. Your reputation is safe."

The crude words hit him like a physical blow, but before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing into the living room with a bright smile pasted on her face.

"Sorry, Mom, I was just finishing up the dishes with Elijah."

He stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the detritus of their family meal, and felt something fundamental crack inside his chest. This was what he'd done to her—reduced something beautiful to something ugly, made her feel cheap and used and ashamed.

Coward.

The word echoed in his head as he mechanically finished loading the dishwasher, as he made excuses about having reading to catch up on, as he climbed the stairs on legs that felt like lead. It followed him down the hallway past Sam's door—closed now, with music playing softly behind it—and into his own room where he collapsed onto his bed fully clothed.

Coward.

Because that's what he was, wasn't it? Too afraid to embrace what he wanted, too worried about consequences and propriety to fight for something that had felt like coming home. Too fucking scared to admit that Sam Reed—beautiful, maddening, impossible Sam—was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The worst part was that she was right. He was treating her like a dirty secret, like something to be ashamed of. And maybe that made him exactly the kind of man who deserved to lose her before he'd ever really had her.

Outside his window, the suburban evening settled into comfortable routines—neighbors walking dogs, porch lights flickering on, the distant sound of someone's television. Normal life, carrying on as if his world hadn't just shifted on its axis.

But in the room next door, Sam was probably sitting alone, thinking he regretted everything they'd shared. Thinking she meant nothing to him beyond a moment of weakness.

And Elijah Vance, honor student and dutiful son, did exactly what cowards always do.

He pulled a pillow over his head and tried to pretend none of it had happened at all.