Chapter 3 Shared Fiancé

Herman's POV

Not my sister — the taste of the words brought a strange sweetness to my tongue. I savored the sight of Maeve's face draining of color as she stood near the stairs. The way her amber eyes darted around the room, desperately avoiding mine, sparked a dark satisfaction in my chest. She knew exactly what mistake I was referring to.

This morning, Denis, the driver who shuttled her to work, had called me while I was wrapping up meetings in Chicago. "Mr. Crowley, Miss Maeve ran into Mr. Irvin outside the coffee shop she frequents," he reported. "They talked for about five minutes. She seemed... comfortable with him."

That one word, comfortable, ignited a flicker of suspicion that quickly swelled with possessive fury. I'd ended my business trip early, taking the next flight back to Woodhaven. The thought of Eugene and Maeve sharing even a moment of casual conversation made my jaw clench. She belonged to me now, whether she accepted that fact or not.

"What mistake?" Kayla practically bounced in her seat, her eyes lighting up with malicious glee. "What did she do? Oh, tell me!" She leaned forward eagerly, like a child about to unwrap a present.

"It's not important," I said smoothly, savoring how Maeve seemed to shrink into herself at my words. She knew this conversation wasn't over — it would simply continue later, in private.

"Well, since Herman is back," my mother interjected, her timing impeccable as always, "I think we should move up the annual physicals this year. With Kayla and Eugene's wedding coming up, I want to make sure everyone's in perfect health for the celebrations."

I didn't miss how Maeve's face went even paler, if that was possible. A familiar, bitter taste filled my mouth at the thought of Eugene's name affecting her so strongly. Even after all this time, after everything I had done to keep her, the ghost of her former engagement still haunted us. The way she stiffened at the mere mention of his wedding—it made my blood simmer.

"Is something wrong, Maeve?" Kayla's voice dripped with false concern. "Oh, I get it. You can't stand hearing about my wedding to Eugene, can you? Still pining after your ex?"

"No!" Maeve's voice came out higher than usual. "It's not... I just..." She swallowed hard. "I'm worried about the examinations. You know I don't..."

"Don't what?" Kayla pressed, her dark eyes gleaming. "Don't like being reminded that Eugene chose me? That he left you?"

"Kayla," my mother warned, but my sister was already on a roll.

"Every time anyone mentions the wedding, you get this look on your face. Like you're in pain." Kayla leaned forward. "Maybe because you know he will never be yours again?"

"That's not true." Maeve's voice was barely above a whisper. "I have... medical anxiety. You know about my surgeries..."

"Right," Kayla scoffed. "Medical anxiety. Just like you had 'anxiety' at my engagement party. And—"

"Enough." I didn't raise my voice, but Kayla fell silent immediately. "Mother, when would you like to schedule these examinations?"

In the corner of my eyes, Maeve took a shaky step backward, then another, before turning and fleeing the room entirely. I watched her retreat, her steps quick and unsteady. The familiar rage burned in my chest—the same feeling that had driven me to tell her she didn't deserve a gift. But beneath that anger lurked something darker, more urgent, an indication of what I would do to her later tonight.

After dinner, I made my way to Maeve's room. The sound of running water told me she was in the shower. I settled into the armchair by her window, listening to the steady stream of water. Steam crept out from beneath the door, carrying with it the faint scent of her body wash.

I closed my eyes, letting my mind wander to the summer when I turned eighteen, when the air clung to my skin like guilt and the word sister began to curdle in my throat.

She had been thirteen, standing in front of the hallway mirror in a dress meant for someone older. The fabric pooled too loosely at her shoulders, slipping dangerously whenever she shifted. "Herman, does this look okay?" Her voice was all innocence, her fingers tugging self-consciously at the neckline.

My gaze betrayed me as it snagged on the hollow of her collarbone, pale and vulnerable beneath the slipping fabric. A bead of sweat slid down my spine. Don't stare, I'd told myself. She's your sister. But the words tasted metallic as her reflection held me captive — the way the dress clung to her hips, the faint blush on her cheeks as she waited for my approval.

"It's fine." My voice came out gruff, foreign.

She beamed, oblivious, and the strap slid another inch. My knuckles whitened around the textbook I had been holding. Little sister, I reminded myself. Not yours. Never yours.

After that, every interaction became a battleground. I took up boxing, pounding the heavy bag until my hands split open, as if pain could scour her from my bones. When she leaned over the kitchen counter, her hair spilling like caramel over her shoulder, I had slam my coffee cup down hard enough to crack the saucer. At night, I drowned her laughter echoing down the hall with whiskey, bitter and burning.

Yet she seeped into everything — the scent of her vanilla shampoo lingering on my jacket after a hug, the way her thumb brushed mine when passing the salt shaker. Once, she fell asleep against my shoulder during a movie, her breath warm on my neck. I sat statue-still for two hours, muscles screaming, until she stirred and blinked up at me. "You're so tense, Herman."

You have no idea.

The breaking point came at Kayla's return. I found her sulking by the pool, her eyes tracking Eugene as he laughed with Maeve by the dessert table. "Is he her date?" Kayla spat, crushing a cocktail napkin in her fist. "She gets everything, doesn't she? First my family, now my crush."

Something primal uncoiled in my chest. Use this, a voice hissed. Break them. Take what's yours.

The water stopped.

I rose, my shadow swallowing the strip of light beneath the door. Her movements inside were hesitant, fabric whispering against skin. My pulse thrummed in time with the drip of the faucet—mine, mine, mine.

When the door opened, steam curled around her like smoke from a lit fuse. Her nightgown clung to damp skin, translucent where it brushed her thighs. The sight of her amber eyes widening in surprise, the mole on her cheek standing out against her rapidly paling skin, sent a jolt of satisfaction through me.

The bathroom light cast a soft glow around her figure, making her look almost ethereal in the steam. But there was nothing ethereal about the thoughts running through my mind as I drank in every detail of her, my gaze heavy with desire.

"You know there is a consequence to your mistake, right?"