Puck Me Harder: A Stepbrother Romance [BL]

Micah’s POV

A bottomless pit of absolute dread opened up in my stomach. What on earth was my father doing home? It was his house, sure, but he was supposed to be at the chapel or handling regional ministry affairs.

He didn’t even bother looking at my face. He just carelessly flung his heavy leather bag straight in my direction without a word. My weak, trembling hands barely caught the impact, and I instinctively hugged the bag tightly against my chest like a shield.

"Where is Noah?" he demanded, his voice icy and completely devoid of any parental warmth.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like shattered glass. "He’s... he’s in his room," I whispered, desperately trying to keep my voice from cracking. "I’ll take your bag up to your room, father. And I’ll call for him."

I turned on my heel, desperate to escape the suffocating air around him, but his booming voice instantly stopped me in my tracks. God, I absolutely hated being alone with my father. Every single second in his presence felt like breathing in pure poison. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to turn around and meet his cold, judgmental eyes.

"Since you’re in the... whatever useless department you’re in at that university," he scoffed, his gaze piercing right through me. "Have you heard anything about that anonymous author?"

Panic flared violently in my chest, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. He was talking about the ’Secret Sinner’ articles. He was talking about ’me’. My mind flashed back to the mention from Raven that an angry parent had been aggressively demanding answers from the vice chancellor. It had been my own father all along.

"What author, father?" I faked ignorance, my heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs.

"The degenerate who is writing those filthy, scandalous articles about Damon Silver," he frowned deeply, his face twisting in absolute disgust. "I highly hope you aren’t close to that person in any capacity."

A bitter, suffocating irony wrapped around my throat. How could he expect me to be close to the author when the author was completely ME? But I couldn’t let a single hint drop.

"I don’t know who the person is, father," I replied, quickly lowering my head to hide the sheer terror in my eyes. "Besides... you know I don’t really have any friends at school."

"Of course you don’t," he muttered dismissively. He kicked off his shoes, placing them in the small rack by the front door. The simple action made my stomach turn. If he was taking his shoes off, it meant he was staying for the entire day. Fuck. My safe haven was completely compromised.

Then, he threw the final, devastating blow. "What would a mother-killer child like you be doing with friends anyway?"

The words slammed into my chest, instantly breaking my heart into a million pieces. The raw agony of his cruelty physically choked me. Was that really what a father was supposed to call his own flesh and blood? Just because my beautiful mother had tragically died while giving birth to me didn’t mean I was the one who ruthlessly killed her.

But as the hot, silent tears rolled rapidly down my burning cheeks, a dark, venomous doubt crept into my mind.

What if he’s right? What if my pathetic existence really is the sole cause of her death? What if I truly am a mother-killer?

I held his heavy bag even tighter against my body, my frame shaking as I sniffed back my tears. He offered absolutely no words of comfort, treating my raw heartbreak like minor background noise.

"Father, you’re finally home."

Noah’s smooth voice cut through the suffocating tension from the hallway. I kept my head down, staring intensely at the floorboards, completely unable to look up.

"Oh, Noah." Father’s harsh tone instantly transformed, melting into a warm, prideful cadence. I could practically feel the bright, adoring expression taking over his face. "You’re home."

"It’s Saturday, father," Noah replied, flashing a perfect, golden-boy smile that I could hear in his voice. "I always make it a point to spend the weekend with my family."

"Right, right... of course you do," Father said, completely enamored by his star son. Then, he shot a freezing glance back toward my pathetic form. "Get that bag inside my room right now, Micah. And then whip me up something substantial for breakfast. I fasted all through yesterday for the ministry."

"Oh, father, why don’t I go ahead and make you something instead?" Noah intervened smoothly, stepping into the space. "Micah looks terribly tired."

A wave of miserable desperation washed over me. Deep down, I silently wished Noah would just shut his perfect mouth. He thought he was helping, but he didn’t understand the sick dynamic of this house. Every single time Noah said something to defend me, father’s toxic mood only grew infinitely worse.

"Tired?!" Father yelled, his voice echoing off the walls in sudden fury. "He isn’t the one skating out on the ice, bleeding for his legacy, or creating a proud name for this family! Why on earth should a useless boy like him be tired?"

"I understand," I whispered brokenly, cutting off any further argument.

I dragged my heavy feet down the corridor, carrying his bag straight into his master bedroom. I placed it on the mattress and just stood there in the quiet room for a long, agonizing second.

A sudden, fierce fire ignited beneath the heavy layer of my grief.

I can’t live like this forever. I refused to remain trapped in this living hell. I was going to be twenty one soon. Maybe it was finally time for me to take control, find a place of my own, and run somewhere far away from these toxic people.

I pulled my phone out of my pajama pocket, my fingers brushing against the heavy metallic weight of Noah’s smartwatch. I needed to get my life together.

"I guess I’ll have to find a job," I muttered to the empty room, pressing the watch securely inside my pocket. "And I’ll just keep this watch hidden in Noah’s room. If I try to hand it back to him in front of father, things will get incredibly weird."

Nodding to myself, I slipped out of father’s room and quietly navigated the hallway until I stood directly before Noah’s bedroom door. I reached out, carefully tilting the handle. To my surprise, it clicked open easily.

The moment I stepped across the threshold, a suffocating, pitch-black darkness enveloped me. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn completely shut, blocking out every single ounce of the morning light.

It was the first time I had ever set foot inside my older brother’s private sanctuary, and I literally couldn’t see a single thing.

Desperate to avoid bumping into something, creating a massive racket, and somehow announcing my trespassing presence to the house, I quickly turned on my phone’s flashlight. The beam of white light sliced through the eerie darkness, illuminating the space.

I spotted his wooden study desk against the far wall and walked carefully toward it, my heart pounding in my ears.

The exact moment I leaned forward to place the silver smartwatch gently onto the desk’s surface, the beam of my flashlight caught a loose piece of paper resting right beside his laptop.

My hand froze mid-air.

It was a neatly handwritten list. And written across that paper, in crisp, dark ink, were names.

Names of... what?

My breath hitched in horror as my eyes scanned the lines. The very last name on the list was the wealthy blonde queen bee from the party last night... and a heavy, chilling black line was drawn straight through it. Directly beneath her crossed-out name was the Prime Minister.

My knees began to tremble violently as the terrifying reality began to dawn on me. There were about five or six other prominent names written below them, mapping out a trail of blood. But it was the final name at the very bottom of the paper that made my soul completely leave my body.

Bernard Miller.

Father.

The phone shook violently in my hand, the flashlight beam scattering wildly across the dark room. A suffocating wave of panic and shock paralyzed my lungs. Was this... was this Noah’s death list? Was my golden-boy brother actually planning to ruthlessly murder our own father?