Chapter 75 Confession No 56: The Stepbrother’s Alibi

Chapter 75 Confession No 56: The Stepbrother’s Alibi
The metal chair was cold beneath my thighs, and the fluorescent light overhead made everything feel harsher, sharper. I could hear the faint hum of the air vent, the scratch of a pen against paper, the way the detective’s eyes flicked between me and the man sitting across the table.

Cole.

My stepbrother.

He was leaning back like he didn’t have a care in the world, jaw relaxed, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. But his eyes his eyes were locked on mine, steady and unblinking, like he was silently daring me to break.

The detective’s voice cut through the silence.

“Were you with him all night?”

I swallowed, my mouth dry.

“Yes,” I said.

One word. One lie.

The pen paused mid-stroke. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” My voice didn’t crack. I made sure of that.

The truth? We were together that night. But not the way I was making it sound. Not safe. Not innocent. Not something I could explain without my face turning crimson.

The detective nodded and glanced down at his notes. “Alright. Walk me through it, then. From the start.”

I could feel Cole’s gaze like a hand on my skin, pressing, reminding me exactly what to say. And exactly what would happen if I didn’t.

Two years ago, when my mom married his dad, Cole moved in. I was eighteen. He was twenty-two, fresh out of college, with that cocky smile and a dangerous glint in his eye that made me decide on the spot to keep my distance.

It didn’t work.

Cole was everywhere. At the kitchen counter in the mornings, shirtless, sipping coffee like he owned the place. Leaning in my bedroom doorway at night, smirking, just to see me roll my eyes. Every move he made felt like a dare, and I hated how much I noticed him.

But until last night, he’d never needed anything from me.

It was nearly midnight when my bedroom door creaked open.

I was already drifting to sleep when I heard it.

“Cole?”

He stepped inside. One look at him knocked the air from my lungs. His shirt was ripped, sleeve hanging loose, hair a mess. His knuckles torn, red.

“Don’t freak out,” he said.

“What happened to you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His voice was low, urgent. “I need you to say I was here all night.”

I sat up, pulling the blanket higher. “What did you do?”

His mouth curved not a smile, not exactly. “Nothing they can prove.”

I should’ve told him to leave. I should’ve asked more questions. Instead, I heard myself say, “Okay.”

The shift in his eyes was immediate dark, satisfied. He came closer, his hand brushing my thigh through the blanket. “That’s my girl.”

Back in the interrogation room, Cole leaned forward slightly, his gaze never leaving me. The detective was still waiting for me to spin the story we’d rehearsed.

And I did. Word for word.

If only he knew how much of it was true and how much was far filthier than anything they suspected.

The moment the interrogation room door closed behind us, I could finally breathe though my heart was still thudding hard, like it didn’t trust we were safe yet.

Cole walked ahead of me, all slow confidence, like the police station was his personal runway. When we stepped outside into the parking lot, the night air hit me, cool and sharp.

“You did good in there,” he said, tossing me the keys to his truck. I caught them clumsily, the metal biting into my palm.

“Yeah,” I muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I lied for you.”

His mouth tipped in that infuriating half-smile. “Not just lied. Sold it.”

On the way home, I couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d watched me in that room steady, heavy, like he was keeping me tethered in place. And the worst part? I’d liked it.

When we pulled into the driveway, Cole didn’t move to get out. He leaned back in the passenger seat, legs stretched wide, eyes still fixed on me.

“We should run it again,” he said casually.

“Run what?”

“Our story. Just to make sure you’ve got all the details straight in case they ask you again.”

I almost told him he was being ridiculous but there was something in his tone. Something that made my pulse skip.

Inside, the house was dark. Everyone else was asleep. Cole dropped onto the couch, patting the space beside him.

“Come here,” he said.

I sat, keeping a careful inch of space between us. He closed it instantly. His hand found my knee, thumb tracing idle circles.

“Start from the top,” he said softly. “Tell me where I was at midnight.”

“You were in my room,” I said.

His thumb moved higher. “Doing what?”

“Talking to me,” I whispered.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was studying me for cracks. “Show me how it looked. You know so it’s believable.”

I should have gotten up. I should have walked away. But instead, I leaned in, my voice catching. “You were sitting right here. Close.”

His arm slid along the back of the couch, caging me in. “And?”

“And” My breath hitched as his knee nudged mine apart. “ you touched me.”

“Like this?” His fingers trailed up my thigh, slow, deliberate.

My throat tightened. “Yeah.”

We were supposed to be rehearsing a lie. But every second that passed, it felt less like pretending and more like we were crossing a line neither of us wanted to uncross.

When his hand slipped under the hem of my shirt, my breath came sharp. He leaned in, lips brushing my ear.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “how far did we go that night?”

His words hung in the air like smoke, curling into every corner of my mind.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out just a shaky exhale that gave me away more than any answer could.

Cole’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected. His hand stayed beneath my shirt, palm warm and steady, fingertips tracing small, maddening patterns against my ribs.

“You’re thinking about it,” he said quietly.

I wanted to deny it, to shake my head and break whatever spell he was casting but my body was already leaning toward him, like it didn’t care about the truth.

His thumb brushed just beneath the curve of my breast, the contact fleeting but enough to make my pulse stutter.

“You need to be convincing,” he continued, voice low and deliberate. “If they look at you the way they looked at me today, they can’t see doubt. They can’t see fear.”

I nodded, but it was hard to focus with the way he was looking at me like I was both the weapon and the weakness he couldn’t afford to lose.

“Then,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my cheek, “we’ll give them something to believe in.”

I swallowed hard, unsure whether I was more afraid of the cops coming back or of what would happen if they didn’t.

Cole didn’t move away.

If anything, he closed the gap between us, until the air felt too heavy, too charged to breathe.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did, and instantly regretted it because his gaze was molten, steady, and impossible to escape.

“You’re shaking.” His voice was almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of an accusation.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

His lips curved, not quite a smile, more like he knew every truth I was trying to hide. “You’re terrible at lying.”

My pulse was loud in my ears. “Then why keep me here?”

“Because you’re the only one who can keep me out of prison.” His hand slid higher beneath my shirt not grabbing, not rushing, just claiming space he had no right to. “And because” He leaned in, his breath brushing my jaw. “you’re the only one who’s ever looked at me like I’m not the villain.”

Something inside me tightened, and I hated that it wasn’t entirely fear.

“Cole” I breathed his name like a warning, but it came out softer than I meant.

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist no cops, no questions, no blood on his hands. Just his fingers pressing lightly into my skin, and the quiet promise in his voice when he said

“Then don’t make me your villain either.

I can still feel the rhythm of his breath at my ear, each exhale brushing like a hot secret across my skin. My voice is thin when I say it his name but it doesn’t sound like a plea anymore. It’s an admission.

His hand doesn’t leave my throat, not completely. Just enough to let me swallow the lump building there while his other hand explores with maddening patience, tracing slow circles lower, each movement deliberate.

“You know what happens,” he murmurs, the words dark silk, “when you ask for me.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek, because I do know. And knowing makes my pulse riot. He doesn’t rush. He tilts my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his in the half-dark. That stare is a vice steady, claiming.

When he finally touches me where I’ve been aching, it’s not gentle. It’s sure. As if he’s granting a request I never had to voice. My breath stutters, knees threatening to buckle, but he holds me there, suspended in that tight space between restraint and ruin.

“You’re mine in this,” he says. Not a question. A verdict.

The sound that leaves me isn’t quite a word. It’s a surrender.