KISS ME LIKE YOU HATE ME (ROYAL CREW BOOK 2)

ARIEL

Crack.

The slap landed so hard my head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly across my cheek like fire. I pressed my palm against the stinging skin, eyes fixed on the floor where my carefully made soup now lay splattered across the slate-grey carpet.

Chunks of vegetables and warm broth soaked slowly into the fibers. I had spent hours on that soup — chopping, tasting, adjusting the seasoning until I genuinely thought it was perfect.

I didn’t even know what I’d done this time. I searched my mind frantically for the mistake, but deep down I already knew the truth: there didn’t have to be one. Sometimes he just looked at me and the monster inside him woke up hungry. My cheek burned, the skin pulling tight as it flushed an angry red against my pale face. I knew better than anyone what those large, calloused hands were truly capable of.

“How many times do I have to tell you?!” he roared, his breath blasting hot, sour, and heavy with whiskey right into my face.

Spittle hit my skin.

“He’s an important guest,” he snarled, jerking his thumb viciously toward the dining room.

“And this is what you serve up, you worthless fucking cunt? You spend all day at that fucking college, prancing around with those rich little shits, filling your empty head with stupid ideas, and suddenly you think you’re a goddamn princess? You’re nothing. Nothing but a pathetic, ungrateful waste of space who can’t even make a simple dinner without embarrassing me. Just like your useless, whoring mother — weak, stupid, and better off dead.”

“D-Dad, I—W-Wendy, she told me—”

Crack.

The second slap cracked across my other cheek, much harder. Pain exploded like fireworks across my face and detonated behind my eyes. The force sent me stumbling sideways. I caught myself on the sharp edge of the counter, my fingers gripping it desperately so I wouldn’t collapse straight into the mess of broth and vegetables.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me,” he hissed,

“and don’t you fucking dare blame your sister.” His breath was hot against my ear, reeking of alcohol and rage.

“Wendy actually tries around here. Unlike you.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out. Ever since Mom died, this house had become a prison. Dad, his new wife, Randy, and Wendy—they all made sure of it. I wasn’t their daughter or even their stepsister. I was the leftover burden.

The red-haired reminder of the past they wanted to forget. He stepped closer, towering over me.

“You exist in this house because I allow it. Keep pushing me, Ariel, and I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take. Now clean this fucking mess up before I really lose my temper.” he snarled.

“I don’t want to see your pathetic face again for the rest of the night.”

I nodded quickly.

My hands shook as I dropped to my knees on the cold tile.

Every scrub sent sharp stings through my swollen cheeks, but the real pain was deeper—the constant, heavy dread that lived in this house.

This was home. This was my life.

And no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough.

I stayed on my knees, scrubbing at the spilled soup with the soggy dish towel. The broth had already started soaking deep into the carpet fibers, and no matter how hard I pressed, the stain kept spreading.

My cheeks throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, both sides hot and swollen from his hands. I kept my head down, breathing shallow, praying he wouldn’t come back to “check” on me.

The kitchen door creaked open behind me. Randy. My stomach twisted instantly as my stepbrother knelt down right beside me, far too close. The smell of his cologne — cheap and overpowering — filled the small space and made me want to gag.

“Here, let me help you with that, sis,” he said in that sickly-sweet voice he only used when no one else was around.

His shoulder pressed deliberately against mine as he reached for the towel, but we both knew the cleaning wasn’t what he cared about.

His hand “accidentally” slid across my thigh, fingers lingering, squeezing the flesh like he had every right to touch me.

He did this constantly — brushing against me in narrow hallways, pressing up behind me at the sink, letting his hands wander whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Disgust rose thick and sour in my throat. I shifted away as much as I could in the cramped space between the counter and the cabinet, but there was nowhere to go.

His fingers kept grazing higher up my thigh, then across my waist and ribs, pretending to help while he copped his usual feels.

“You know,” he murmured low enough that only I could hear, his breath hot against my ear,

"if you were nicer to me… if you pleased me a little… I could make things a lot easier for you around here, Ariel.” His fingers dug into my thigh, possessive and bold. “You just have to be a good girl for me.”

Bile burned the back of my throat. The words made my skin feel like it was crawling with insects. I kept my head down, scrubbing harder at the stubborn soup stain, my knuckles turning white around the towel.

I forced my voice to stay steady — polite, almost sweet..

“I think I’m doing just fine on my own, Randy. So if you don’t mind… please leave me alone.”

“Careful,” he murmured.

“Don’t piss me off, sis. One word from me and your dad will make the rest of your life a living hell. You think it’s bad now? Keep playing hard to get and I’ll make sure you’re locked in that basement every night with no phone, no friends, and no escape. I own this house too, remember?”

Randy’s hand drifted higher on my leg. I jerked back, nearly knocking over the bowl I was using to scoop up the mess.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open.

“Randy? There you are—” Suzie, his girlfriend, stepped inside and stopped short, eyes narrowing at the sight of us on the floor.

"What are you doing? "

Randy pulled his hand away smoothly and flashed her a bright, innocent smile as he stood up.

“Nothing, babe,” he said casually, walking over and wrapping an arm around her waist.

He leaned in and kissed her deeply, the same mouth that had just been whispering filthy promises to me.

“Just teaching my bitch of a stepsister how to clean up her own mess. You know how useless she is.”

Suzie let out a little laugh, buying every word, and kissed him back.

Randy shot one last sleazy smirk over his shoulder at me before the two of them walked out together, his hand already sliding down to grope her ass.

Only when the door clicked shut behind them did I finally let out a shaky breath of relief. My hands were trembling as I went back to scrubbing the cold soup from the carpet.

I wasn’t a daughter to them.

I wasn’t a sister.

I was just a piece of furniture they could shove, slap, and ignore whenever it suited them.

Something to hit, to insult, to grope, and to keep locked away in the basement like an inconvenient secret.

Down in my small basement bedroom, I shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

The room was dim and cramped, barely more than a converted storage space with a tiny window high up near the ceiling. I sat on the edge of my bed and pulled out my makeup bag with shaking hands.

The mirror on the back of the door showed me exactly what I expected—two angry red handprints blooming across my cheeks, already starting to darken.

I dabbed on layer after layer of concealer, blending carefully with my fingertips.

With the right amount and a little powder, the marks faded into something muted. Not gone, but good enough that no one at college would ask questions. I’d gotten scarily good at this.

My phone buzzed against the bed.

I reached for it, and for the first time all day, a faint flicker of warmth pierced the numbness gripping my chest.

It was our group chat.

Winter. Claire. Me.Claire had dubbed it Charlie's Angels, insisting we were "three hot disasters with fabulous hair."

A small smile tugged at my lips before I even opened the messages.

Claire: There’s a party this weekend and I’m not going without my besties. No excuses. Drag your asses out.

Winter: I’ll be there… if Zion ever lets me leave the bedroom. Ever since the kidnapping he’s been glued to me like a six-foot-four murder husband. I sneezed earlier and he almost put the house on lockdown.

Claire:Oh my god. You’re actually loving this, aren’t you? Just admit you’re into the whole overprotective psycho thing.

Winter:…Fine. It’s lowkey hot when he does a full tactical sweep of every room before I walk in. And he kisses my forehead every five minutes like I’m made of glass. Last night he refused to fall asleep until I was tucked into his chest because “that’s where you belong.” I died. I’m dead. Send flowers.

Claire: Jesus Christ. I asked you to come to a party, not to drop the first three chapters of your soft-core domestic erotica. My teeth are rotting from how sweet this is.

Winter: Jealousy is such an ugly color on you, babe 💅

Claire: So is diabetes, but here we are. Your messages just gave me emotional hyperglycemia. I need an insulin shot after reading that.

Winter: Dramatic much? I’ll be there. Assuming Zion signs my release papers and doesn’t install a tracking chip in my neck first.

Claire: Tell your guard dog I said he’s allowed one (1) possessive stare from across the room. Any more and I’m spraying him with water like a misbehaving cat.

A small smile tugged at my lips despite everything.

Claire and Winter. My only rays of light in this dark, suffocating world. They didn't know the truth about my life. About what happened once I walked through my front door. And I wanted to keep it that way. With them, I could pretend I was just another college girl.

Claire: Ariel? Hello? Do you require a formal invitation? Should I send one engraved in gold? Or do I need to arrive at your house with a marching band and a red carpet just to drag your mysterious ass out?

A soft laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

God, I loved that girl. I typed back with swollen, clumsy fingers.

Me: On my way.

Slipping my phone into my bag, I took one last look in the mirror. I adjusted my hair and pulled my hoodie lower, making sure every ugly bruise was properly hidden.

Wouldn’t want to ruin the family’s perfect public image, after all. I crept upstairs as quietly as possible.

Dad was passed out on the couch like the charming drunk he was, reeking of whiskey and broken promises.

His “important guests” was sprawled in the armchair, snoring like a dying walrus and contributing absolutely nothing to society.

Wendy, of course, was out — as usual. This house was nothing more than a very shabby hotel she occasionally bothered to check into when she ran out of better options.

And Randy… Knowing that sleazy prick, he was probably balls-deep in his girlfriend in a random corner of the house, whispering the same fake promises he’d tried on me earlier while convincing her he was God’s greatest gift to womankind.

No one noticed me leaving. No one ever did. I was the invisible punching bag — convenient when they needed a target, forgotten the second I was out of sight.

I slipped out the front door, heart hammering, silently praying I wouldn’t get caught. Because nothing said “fun night out with friends” like getting dragged back inside by your abusive stepbrother or raging father.