Chapter Text
TOM
Tom arrived at LAX forty five minutes early, which was unlike him in every conceivable way. He'd never arrived early to anything, believing firmly that the world should wait for him rather than the other way around. His hands had started shaking that morning while he was shaving, however, and he’d decided to admit defeat. He needed to be the first person to see her.
The drive from his apartment in the Hills had been filled with anticipation. He gripped the steering wheel tightly of his black Toyota 86 as he fought the urge to gun it. That was approximately thirty minutes ago. Currently, he stood at the international arrivals gate like any other ordinary man waiting for his little sister.
He’d dressed for business, which was also unlike him, though anyone who knew Tom would say he’d always dressed for business. This morning, however, required a more thorough kind of attention. He'd selected the perfect fabric and fit that would communicate exactly the right message without appearing to communicate anything at all.
Dark grey slacks that sat low on his hips, a black button down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and of course his black sunglasses. He looked expensive and dangerous, like a snake who’d learned to wear clothes purely for the pleasure of removing them later. Yes, Tom was just a brother waiting for his sister.
The arrivals board flickered above him, listing flight after flight in a shade of orange that seemed designed for max irritation. He watched the minutes crawl toward her scheduled landing. Hermione, his little sister, was finally returning to visit him. Their parents had married when she was eight and he was fourteen, two broken families cobbled together.
He’d looked at her across the dining table that first night, and knew he was fucked. She’d been small and serious, as well as entirely unimpressed by him. He’d decided in that instant she’d belonged to him and only him. Years of watching her grow had only deepened his want and obsession.
He’d sit beside her at holiday dinners and summer barbecues, itching to touch her cunt under the table. He’d drive her to high school and wish he were driving her into something else. He’d spent years pretending he didn’t notice her growing curves, or fantasize about fucking her over every surface imaginable.
He’d agonized over wanting her viscerally. He'd do anything to have her. His hunger had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way she’d call his name. Tom. Though he’d wished her to moan it under him instead. She’d turned eighteen three months ago, and he’d celebrated by fucking his hand to thoughts of her adult body in the shower, and what it might feel like to bounce her along his cock.
Later, he’d sent her a necklace. It was a thin gold chain with a small key pendant attached to it. It was the key to their his apartment, though he hadn’t explained that part. He’d simply wrapped it in tissue paper and a note. She’d texted him a photograph of herself wearing it, the key resting just above the collar of her nightgown. He’d saved that photograph to a folder on his phone, an album with a pass code that’d held his prized possessions.
He glanced at the board again; the flight was on time, thankfully. He’d checked seventeen times in the past three hours, refreshing the Flightaware app like a nervous teenager waiting for a text message. Each time the status remained unchanged, he felt a fresh surge of anticipation roll through his stomach. She was somewhere above the Pacific Ocean right now, reading a book or sleeping with her cheek pressed against the window.
She didn’t know he was standing there counting down the minutes until he could finally touch her. He’d planned meticulously for her arrival. The apartment was clean, and the guest bedroom made up with fresh sheets she'd barely use because he’d intended to have her in his bed by the end of the week. The refrigerator was stocked with her favorite things, and that expensive chocolate she liked from the shops in Santa Monica.
He’d even bought flowers, a mistake he realized now because flowers felt too obvious and performative. He’d thrown them in the trash before leaving. He wanted her to understand that this was the natural order of things finally asserting itself. The arrivals gate began to stir, people coming forward with handmade signs and exhausted expressions. Tom stayed exactly where he was, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t need a sign, however. He’d know her anywhere.
His cock twitched when he’d finally caught sight of her. She was beautiful. She came through the sliding doors with a rolling suitcase bumping behind her, her hair escaping from a messy bun. She wore leggings and an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder. She looked rumpled and absolutely devastating, and he wanted nothing more than to feel her soft skin on his. Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching, and when they found him, her entire face transformed.
She smiled. It crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her look like she’d just won something unexpected. She dropped the handle of her suitcase and ran toward him. He caught her against his chest with an impact that knocked the breath from his lungs as she jumped up to wrap her legs around his waist, hugging him. Tom struggled not to press his eager cock into her as she did so. He couldn’t make any moves just yet.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He held her tighter than he should have, definitely tighter than a brother should hold his sister. He didn’t care. He’d waited too long to care about propriety. He'd only wanted to finally claim his little sister.
“I missed you,” she said against his shirt, her voice muffled. “London is so grey, Tom. I forgot what the sun felt like.”
He pressed his mouth to her hair, just for a second. It was long enough to feel the softness of those curls against his lips.
“You’re here now, little sis.”
She pulled back to look at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. Her eyes moved across his face while taking him in. Her brows furrowed in question.
“You look different.”
Tom raised an eyebrow as he slowly let her down, purposely sliding her down his body. He bit his lip to bite back a moan.
“Do I?”
Hermione nodded.
“Older.”
She tilted her head, studying him.
“Did you get taller, too?”
Tom laughed and rolled his eyes.
“I’ve been twenty four for six months, Hermione. I’m not getting taller.”
She laughed, and he'd wanted to covet her forever. She’d always laughed like that, like the world had given her something genuinely funny and she’d intended to enjoy it fully. He wanted to bottle that sound and keep it on his nightstand. He wanted to hear it while she was underneath him, breathless and flushed as he gave her indescribable pleasure.
He picked up her suitcase without asking, and she fell into step beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his every few steps. He guided her toward the parking garage with his free hand pressed lightly against the small of her back. She leaned into the touch like it was the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps for her, it was. She didn’t know what he was thinking, however. She didn’t know that every brush of her hip against his sent electricity racing down his body.
Tom's black 86 sat in the reserved section near the elevator, and she stopped when she saw it. It was sleek and shiny, with modifications and certainly time put into it. It was a sexy car, of which Tom was proud of.
“You bought a new car.”
Tom smirked.
“I bought it two months ago.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Of course.”
She shook her head, but she was smiling.
“You and your cars. Dad says you’re going to kill yourself in one of these things.”
Tom shrugged.
“Dad worries too much.”
Tom opened the passenger door for her, because he’d had manners when it suited him, and watched her mould herself into the leather seat. She looked small in it, dwarfed by the carbon fiber and engineering. Hot possession unfurled inside him at the sight. He wanted to fuck her in the backseat of his car.
He wanted to drive her somewhere far away where no one would find them, and take his time learning every inch of her skin. Fuck, he’d had to get himself together. He closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side, sliding behind the wheel. The engine purred to life, and he relished her gasp at the sound of it.
“So,” she said, turning to face him with those soul sucking brown eyes, “What’s the plan? Are you going to show me Los Angeles? Take me to the beach? Introduce me to all your mysterious friends?”
Tom shook his head.
“The plan,” he said, pulling out of the parking space with more care than he’d usually bothered to exert, “Is to get you fed, showered, and into bed.”
She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.
“That sounds like a very specific plan.”
He looked at her like it was obvious.
“You’ve been traveling for eleven hours, sis. You need sleep.”
Hermione grinned.
“After I sleep?”
Tom silently reached over and touched the key at her throat, his fingers brushing her skin for just a moment before he pulled away and returned his hand to the wheel. Hermione glanced down at the necklace he’d given her in return.
“After you sleep,” he said, “We’ll talk about what happens next.”
He drove them out of the garage and into the California evening, the sun setting behind the hills in orange and pink. Beside him, Hermione settled into his car. Tom couldn't help but to stare at her. She belonged there. She always had, she just hadn't known it yet.
The apartment smelled of coffee and vanilla before Hermione even opened her eyes, and Tom had been awake for two hours making sure of it. He’d slipped out of his bedroom at six, leaving the door cracked so he’d hear her moving upstairs. He’d spent the intervening time preparing a breakfast that looked effortless because he’d labored over every detail.
The French press was full, the pastry dough had been rolled and folded by hand, and the strawberries had been sliced with other fruits. He stood at the kitchen island as he poured coffee into a ceramic mug she’d bought him three Christmases ago. He wore nothing but grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, accentuating his abs and prominent V.
The fabric had gone soft from too many washes, and he’d chosen them specifically for this purpose. He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to see exactly what she'd to him, and what she'd always done to him. Now that she was eighteen, he’d no longer had to hide his affections. He could show her exactly what he'd wanted. When she finally appeared in the doorway, he swore he’d stopped breathing. She wore a silk nightdress that barely reached her thighs. It was the color of pale pink, like the inside of a seashell.
The straps were thin, and kept slipping off her shoulders. The fabric was almost translucent in the morning light. He could see everything. His eyes traced the fuller curve of her breasts, no longer developing, and the darker circles of her nipples pressed against the silk. He agonized over the swell of her hips where the fabric ended and her bare legs began. She wasn’t wearing anything obvious underneath, either. He was certain of it from the way the silk draped across her body.
She didn’t even know what she was doing to him. His little sister had always been innocent, and ignorant to the affections of men. She’d always had her nose stuck in a book, and, he was positive she hadn't been touched even after attending her boarding school. It made his fingers curl against the countertop hard enough to hurt. She walked into his kitchen with her hair tangled from sleep, and her eyes still half closed.
She was offering herself to him on a platter made of pale pink silk and she hadn’t even thought about it. She yawned, covering her mouth with one small hand, and the movement pulled the fabric across her chest in a way that made his mouth go dry. He wanted to close his lips around those pert nipples so badly it hurt.
“Something smells incredible,” she said, her voice rough from sleep. “Did you actually make pastries from scratch? Who does that at seven in the morning?”
Tom picked up her mug of coffee and held it out to her, watching her stalk towards him.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She took the mug from him, and her fingers brushed his as she did so. She cradled the warm ceramic between her palms, and brought it to her mouth. Her lips wrapped around the rim, and he’d had to look away, for the image of them wrapped around his cock instead was too strong. He’d looked at anything other than the way her throat moved up and down when she swallowed. He wondered what she’d look like after swallowing his come.
“You should have woken me up,” she said, leaning against the island beside him.
She was close enough that if he’d turned his head, he’d have a perfect view down her shirt. His eyes greedily copped a look and was rewarded with heaven. He could see everything.
“I thought you might be tired.”
Hermione laughed.
“I slept like the dead. Your guest bed is more comfortable than my dorm in London.”
He almost told her that she wasn’t supposed to sleep in the guest bed. He held his tongue, and instead reached for the plate of fruit, setting it between them on the island. She made a small sound of pleasure when she saw the strawberries.
“Oh, my favorite!”
Tom gestured to the platter.
“Eat something before you faint.”
She laughed and plucked a strawberry from the plate, biting into it with obvious enjoyment. A drop of juice clung to her lower lip, teasing him, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand without any self consciousness at all. She’d had no idea that he would replay this moment later when he was alone, fisting himself. Her innocence was a kind of torture he’d never anticipated but gladly relished in.
He leaned against the counter across from her, arms crossed, and watched her eat. The sweatpants did nothing to hide his arousal, and he’d made no effort to adjust himself or look away. He wanted her to see what she did to him. He was curious whether her innocence extended to recognizing the evidence of desire when it stood two feet away from her in grey cotton.
She looked up from her strawberry and her gaze dropped, just for a second. He caught it, however. Her cheeks flushed pink, darker than the silk she wore, and she’d looked away quickly, focusing very hard on the food in front of her. So she had noticed. She’d seen something that made her fingers tremble slightly as she reached for another piece of fruit.
“So,” she said, her voice higher than usual. “What are we doing today? You promised me the full Los Angeles experience.”
Tom carried their dishes the the sink, flipping the faucet on as he did so.
“I promised you no such thing.”
Hermione clicked her tongue, sidling up beside him. She jokingly bumped her hip into his, and Tom fought the urge to trap her in his arms.
“You implied it heavily over text, which is legally binding.”
Tom smiled, and watched her eyes track the movement of his mouth as he did so. She was fascinated by his mouth, it seemed. He’d noticed that about her years ago, the way her attention would drift to his lips when he was speaking. She would bite her own lower lip without realizing it. She did it now even, her teeth sinking into the soft pink flesh, and he’d wanted to replace her teeth with his own.
“I thought we might stay in today,” he said. “You’re still adjusting to the time difference, and it would be irresponsible to drag you around the city when you should be resting.”
She made a face at him, the same face she’d made at twelve when he told her she couldn’t stay up to watch a special movie with him.
“I’m not a child, Tom. I don’t need to be coddled.”
“No,” he agreed as his gaze traveled down her body and back up again, slow enough that she couldn’t miss it. “You’re certainly not a child.”
She stood next to him in her too short nightdress, and her cheeks flushed. He stood there in his sweatpants, his desire barely concealed. She broke first, returning to normal.
“You're looking at me strangely.”
Tom gave her a cursory glance.
“How should I look at you, then?”
Hermione shrugged, looking anywhere but at him as she moved back over to the center island.
“I don’t know. Like a brother, I suppose.”
Tom moved away from the sink counter and followed her slowly, giving her time to move away if she’d wanted to. She didn’t move. She stood with her back against the island, her breathing shallow. He stopped when he was close enough nearly kiss her.
“I've never looked at you like a brother,” he said truthfully. “Not once.”
Her lips parted slightly, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed audibly. The silk of her nightdress brushed against his bare chest, and he could feel her nipples through the fabric, hard little points pressing against him. He knew she felt him too. The evidence of his want pressed against his sweatpants and into the softness of her flat belly.
“Tom,” she said breathily.
His name had never sounded like that before, breathless and wondering. She was afraid, but not of him. He supposed she was afraid of herself, and of what she might want. He lifted his hand and touched her face, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw as he did so. He moved his hand to the soft skin of her lips, and then down the curve of her neck, where the strap of her nightdress had slipped down.
She shivered under his touch, her eyes fluttering closed. He watched the way her chest rose and fell with each quick breath. She was so responsive, and he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He wondered what she'd do if he brushed his knuckles against her breasts.
“Hermione.” He said her name firmly. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, and he saw everything he’d needed to see. Confusion and desire, coupled with trust. So much trust. He wanted to take her apart piece by piece, and learn every sound she could make. He wanted to spread her thighs with his shoulders and taste her until she forgot her own name. He also realized she was a virgin, however, and she was still his little sister. He wouldn’t rush this. He’d take his time and savor her.
“What,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Tom smiled and touched his thumb to her lower lip, wiping away the last trace of strawberry juice.
“Nothing, little sis.”
She looked down at her nightdress, and her bare legs. Tom noticed she’d noticed how he’d slotted himself between them, caging her in as his arms rested on either side of her thighs. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were clearer than they’d ever been, more like the Hermione who questioned everything, and would make him work for every inch of ground he gained.
“You’re going to explain this to me,” she said. “You’re going to tell me exactly what you’ve been thinking, and I’m going to decide whether you’re insane or I am.”
Tom picked up his coffee mug and took a slow drink, watching her over the rim of his cup.
“Fair enough, but after breakfast.”
Hermione pursed her lips.
“Tom.”
Tom smirked.
“Eat, Hermione.”
She glared at him, but she reached for a pastry and bit into it with more force than necessary. He watched the way the crumbs scattered across her chest and thought about licking them off later. Tom stood across from the girl he’d loved for ten years, and relished the moment he’d finally had her back with him.
Hermione had insisted on leaving the apartment despite his protests, arguing that she couldn’t spend her entire vacation inside. After she’d left to shower and freshen up, Tom had done the same. He’d dressed in his usual, and she came down thirty minutes later in a yellow sundress that tied behind her neck and left most of her back exposed. Her hair was loose, falling in soft curls over her shoulders, and she’d put on the key necklace again much to his pleasure.
She was barefoot on his stairs, and she smiled at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. He ushered her into his car soon enough, and pretended once again he wasn’t fantasizing about ruining her six ways to Sunday. He drove them to the Grove because she’d read about it, and because he knew the outdoor shopping center would be crowded enough that he could keep his hand on her lower back, and perhaps lower, without anyone noticing.
She talked the entire drive about a book she’d finished on the flight, and a teacher she’d hated. Tom listened quietly, nodding here or there as she rambled on. When they'd arrived, the parking garage was a nightmare of concrete, and he’d guided her toward the escalator with his palm pressed firmly against her lower back. She fit against him so perfectly, her head coming to just above his chest.
Her hip brushed his thigh with every step, and he’d thought about how easy it’d be to pull her into the stairwell and press her against the wall instead, in order to find out whether she’d let him put his mouth on her cunt. When they’d reached the ground level, he took in her gasp of surprise. The Grove was everything she’d hoped for. She stopped in front of every window display, and he stood behind her with his hands in his pockets and watched people watch her.
Men looked at her, and women looked at her. Everyone looked at her because she was beautiful, though she didn’t know it. He hated every pair of eyes that found her, however. She was his. Solely his. She dragged him into a bookstore first, and he let her simply to enjoy the feel of her hand in his. She held up a classic paperback, and told him a story about the first time she’d read it.
She’d been hiding under her blankets with a flashlight because their parents had said it was too late to keep reading. She’d been eight then, and he fourteen. She was still new to his family, and he’d stood in her doorway that night and watched the glow of her flashlight flicker under the duvet. He thought about how much he’d already loved her then.
They moved from the bookstore to a boutique that sold dresses she couldn’t afford, and he’d brandished his card willingly. Of course, she wouldn’t let him buy for her even though he’d had more money than he knew what to do with, so he’d had to resort to underhanded tactics. She held a green dress against her body and turned to show him, asking his opinion, and he told her she'd look better without it.
She swatted his arm and called him inappropriate, but hadn’t put the dress back on the rack. She kept it draped over her arm while she looked at shoes, tried on sunglasses, and laughed at something he said that wasn’t actually funny but she laughed anyway because she was happy and he’d made her that way. They were leaving the boutique, his hand on her back, when he saw him.
There was a boy, perhaps in his early twenties, standing outside a men’s clothing store across the courtyard. He was tall, nearly as tall as Tom. He was also pale and unfairly blonde. He wore black jeans and a leather jacket despite the California heat. He was talking to someone on his phone, his free hand gesturing, and there was something about the way he’d carried himself that made Tom’s hair stand on end.
Hermione stopped walking as well. She was staring at the boy with an expression he’d never seen on her face before. Her lips had parted slightly, and her cheeks flooded with color. Her eyes were fixed on his face like she’d forgotten how to look anywhere else. The threat in question looked up from his phone as if he’d felt her watching him.
His eyes found hers across the courtyard, and he’d smiled. It was entirely too intimate for a stranger, Tom thought, and why were his teeth so pointy? Tom narrowed his eyes in displeasure. Tom watched the color in her cheeks deepen and felt his control slipping. He’d had to move them along before he fucked her right there in public.
“Hermione.”
His voice came out harder than he’d intended. She didn’t seem to hear him, however.
“Hermione.”
She blinked, finally tearing her gaze away from the young man, and looked up at Tom with eyes that were blown wide and distracted.
“What? Sorry. I just…do you know him?”
“No,” Tom said. “I don’t know him, and neither do you. We’re leaving.”
He took her elbow, more firmly than he should have, and steered her toward the escalator. She came with him without argument, which was unusual enough to make him angrier. When he glanced back over his shoulder, the blonde boy was still watching them. Tom was convinced the blonde was taunting him, his pale eyes tracking Hermione’s retreating figure like a predator who’d just scented his newest prey.
The drive back to the apartment was quiet. Hermione stared out the window with her hand pressed to her cheek, and Tom gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. He tried to remember why he’d ever thought taking her in public was a good idea. She’d looked at that boy like she’d never seen a man before, and Tom didn’t like it. Not one bit.
They were halfway home when she spoke, her voice wondering in a way that made him want to break something. What was it about that guy that'd caught her attention? He needed to squash whatever it was immediately.
“Did you see his eyes? I’ve never seen anyone with eyes that color. Like mercury, almost, or winter.”
Tom clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw feathering.
“Grey, Hermione, his eyes were grey.”
Hermione shook her head.
“No, no, they were silver. Definitely silver. They almost looked glowing.”
Tom pulled his car into the parking garage with more speed than necessary, the tires squealing against the concrete. He’d killed the engine with a sharp twist of his wrist. He sat there for a moment, staring through the windshield at the blank wall in front of them, and tried to find the patience he’d promised himself he’d maintain. He’d been pretending to be patient because he thought that was what she’d needed, but she’d looked at another man and blushed, and patience had just walked out the door and left him with a much darker feeling in its place.
He turned to face her, and she was still touched by whatever had passed between her and that stranger in the courtyard. Her lips were pinker than usual, and her eyes wider. She was worrying her lower lip between her teeth in a way that drove him insane, because he’d wanted to be the one biting her lip. He should be the only thing she’d thought about when she looked at a man and felt her cheeks go warm. He fought the urge to pin her down and take her virginity right there in his car once again.
“You can’t look at other men like that,” he said harshly. “You’ll give them the wrong impression.”
Her eyebrows drew together, confusion replacing the dreamy quality that’d possessed her since she saw the blonde boy.
“I was just looking at him. People look at people, Tom. It’s not a crime.”
Tom scowled.
“It is when you look at someone the way you looked at him.”
He reached across the center console and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward his. Her skin was warm under his touch, warmer than it should have been, and he could feel her pulse beating in her throat when he pressed his fingers against the side of her neck.
“You went pink, your lips opened, and you looked at him like you'd wanted him to come closer. I can’t allow that. I won’t allow that.”
She pulled her chin out of his grip, but she didn’t move away from him. She stayed right there in the close heat of the car, her knees brushing his thigh.
“You won’t allow it? Who died and made you king of who I’m allowed to look at?”
Tom pursed his lips.
“Nobody died, little sis. I've simply decided it so.”
Hermione crossed her arms like a petulant child.
“That’s not how this works.”
Tom smirked.
“It’s exactly how this works.”
He hand drifted, his fingers tracing the thin gold chain of the necklace he’d given her. She shivered when he'd touched the key, and when he tugged it gently, he used it to pull her closer across the console once again.
“You’re my little sister, Hermione. Only mine.”
Hermione again pulled away from him, though the blush on her cheeks now returned because of him. He could feel better about that.
“I was just looking,” she whispered. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Tom growled.
“It meant something to me.”
He released the necklace, and his hand fell to her bare knee instead. His palm covered the soft skin there. His fingers pressed in just enough to make his point, and he slowly slid his hand up further to rest more on her mid thigh. Tom could feel Hermione tense up and the contact. Tom didn't attempt to crawl further, though his fingers itched too.
“That guy doesn’t even know your name. He doesn’t know that you read dictionaries for fun or that you cry at commercials with dogs in them. How could he possibly know that you can’t sleep without three pillows even though you only use one of them. I know those things. I know everything about you.”
She stared at him, and he stared back. He could see the moment realization clicked behind her eyes. He pursed his lips. He hated feeling so exposed.
“Oh my god, you’re jealous,” she said, wonder in her voice. “You’re actually jealous of a stranger in the mall.”
Tom gripped her thigh tighter.
“I’m filled with jealousy, Hermione. It’s a character flaw I’m well aware of.”
She laughed, and the tension changed.
“I’m your step sister, Tom.” she said.
Tom nodded.
“Since you were eight.”
Hermione bit her lip.
“And you want me to belong to you.”
Tom grinned lecherously at her.
“Completely.”
She opened the car door and stepped out of it, not deigning him with a reply.
“Make me lunch.”
He nodded as they reentered his apartment, heading straight to the kitchen. The blonde boy was already fading from his mind, becoming nothing more than a pale smudge in a leather jacket. Hermione looked at him once again, and Tom intended to keep it that way.
Hermione waited until he was halfway through cooking dinner to bring it up, which Tom recognized as a purposeful strategy because she’d been doing this since she was twelve years old. She’d wait until his hands were busy, or until his attention was divided, and then she’d ask for something she knew he’d refuse, banking on the likelihood that his irritation at being ambushed would make him more likely to cave.
He chopped vegetables while she sat on his counter with her legs dangling, her bare feet swinging in rhythm to the music playing from the speakers. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and waited for the question he could feel coming. That's how things had always started with her.
“I want to go with you,” she said finally. “I want to watch you race.”
Tom set the knife down and turned to face her, his hands braced on the counter on either side of her thighs. She didn’t lean back or away. She stayed right where she was, looking up at him with that expression she wore when she’d already decided something and was simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
“No.”
Hermione frowned.
“I haven’t even finished asking.”
Tom glared.
“You don’t need to finish. The answer is no, and it will remain as such no matter how many different ways you phrase the question.”
He picked up the knife again and returned to his vegetables, his movements sharper than they’d been a moment ago.
“The races aren’t a place for you. They’re dangerous and illegal, as well as filled with people I don’t want you anywhere near.”
She made a sound of frustration, a small huff that he’d heard a thousand times before, usually directed at their parents or a textbook that refused to make sense.
“I’m not asking you to let me drive, I just want to watch. I could be your lookout or something. I have excellent vision, and I can spot police cars from half a mile away."
She continued her logical tirade.
"You know this because I proved it that one summer we drove to Mexico. You made me sit in the passenger seat with binoculars for six hours.”
Tom shook his head.
“That was different, Hermione. That was a highway and these are mountain roads in the middle of the night with no guardrails. There's drivers who’d run you off the cliff without losing any sleep over it.”
He scraped the vegetables into a hot pan and listened to them hiss, the sound satisfying.
“You’re not going.”
Hermione slid off the counter and walked around him to the refrigerator, pulling out the carton of oat milk he’d bought specifically for her. She’d poured herself a glass and leaned against the opposite counter, watching him cook with an expression that suggested she was recalibrating her approach rather than accepting defeat.
“Tell me about the people you race with, then” she said. “The ones you don’t want me anywhere near.”
Tom focused very hard on the vegetables in the pan, stirring them with more attention than the task required. He really hadn't wanted too.
“They’re not worth discussing.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“If you’re going to attempt to control my life, you might as well give me a proper explanation.”
Tom didn’t like her attitude.
“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
Her hand came to rest on his arm.
“If you want me to listen to you, you have to trust me, too. I’m eighteen now, and I came to California to be with you, not be hidden away while you go out and live your life without me.”
He turned off the burner and set the spatula down, giving himself a moment to think. She was right, and he'd hated that she was. He growled. She really knew how to use his own feelings against him. He’d spent the morning telling her she belonged to him, and that he’d wanted her completely. Belonging went both ways, he supposed. If she was his, then he was hers, and she’d every right to ask for access to his world.
“There’s a…woman,” he said hesitantly. “Her name is Bellatrix. She races sometimes when she’s not too busy causing problems for everyone else. She and I have a…history that I’m not proud of, and I don’t want you to meet her.”
Hermione simply nodded, seemingly unphased. God, his little sister was so innocent.
“What kind of history?”
Tom grimaced. Well, of course he wouldn’t have been a virgin, but it’s not like he’d wanted to discuss other women he’d fucked with the girl he was trying to keep by his side forever.
“The kind that ended the moment you walked into the airport yesterday.”
He crossed the kitchen and took her face in his hands, tilting her chin up so she’d had to look at him.
“You've always been the only person I wanted, Hermione. You were young, however, and I couldn’t have you then, so I made choices that I wouldn’t make now.”
He held her face firmly.
“That woman means nothing to me.”
Hermione shrugged.
“What do I care about your past, Tom? You’ve had a life long before I ever got here.”
He continued to stare into her eyes. She smelled like vanilla, and he'd wanted to wrap himself around her like a blanket. He sighed, resigned.
“If I take you to the races, you stay in my car. You don’t get out, and you don’t talk to anyone. You don’t even roll down the window. Do you understand me?”
Hermione nodded.
“I understand, I swear.”
Tom grimaced again. God, he really was powerless against her.
“If I tell you we’re leaving, we leave immediately.”
Hermione put a hand on his chest to stop him.
“Tom.”
He grabbed her wrist, gripping it tightly in his hand.
“I’m serious about this, Hermione. The people I race with are not your people. They’re not even my people. They’re a means to an end, and I don’t want you contaminated by them.”
She pulled back and smiled at him, that real smile that made everything else fall away.
“Take me with you, just once while I’m here. If I hate it, I’ll never ask again.”
He looked at the hope in her eyes and the key against her collarbone. He knew he was going to give in. He’d never been able to refuse her anything. He only hoped he wouldn't regret it.
“Finish your dinner first, and then get some rest.” he said, stepping back toward the stove. “The races don’t start until midnight, and I’m not taking you anywhere on an empty stomach.”
She beamed at him and returned to her spot on the counter, her legs swinging again. He cooked the rest of the meal in silence, acutely aware of her eyes on his back. He knew his little sister. He knew she was already planning something in that clever little head of hers. He’d have to watch her like a hawk tonight and keep her close. He had to make sure she couldn’t wander off and find trouble.
Trouble found them first. The race that night was in the hills above Malibu, a stretch of asphalt that wound through canyons and million dollar views that no one could see in the dark. Tom parked his 86 at the edge of the gathering crowd, and a loose collection of cars and drivers looked at his vehicle with hunger usually reserved for naked bodies and drug deals.
He killed the engine and turned to Hermione, who was moulded against the passenger door with her nose almost touching the glass, her eyes wide as she took in the scene outside. Tom was reluctant to leave, but he'd needed to scope out tonight scene.
“Remember what I said, little sis.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“You said a lot of things.”
Tom flicked the spot on her forehead between her eyebrows.
“Stay in the car.”
She nodded without looking at him, and he knew she wasn’t really listening. He already regretted every decision that’d led to this moment. He got out of the car and walked around to her side, leaning down to speak through the crack in her window.
“I mean it, Hermione. If anyone approaches you, do not roll this window down. You call my phone and you wait for me to come get you, do you understand?”
Hermione waved him off.
“Yeah, yeah, I understand,” she said. “Go do whatever it is you need to do. I’ll be right here.”
He pressed his palm against the glass for a moment, then turned and walked toward the group of drivers gathered at the starting line. Dolohov was there, his arm wrapped around a girl who looked young enough to be in high school, though Tom couldn’t speak on it. He himself fancied his younger sister. Bellatrix was there too, he noticed, leaning against her black and white Porsche. When she saw him, her red mouth crooked into a smile that made his stomach turn.
“Tommy,” she called, pushing off from her car and walking toward him. “I heard you were bringing a guest tonight. I thought I'd come see for myself, of course.”
Tom wanted nothing more than to return to Hermione in the car.
“Bellatrix.”
He didn’t stop walking, forcing her to fall into step beside him or be left behind. She chose to follow.
“I didn’t realize you were racing tonight.”
Bellatrix put her hand on his arm, which he hastily jerked away.
“I’m not racing, I’m watching.”
She glanced back toward his car, and the silhouette of Hermione’s profile was barely visible through the windshield. She smirked.
“Well well, whoever that is in your passenger seat must be special. The last time I checked, you didn’t bring passengers to races. You barely brought me, and I was fucking you.”
Tom growled.
“Watch your mouth.”
Bellatrix laughed.
“Oh, is she special? Is she the reason you stopped returning my calls?”
Bellatrix laughed, the sound unpleasant, and Tom felt his hands curl into fists at his sides.
“She looks young, Tom. Younger than I expected, given your usual taste.”
He turned on her, fast enough that she’d stumbled back a step, her smile finally faltering.
“You'll not speak about her, at all. You won’t even look at her. You’ll pretend she doesn’t exist, and if I find out you’ve gone anywhere near that car, I'll make you regret it in ways that have nothing to do with racing.”
Bellatrix held up her hands in mock surrender, but her eyes were cold. He knew she was already planning something. He knew because he’d spent enough nights in her bed to recognize the way her mind worked. She’d take every opportunity for revenge. He realized he’d have to watch everyone closely.
He turned his back on her and walked toward the group of drivers, his mind already calculating how quickly he could get through this race and get Hermione back to the safety of his apartment. A new voice cut through the crowd, low and drawling. It stopped Tom in his tracks.
“Well, if it isn’t Tom Riddle. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Tom turned, and to his utter shock, found himself face to face with the blonde boy from the mall. He immediately wanted to kill him. Was this world that fucking tiny? What were the odds this fucker showed back up in his life? He barely contained his snarl. He was standing beside a yellow Subaru BRZ, his leather jacket unzipped over a white t shirt. Up close, he was even more irritating than he’d been from across the courtyard.
His features were too pointy, and his mouth too taunting. His grey eyes fixed on Tom with an expression filled with contempt and weirdly…attraction?
“Who are you?” Tom said, needing to find out this irritants name.
Draco smiled, and tilted his head in a way that made his hair fall across his forehead. Again, Tom noted his rather sharp K-9s. Unnaturally so.
“I’m Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. The rookies have a new champion, or haven't you heard?”
Tom gazed at the slightly younger boy in front of him. He'd hated him. He didn’t know why, but he just did. Tom watched his gaze drift past him toward the silhouette that was still visible in the passenger seat of his car.
“She’s prettier up close, your girl. I noticed her at the mall. Very sweet smelling, too.”
Tom stepped forward, close enough that he could smell whatever expensive cologne Malfoy was wearing, and close enough that his voice wouldn't go beyond the two of them.
“You’ll stay away from her.”
Draco scoffed.
“I don’t take orders from you, Riddle.”
Draco’s smile didn’t waver.
“Besides, I’m not the one you should be worried about. Your friend Bellatrix has been asking questions about your guest. Seems like the bitch is quite jealous.”
Tom looked back toward his car, and for the first time all night, he felt what might have been worry.
“Stay away from her,” he said again.
This time it wasn't a request. He'd drawn a line in the sand that'd he'd kill to defend.
“Oh no, Riddle, perhaps it’s you who can't stay away from me.”
Draco laughed and turned back toward his Subaru without another word, turning it on and moving it closer to his own car. Tom watched him go, an uneasy feeling in his stomach. There was something wrong with that boy, and while he hadn’t figured it out quite yet, he didn’t want Hermione anywhere near him.
Unfortunately he'd been pulled into a discussion with other racers, and had to put his endeavors on hold. He pulled out his phone and typed a message to her, his thumbs moving faster than his brain. After he'd finally been able to tear himself away again, he brandished his phone, selecting her contact number.
I’m coming to get you. We’re leaving.
Her response came thirty seconds later, and it made his blood run cold.
There’s a boy here who wants to meet me. He says his name is Draco, and he’s one of the racers. He’s very handsome, Tom. You were right to be jealous.
His heart seized. He’d made a mistake bringing her here. He’d made a mistake giving into her like the weak man he was. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of letting Draco Malfoy steal her away from him, however.