Living With My Demon Stepsister

I woke up hard.

Like painfully hard.

The kind of morning wood that made it impossible to lie still or breathe right. The sheets clung to my hips, my body still aching from the unfinished chaos of last night. I blinked into the soft morning light leaking through the curtains. Lila was gone.

No mischievous smile beside me.

No warm skin.

Just the memory of her mouth whispering promises she never kept and the painful press of my own desire under the covers.

I groaned and shifted, trying to will it away. But it throbbed like it had a mind of its own — twitching each time I remembered how her fingers moved, how she looked at me when she said "girlfriend" like it was a curse and a claim.

I sat up, still dazed, still aching.

And then, as the fog cleared, something else took its place.

Doubt.

What even was she?

If Lila was a succubus — no, more than that, a demon queen — then what did that make her mom? The woman who married my dad? The woman cooking breakfast like this was all perfectly normal?

My thoughts spiraled as I threw on a shirt and padded out of my room, careful not to let my still half-hard situation make things worse. I followed the smell of food into the kitchen.

She was there — Marissa — wearing a house robe, humming softly as she moved around the stove. Normal. Mundane. Harmless.

Until it wasn't.

She reached for something on a high shelf — a plate. It slipped.

I tensed, expecting a crash.

But it didn't fall.

It froze. Mid-air. Just hanging there.

Her hand didn't move, but the plate floated, gliding back into her grip like gravity itself bowed to her.

I froze in place.

She turned.

Saw me.

Her eyes flared red.

Not the glow of contact lenses or a weird reflection. This was real. This was inhuman.

Her nostrils flared as her gaze pierced through me. The air shifted — colder, tighter, like the pressure before a storm. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Then she spoke. Her voice dropped to something ancient, full of venom and hunger.

"He saw me. Give me a minute and I'll kill—"

"Shush," came Lila's voice from behind me.

That one word... cut.

Sharp, effortless, dominant.

Her mother — or whatever she was — immediately straightened. Her head bowed like a servant being scolded.

"Yes, ma'am."

Ma'am?

Lila walked past me, barefoot and still in one of my hoodies — which only now made sense in the most terrifying way. Her presence filled the kitchen like she owned the house, the air, the people inside it.

And apparently… she did.

She gave her "mother" a casual flick of her wrist. "Carry on. I'll handle it myself."

The woman nodded and turned back to the stove without a word, as if nothing had just happened.

I stumbled back into my room.

My hands were shaking.

Lila followed, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned against it, her expression unreadable — that dangerous kind of calm that always preceded something wicked.

I swallowed. "Was she about to—like, actually kill me?"

She tilted her head, thoughtful. "Mmm. Probably."

"Jesus Christ, Lila."

"Oh don't worry, I stopped her." She moved closer, like a cat stalking something twitching and afraid. "And besides, she's not really my mother. Just a placeholder. Think of her as... cover."

I sat on the edge of my bed, still trying to breathe. "So… who is she?"

"An old servant. Loyal. Convenient." Lila shrugged, like none of this was news. "You think Hell sends their royalty alone into the human world without backup?"

"I don't even know what you are anymore."

Her eyes gleamed. "I'm yours. Isn't that enough?"

My breath caught in my throat.

She came closer, slowly, her bare legs brushing against my knees.

"But you're right to be scared," she added, fingers trailing over my cheek. "This little charade? It's cracking. You're seeing behind the curtain now."

She pushed me gently onto the bed, straddling me. Her weight settled right over the part of me that still hadn't recovered from this morning. I was hard again. Painfully.

"You were so close last night…" she whispered, rocking her hips, barely moving but just enough. "It must've hurt when Daddy walked in."

"Lila—"

"But don't worry. He thinks you were…" She smirked. "Cleaning your room with your pants off. Or something equally embarrassing.

My jaw dropped. "You said he thinks I was picking my nose"

She blinked, all innocent. "Did I?" A devilish smile curved her lips. "Weird. Memory's such a fragile thing."

I sat up straighter, heart pounding. "You lied—"

"I edited," she cut in, brushing a finger along my chest. "Besides, the version I gave him is so much more humiliating. You should thank me — if I really wanted to punish you, I could've made him remember you doing... much worse."

I narrowed my eyes. "Like what?"

She leaned in, her voice barely a breath against my ear.

"Like moaning my name. Loud. On your knees. While calling me 'Queen.'"

I froze. My blood rushed so fast I felt dizzy.

She giggled and pulled back. "Don't worry. I saved that scene for later."

She stood and left me there — still rock-hard, still breathless, and way more terrified than I'd ever admit.

Because now I knew something I hadn't before:

She didn't just like being in control.

She was control.

And I was already too far gone.

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To be continued…