His Voice Alone

Chapter 2

Leia’s POV

*Present Day*

The sound of silverware scraping against plates felt louder than usual, or maybe that was just me trying not to squirm.

I stared at my food but couldn’t taste it, I didn’t care about eggs or college checklists or the polite conversation at the table.

Not when Ezra’s hand was on my thigh. His fingers rested just under the edge of my sleep shorts, drawing slow circles into my skin. Like it was normal, like he’d always touched me this way.

I should’ve stopped him, but I didn’t.

It had been three years since he showed up at that door, three years of pretending everything was fine. Three years of trying to forget what he was and what I’d seen him do, of trying not to think what he made me feel.

My now stepbrother.

Ezra wasn’t the same boy I remembered. He’d grown into something colder, more polished. Everyone bought into it.

The deaf, golden boy turned athlete and miracle. They all smiled and clapped, no one knew the truth. They didn’t know what he was when no one was looking.

Under the table, his thumb dragged higher. Closer to where I was already warm and getting worse. My body responded even when I hated it.

I pressed my thighs together, but he pushed back, keeping his place.

“Sweetheart, did you pack the desk lamp?” dad asked, like this was just another morning.

I nodded, too fast. I couldn’t trust my voice.

Ezra signed something back to them, probably about how excited he was for college. Polite and friendly, the version of him everyone believed. What a liar.

He only gave them what they wanted to see. The real Ezra never left me alone, not in three years, not for a second.

His grip on my thigh suddenly tightened, hard, making me flinch. My fork scraped across the plate with a harsh screech.

“You okay, honey?” my mom asked, her eyes squinting across the table.

I smiled. Forced. “Just nerves.”

Ezra lifted his juice and smiled too, easy, and charming. Like he wasn’t fingering me under the table in front of our foster parents

I suddenly thought about how he also used to sneak into my room sometimes.

He’d lie next to me in the dark, pull me into him like it was natural. Then he’d whisper the same word, the only one he ever spoke out loud.

‘Mine.’ Not sweet, not soft. It was a threat, a promise. And I believed it every time.

He made sure no one got close, boys who flirted with me stopped texting, people I liked started keeping their distance. One transferred schools overnight with no warning or explanation.

I knew it was Ezra.

I confronted him once, screamed at him through tears, told him he couldn’t control me. That he didn’t own me. He didn’t argue. He just pushed me up against the wall, his hand around my throat, not choking, but holding, controlling, then he kissed me.

And when he pulled back, he said it again. “You belong only to me.”

I wanted to slap him, but melted against him instead. Even now, I hated how clear I remembered it. The heat in his breath, the taste of him on my lips.

“Ezra, you packed your shaving kit, right?” Mr. Graham asked, oblivious.

Ezra nodded. His hand squeezed again under the table, thumb brushing the curve of my inner thigh. He wasn’t teasing anymore, he was reminding me who was in charge.

“Do you two need help carrying things down later?” Mrs. Graham asked.

“We’ve got it,” I said quickly, my voice clipped.

Ezra looked at me, just a flick of his eyes. But I knew what it meant: ‘Careful. Don’t even think about leaving.’

I tried to move his hand, but he didn’t let me. He dug in deeper, fingers pressing into soft flesh until pain made my leg jerk.

“You’re awfully pale, Leia. Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” my mom asked, her brow creased.

“Just tired,” I said. Still not looking at her.

Ezra leaned forward and signed something about being proud of me, about how excited he was for college.

Mr. Graham smiled like everything was perfect. His hand never moved. I kept my eyes on my plate, jaw tight, every breath sharp. My thighs were damp, and my heart was racing.

I didn’t know what scared me more, the idea of leaving him behind… Or what he’d do if I tried.