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Chapter 3
Alex's Point of View:
The Smiths' house hummed with unspoken tension like the charged air before a storm. A client emergency pulled Ted to the office, and he left with a casual pat on Chelsea's ass, distracted from her distress by last night's leftover excitement. The girls avoided each other, and especially Sam. Their sexual escapades, followed by the morning's disciplinary drama, were a lot to process.
Across the yard, my room was stale and musty--I needed another shower and was bleary from poor sleep. I sprawled on my bed in the same clothes from the day before, replaying the scenes in my head--Chelsea's glazed stare, Emma's arched back, the twins' helpless yelps. A rush of thrill and lust surged over my guilt and anxiety. A small voice whispered--*What if they figure it out? What you're doing to them is wrong*--but the high drowned it out, shoving it deep.
I rolled to my feet, peeled my sweat-soaked shirt over my head, and stumbled for the shower. Cold water hit like a slap, then eased into a warm rush, washing away the grime but not the faint hum in my skull. Steam curled around me, the smell of my Eucalyptus body wash cutting through the haze. For a few minutes, I was just Alex--about to start college, not some twisted maestro pulling strings. I stepped out, the towel rough against my skin. The mirror showed the same lanky kid as yesterday--dark hair, brown eyes, awkward--but my jaw was tight now, something inside hardened.
Back in my room, an overdue psychology book peeked out from under my backpack, the six-month-old library stamp silently accusing me. I'd borrowed it for a class on social psychology--perception, influence, how small nudges could reshape behavior. I wasn't just some student cramming for a grade anymore. The Smiths were unraveling, and if I could press those levers just right, I'd keep this chaos on my leash.
A damp towel bunched under my head, the Smiths' house hummed in my mind like a live wire as I stared at the ceiling--Chelsea choking on guilt in the master bedroom, Stacey and Tracey scheming, Emma hunched over a dog-eared Jane Austen novel. I didn't need to see them; I felt them, their emotions jagged and loud, clawing at the edges of my skull. The faint hum sharpened as I closed my eyes, letting my focus stretch out, threading into their thoughts like invisible strings. Last night, I'd cracked something fragile open in their world--this morning, I'd widen that into a doorway, bend their mess into something manageable.
Reaching out with my thoughts, I found Chelsea first pacing, heels striking the hardwood like a heartbeat, her phone clutched tight. Her mind churned with upsetting images. A restless heat simmered beneath her skin, coiling low and insistent, a slow burn begging for release. She tried to deny it, her finger hovering over the call button, itching to spill it all to Ted, to confess and unravel the chaos.
Then my voice slipped into her inner monologue, *You're their anchor, Chelsea. They're tangled in want, and you can steer them.* Her stride broke, breath hitching as the thought sank deep. *Bend like a willow--yielding, strong.* The phone tumbled from her grip, forgotten, onto the bed. *Self-control lies in giving up what you can't control.* Heat bloomed up her chest, her pulse thudding as her mind flared with an electric buzz--Emma's arched back, Sam spurting, Ted thrusting into her. A shiver rippled through her, settling into a warm, secret ache between her thighs, and she couldn't reject it.
Doubt flickered, sharp and brief, but I eased back, leaving the whisper of possibility. Chelsea sank onto the bed, the phone abandoned beside her, her body alive with a pulsing thrum. She'd meet it head-on--the family's hidden hungers, her awakening--with a strength that bent instead of breaking.
Next, the twins' room grew in my mind, their voices a soft thread weaving through the shadows, the sharp edge of their low tones--schemes to undermine Emma and Sam. Tracey sat on the bed, one hand idly twisting a strand of hair. Stacey stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. Sam's touches and looks had unnerved them. They liked their handsome, all-American boy brother as a sort of familial fashion accessory, but he had become unsettling, a problem. And Emma as well--her repressed rage fueled by years of their Machiavellian bullying.
I nudged their minds, my influence a faint ripple: *Sam's focus could turn your way.* *Emma's anger is an angle you can exploit.* Their rhythm broke, a pause hanging in the air. Stacey slowed, her voice murmuring, "Sam's been weird lately. What if we play into it?" Tracey's eyes flicked up, considering: "Gross, but... maybe." Stacey nodded, her thoughts sharpening: "And Emma--she's dying to see us slip. We could fake nice, throw her off."
Their defiance relaxed into something sly, their words dipping to a hushed, intimate cadence. I drew back, the buzz of their minds fading as their plan took shape. The thrill of guiding them, unseen, settled deep--a dark, quiet satisfaction. For now, they'd spin their web around Sam and Emma, holding the family in their grip.
Downstairs, Emma sat curled on the faded couch with a dog-eared Jane Austen novel, bare feet tucked beneath her. She clung to it, desperate to barricade herself against the memories crashing through her defenses--her mom's glazed eyes, exposing and exploring her, Sam's touch lingering like a question she couldn't answer. Shame twisted tight in her chest, a heavy knot for the girl who'd always followed the rules. Last night had frightened her, and now my subtle pull gnawed at her remaining control. My presence hummed faintly in her mind, a persistent static she couldn't tune out.
I began gently, my voice slipping into her thoughts like silk. *Here, in these pages, you're untouchable. Let the words wrap around you like a lover's arms.* Her shoulders eased, her breathing slowing as the story's rhythm steadied her pulse. I pressed deeper, keeping my tone warm and inviting: *Elizabeth knew it too--the heat, the want, the storm beneath her poise. It's not weakness; it's alive in you, just like her.* Emma's fingers stilled on the page, the lines of text blurring as the thought took root. She pictured Elizabeth's defiance, her hidden fire, and felt a flicker of recognition. The shame didn't fade--it pulsed, sharp and vital, a current threading through her core.
My influence swelled, a warm tide lapping at her edges. *Your body remembers, doesn't it? The way it felt to be touched, to be seen. It's not wrong--it's yours.* Her chest bloomed with a red flush, her breath catching as last night flared back--The heft of Sam in her hand, Ted thrusting into her mom, and the electric jolt sparking under her skin. She leaned into it for a heartbeat, the sensation less foreign, almost hers. *This belongs to you,* I murmured in her mind, low and coaxing. No one's watching but you.* Her lips parted, a trembling breath escaping as the book slipped in her weakening grip.
But then, a spark flared. *This isn't right. I'm not supposed to want this,* her mind snapped, slicing through the haze--a reflex honed by years of being the good girl. Her jaw locked, her hands trembling as she gripped the book's spine hard enough to crease it. My nudge had stretched too far--her subconscious reared back, clawing at the Emma she knew, fierce and unyielding. Yet, a faint echo of my voice lingered, like a touch she couldn't quite shake, humming beneath her skin. She turned the page with slow, stubborn care, her fingers lingering on the paper as she anchored herself in Elizabeth's world. Her mind balanced on a razor's edge, caught between yielding and holding fast.
I remained cross-legged on my bed, eyes closed, reaching out to the Smiths' whole house with my mind. I felt them all at once except for Ted, who was too distant. Chelsea was beginning to think about ordering lunch, the twins were still whispering, their scheming was rerouted rather than derailed, and Emma was desperately lost in her quiet focus. I matched my breathing to their collective rhythm, letting myself blend into their energy. Then, I planted a single thought in their heads: *I've always been here, just part of the background.* It hit them--Chelsea's steps slowed, the twins' voices faltered, Emma's page stayed unturned. They didn't question it; they just accepted me as something ordinary, like the armchair in the corner or the clock ticking on the wall. I could slip into their house, unremarkable, a figure they'd see but never think to notice.
I rolled off the bed, the mattress creaking as I stood. My room felt warm, alive with the thrill of what I'd done--planting that thought in their minds--time to see it play out. I grabbed a t-shirt, pulled it on, and headed downstairs through the silent house.
I pushed the back door open, and the screen clicked shut behind me. The sun was bright and warm on my skin. Across the yard, the Smiths' house stood as usual--neat lawn, shimmering pool, patio chairs in a row. But today, I owned it.
The damp grass stuck to my sneakers, and its sweet, sharp scent made my nose itch. I jumped our low backyard fence, crossing through their lawnchairs that, yesterday, I had only dared observe from my desk. My bedroom window was now a small, almost invisible square on the shadowy side of the house, backlit as the sun fell behind it.