I wasn’t supposed to want them.

When my mother married their father, we were forced into the same house. Same rules. Same dinners. Same suffocating expectations.

They were older. Untouchable. Off-limits.

And they watched me like I was anything but a sister.

It starts with a look.

Then a dare.

Then a rule we were never meant to break.

They don’t share control.

They don’t lose.

And they definitely don’t fall.

But they want me.

Not as family.

Not as something temporary.

Not as something sweet.

They want obedience.

They want surrender.

They want me on my knees.

I should run. I should stop this before it destroys all of us.

Instead, I learn their house has rules.

And I break every single one.

House Rules is a dark, high-heat, reverse harem stepbrother romance featuring possessive heroes, shared control, and a heroine who discovers exactly how far she’s willing to fall. No choosing. No fade to black. No mercy.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Welcome to the Family

CASSIE

I used to think my life fell apart the day my mom married a billionaire.

Turns out, that was just the beginning of the chaos.

 

My whole life fits in three suitcases.

Eighteen years reduced to clothes, books, and the handful of photos I couldn’t bear to leave behind. I watch them disappear into the trunk of Richard’s gleaming black Tesla as we pull through gates that probably cost more than my entire education fund.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Cassie?” Mom’s voice has that breathless quality ever since she met Richard Collins, tech billionaire and her two-month husband. Her hands flutter in her lap like nervous birds. “I told you it was something special.”

Special isn’t the word I’d use. As we curve up the private driveway, the Collins mansion reveals itself like something from a magazine spread—all clean lines of steel and vast expanses of glass perched on the California cliffside. The Pacific stretches endlessly behind it, as if the ocean itself were another luxury amenity.

“It’s… big,” I manage, trying to sound impressed for her sake.

It’s not a house. It’s a statement.

Mom reaches over to squeeze my hand. “I know this is a lot. But Richard’s boys are close to your age. I’m sure you’ll all become friends.”

His boys. Three fully grown men I’ve never met, maybe one of them? The middle kid. Once at the engagement dinner and then at the small wedding ceremony. Richard’s sons from his first marriage, who are so busy with their important lives that they couldn’t help their father move his new wife and stepdaughter in.

“Of course,” I lie. “I’m sure they’re great.”

The car stops in a circular driveway centered around a modernist fountain. Richard steps out first, coming around to open Mom’s door with practiced chivalry. I let myself out on the other side.

“Welcome home,” Richard says, his smile perfect and white. Everything about him is polished—his silver hair, his tailored casual wear, his customized watch, probably worth more than Mom’s car. He’s handsome in that distinguished-older-man way that photographs well in business magazines.

His eyes crinkle when he looks at Mom. At least that seems genuine.

“Where are the boys?” Mom asks, glancing around.

A momentary tightness crosses Richard’s face. “Around somewhere. You know how they are.”

I don’t. And now I’m living with them.

“Don’t worry about the luggage,” Richard says, guiding us toward glass doors that slide open automatically. “Silvia will take care of it.”

I clutch my backpack closer, the one thing I refused to pack. Some things you keep close.

The foyer opens to a great room with twenty-foot ceilings and a wall of windows facing the ocean. The space is beautiful but sterile, like a luxury hotel where nobody lives.

“Let me show you around,” Richard says, leading us deeper into his world.

An hour later, I stand alone in my new bedroom, trying to process. The space is three times larger than my old room, with a bathroom and a window seat overlooking the ocean. The waves crash against the cliffs below, indifferent to my presence.

I’ve unpacked one suitcase when the silence becomes too much. Mom and Richard have disappeared to “freshen up” before dinner. Translation: newlywed time.

I need air. Space. Somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like an intruder.

One of the housekeepers passes by, silent and sharp-eyed, blonde ponytail swinging behind her. She doesn’t say a word. Just watches me for a second too long before disappearing down the hallway.

Well, that makes me feel welcome.

The hallway outside my room stretches in both directions, all hardwood and recessed lighting. To the left is the master suite. Not going there. I turn right, past what Richard identified as guest rooms, toward the north wing where his sons theoretically reside.

Know your new territory, I tell myself. Know where the predators live.

A door stands slightly ajar at the end of the corridor. Warm light spills out, drawing me closer. I hesitate at the threshold, then push it open just enough to peek inside.

It’s a studio. Tall windows capture the northern light, illuminating canvases in various stages of completion. The smell of oil paint and turpentine hangs in the air. A massive work dominates the far wall—dark blues and blacks swirling around a central point of light, like hope fighting to survive in darkness.

I step inside, drawn to its gravity.

The painting is beautiful but disturbing. Violent brushstrokes create a sense of movement, of struggling against being pulled down into the void. I lean closer, noticing flecks of gold in the darkness.

“This room is off-limits.”

The voice—low, male, unexpected—freezes me in place. I turn slowly.

He stands in the doorway I just came through, arms crossed over his chest. Tall, with dark hair falling into eyes that assess me coldly. Paint stains his fingers and the worn gray t-shirt that clings to a lean frame. His jaw is tense, unshaven.

I recognize him from the wedding photos. Leo. The artist.

“I’m sorry,” I say, but don’t move. “I was exploring.”

“Explore somewhere else.” His gaze flicks to the painting and back to me. “This space is private.”

Something in his dismissal sparks a flare of defiance. I’ve spent the whole day feeling small, out of place. I’m tired of it.

“I’m Cassie,” I say, not retreating. “Your new stepsister, apparently.”

“I know who you are.” He steps into the room, closing the distance between us. “That doesn’t change the rules.”

“Funny, no one mentioned any rules.”

Leo stops a few feet away. This close, I can see the blue in his eyes, light blue like a spring sky. Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe. Like he expected me to scurry away, apologizing.

He steps closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “The first thing you should know about living here,” he says, voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear him. “Nothing in this house is what it seems.” He reaches past me—so close I can feel the heat from his body—and picks up a paintbrush I hadn’t realized I’d touched. “And the second thing?” His eyes drop to my lips for just a fraction of a second. “Stay out of my studio if you want to survive your brothers.”

My breath catches. I turn to leave and spot the other two brothers in the doorway. One of the brothers—Jax, I’d learn later—looks up from his phone, gaze dragging slowly, like he was deciding if I was worth the trouble. Then came the smirk. Not a greeting. A dare. Will they all hate me like this? I’d only met Leo at the wedding.

The other—West—watches me quietly. His look feels calculated. Like he’s cataloging everything about me and deciding whether I’m worth the disruption I just caused.

“Oh, Dad didn’t tell you about us?”