Page 153 of The Wrong Brother

I wonder if she’s sleeping, if she’s curled beneath the heavy quilts with Frank snoring in the room down the hall, unaware that I’m already on my way back to her.

Back home.

Chapter 38

Emma

The wind pickedup sometime after midnight, slipping through the towering pines with a low, mournful whistle that blends with the occasional creak of timber settling against the cold. I stayed up later than Frank and heard him muttering in annoyance from under an old quilt.

Sleep didn’t come easily, and I’m not sure why. Anxiety? Hormones? I can’t place it; I roll over beneath the sheets, only half awake, and reach instinctively toward the empty side of the bed before remembering Rus isn’t here.

My heart sinks all over again.

Go back to sleep.

Then I hear a soft metallic click.

Then another.

Someone is trying the bedroom door.

Every nerve in my body snaps awake, and I sit up, pull my feet up under the chilly sheets, and stare into the dark room. There’sa half-moon outside and, if I remember correctly, a decorative red oil lamp hanging from a nail only a few feet away.

If I reach carefully…

The click comes again, with a jostle.

For one frozen second I listen, holding my breath as the handle turns slowly. Frank should have heard it. He sleeps lightly, and after Victoria’s visit he’d started checking every window before bed. If someone has made it past him...

The thought never finishes.

The door eases inward.

Adrenaline floods my veins before fear can, and I don’t think—training takes over.

I throw the blankets aside and launch myself out of bed, crossing the room in three quick strides. My shoulder drives into the figure’s chest, knocking him backward just enough for me to hook an arm beneath his and reach for his wrist. It has to be a male because they easily have a foot on me, not to mention breadth.

The old FBI instructor’s voice echoes in my mind.

Control the weapon.

Control the suspect.

I twist hard, aiming to pin his arm behind his back. Instead, the man pivots effortlessly.

The movement is smooth, practiced, almost familiar, and before I can recover, my wrist is gently redirected. My momentum carries me forward until my back meets a solid chest, onepowerful arm locking carefully around my waist while the other catches my hands before I can strike again.

I struggle anyway. An elbow to the nose, a heel to the foot—anything to get away.

“Emma.” The voice is low and deeply familiar.

I freeze.

“It’s me.”

Everything inside me stops at once.

Rus.