Page 154 of The Wrong Brother

He shifts his grip immediately, no longer restraining me so much as steadying me as my knees threaten to give out.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple as I spin in his arms. “I should’ve waited until morning to see you.”

I’ve turned so quickly I nearly lose my balance, but his hand steadies my lower back while the other goes to my neck, then my chin—tipping my face carefully as he takes me in.

The moonlight paints silver across his face and gleams in his pale hair. If I’d gone slower even by a few seconds, I probably would’ve recognized those features.

His dark coat is dusted with the remnants of snow, his hair slightly windblown from the journey, and exhaustion shadows his eyes.

He’s really here.

“You...” The single word catches in my throat.

“I know.” There’s a fissure in his voice, a crack, that makes me feel less self-conscious. The adrenaline drains from my body so abruptly that it leaves me trembling.

I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together these last few days until this moment.

Until he’s standing in front of me.

Tears well up hot and ready, and I laugh, embarrassed. Rus makes a sound of amusement, but he probably can’t even see them; they haven’t spilled over yet.

Strong arms gather me against him as though I weigh nothing at all, lowering us both onto the edge of the bed instead. I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing in cedar, cold mountain air, and the faint trace of his cologne.

“I thought someone got past Frank,” I whisper brokenly.

“He tried.”

“What?”

I feel Rus smile into my hair. “It took him a moment to realize I had a key, and he came at me almost the same way you did. Think he has a history with the FBI?”

Even in the dark my cheeks go hot with color. It’s crazy how casually he’s able to talk about that now—the lie I kept secret for weeks. I’m not sure if I should be insulted that my past with the FBI doesn’t worry him, or see it as a sign of trust.

“With Frank, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“He took his assignment seriously.”

“He does. You havenoidea.”

Rus brushes a hand slowly through my hair, his touch impossibly gentle after the way I’d attacked him only moments ago.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“For what?”

“I attacked you.”

“You attacked an intruder.”

“I tried to dislocate your shoulder.”

“You almost succeeded.”

I pull back just enough to search his face. “Really?”

“No.” His smile grows warmer. “You’re rusty, but your form was excellent.”

I swat weakly at his chest, and he catches my hand, pressing a lingering kiss against my knuckles before threading our fingers together. The gesture is so tender that another wave of emotion crashes over me.