Page 158 of The Wrong Brother

When he turns back, his expression is gentle enough to make my heart skip.

“Everything is perfect.” His eyes find mine. “Especially you.”

He crosses the room before I can respond, gathering me into his arms with a tenderness that steals the rest of my words. His kiss is slower this time, deeper, carrying all the relief of returning safely and all the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.

The fire burns low as the night stretches around us, and the rest of the world fades quietly away.

* * *

Later, curled against his chest beneath the old quilts, I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and realize I’m no longer fighting whatever this is. He might be a criminal, but he’s more than that—a good man. Someone trying to change the world for the better, and he isn’t doing it in the shadows.

That’s the kind of man I’m willing to follow. To fight with.

Chapter 39

Ruslan

The mountains disappearbehind us one mile at a time. By late morning, the road has flattened into familiar stretches of interstate. The peaks fading into the rearview mirror until only the Denver skyline remains ahead.

The city rises from the horizon beneath a pale autumn sky. Clouds hang low overhead, threatening rain but not quite committing. The weight of the day settles heavier across my shoulders with every passing exit.

Emma sits quietly beside me. The radio remains off, and neither of us seems interested in filling the silence with conversation that would only circle the truth waiting fifteen minutes ahead.

I glance toward her when the traffic slows.

She’s looking out the passenger window, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over the curve of her stomach beneath her sweater. It’s a gesture I’ve noticed more and more these past few days, one she probably isn’t even aware she’s making anymore.

I want to ask her:Are you sure? Do you still want this child? Do you still want me?

The questions linger behind my teeth before I swallow them back. She deserves more than being cornered in the middle of a highway.

Besides, neither of us has truly had a chance to breathe since I returned from California. The flight, Shannon, phone calls that have stretched late into every evening to orchestrate what comes next.

Lawyers, television producers, reporters I’d spent years carefully avoiding.

Everything has happened at once.

Everything except the conversation I keep postponing.

Emma shifts in her seat, catching me looking.

“What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She studies me for another second, clearly unconvinced, before offering a small smile anyway. It’s enough to steady me—for now.

Three black SUVs follow behind us in disciplined formation, never drifting far from the rear bumper. Two carry men I flew in from California, people who have stood beside me long enough that I trust them with my life.

The third carries Shannon.

I glance into the rearview mirror. I can’t see her through the tinted glass, but I know she’s there. Quiet, terrified, and determined.

She’s had a few days now to back out or run, if she wanted to. Privately, I’d given Frank instructions to let her go if that’s what she tried.

But she hasn’t.

Instead, she boarded a plane, crossed two states, and agreed to stand before cameras with the man who destroyed both our lives.