Page 15 of The Wrong Brother

Fuck. She’s scheduling a ride; I provided the car for her last night, and now she’s orchestrating a way out.

The reaction is subtle but unmistakable; her body recognizes danger before her mouth admits it. Good instincts. Better than most people who wander into my life.

Unfortunately for her, I spent years hunting weakness for sport.

“You reacted before the reporter even said his name,” I murmur, stalking toward her slowly. “That is not nothing.”

“I just recognized him,” she says quickly. “He’s a politician?—”

“Mm. You grew up in New Jersey, Emma. Why would a politician from Colorado concern you?”

I keep moving.

She keeps backing away.

Interesting how quickly the atmosphere changes. Last night she arched against me willingly, desperate little sounds filling my dining room while I took exactly what I wanted from her. This morning, tension crackles sharp and dangerous between us instead.

Emma reaches the door first.

My hand slams flat against the wood beside her head before she can escape into the hallway. She gasps softly.

“There you are,” I say quietly.

Close like this, I can see every shift in her expression. Fear, yes, but also calculation. She’s thinking. Assessing. Measuring me.

Not normal. Yesterday, well last night, I thought she was just a young woman out for a joyride.

Now, I’m sure she’s something else. Something dangerous.

My gaze dragged over her face slowly. “Who are you, Emma?”

“No one.”

I brace my other hand against the door, caging her in fully now. Her breathing turns uneven, chest rising beneath the buttery t-shirt. I should step back. Instead, I lean closer, catching the faint lingering scent of my cologne on her skin.

“You are a terrible liar.”

“And you’re insane.”

A laugh almost escapes me.

Almost.

Because beneath the attraction still clawing at my body, something darker unfurls steadily in my chest. Suspicion. Possessiveness. The ugly cocktail of instincts that made me dangerous long before I built Lord&Lion.

Emma swallows hard. “Please move.”

“No.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

For one charged second, I consider pushing harder. I could. She’s already off-balance, already scared enough to crack if I apply pressure in the right places. Most people do.

But then?—

“Uncle Ruslan?”