Page 22 of The Wrong Brother

There you are.

I park illegally without a second thought and step out into the noise. Voices overlap everywhere. Vendors shout prices, the scent of citrus and flowers and fresh bread mix thickly together beneath the California sun.

And underneath it all—Emma.

I spot her almost immediately. It’s as if a compass tugs something hard in my chest, drawing me toward her.

She’s wearing one of my hoodies, and that makes something tighten inside me. Possessive, hot.She’s mine.It’s large enough to cover her curvy ass and her thighs. Curly hair is tucked beneath sunglasses much too big for her face. Certainly not anything she owns. Did she steal them from a stall? The thought makes me grin as I picture her corrupted, though not quite the way Iwantto corrupt her.

She moves quickly through the crowd, carrying a paper coffee cup in trembling hands, glancing behind herself every few seconds. Fear radiates off her now. Real fear. The kind that turns muscles tight and breathing shallow.

Something ugly twists pleasantly in me at the sight.

I crack my neck slowly while watching her disappear deeper between vendor stalls.

Ruslan Smirnov surfaces easiest during hunts.

Russ Smith wears tailored suits and hosts charity galas, and pretends civilization cured him. But this? The tracking. The stalking pulse of adrenaline. The certainty that prey belongs to me the second I set my sights on it.

That belongs to the man I buried years ago in the Colorado snow and blood.

A woman carrying flowers bumps my shoulder accidentally. “Sorry.”

I barely hear her.

Emma reaches the far end of the market and finally realizes, the same way she did at the airport. I slow to a stop, because as delicious as it is to see her scanning the crowd, tension buries itself between my shoulder blades.

This feeling that we’re tied together, it’s ridiculous. I don’t know her beyond her body, but the way her eyes lock with mine feels like fate.

There it is.

That sharp flare of panic in her expression when she understands that she’s mine.

Beautiful.

Her coffee slips slightly in her hand as she backs away one step. Then another.

“Don’t,” I say evenly, stepping sideways through two stalls, only feet away from her now.

She runs. Of course she does.

People curse as she shoves through the crowded walkway, nearly colliding with a bodega stand. I move after her at a much calmer pace because panic wastes energy and Emma is already trapped. I don’t want someone to call the cops; I’m not Russ Smith today, not in chinos and an open button-down.

When she rounds a corner that leads to a blocked-off alleyway, I catch her wrist hard enough to stop her momentum instantly. There’s a chain-link fence ahead with signs in several different languages. A dumpster, a propped-open restaurant door, but nowhere for her to go.

Emma gasps sharply as her body slams back against my chest. I can feel the heat from her easily through the thin, sleeveless shirt I have on.

“Let go of me,” she breathes.

“No.”

The single word comes out rougher than intended.

Anger coils beneath my skin now—not because she ran, but because I can’t decide whether I want to shake answers out of her or drag her somewhere private and devour her again. It’s impossible to ignore the press of her ass against my hips, the wayher waist pinches inward when I place a hand on her belly and hold her still.

Emma tries to twist in my grip, curls wild around flushed cheeks. The sunglasses clattered onto the pavement. “You can’t keep doing this!”

“And yet,” I murmur near her ear, tightening my hold slightly, “you continue making me.”