Page 28 of The Wrong Brother
“Mhm,” Kate says, sounding exactly like him again.
This family is horrifying.
She swishes her shirt, gaze distant, as if she’s already bored with the conversation. “Uncle Rus mostly brings home business people.”
Something ugly and relieved unwinds slightly in my chest before I can stop it.
Then Kate adds, “Usually men.”
I blink. “Men?”
“His scary work friends,” she clarifies. “They talk downstairs forever and drink gross coffee and swear in Russian.”
Okay. That somehow feels both better and infinitely worse. Because now my brain is trying to process what kind of “fashion billionaire” spends his evenings hosting mysterious Russian men in tailored suits.
Ruslan.The only option is that, inexplicably, I’ve stumbled onto the Bratva. Again.
Hearing it confirmed by a twelve-year-old somehow makes it more real.
Kate goes to the door, opening it wider and looking over her shoulder. “Come on. Breakfast.”
“I should probably?—”
“Mrs. Alvarez made cinnamon rolls.”
She says it with the solemnity of someone presenting life-changing information. My stomach betrays me immediately with a tiny growl.
Kate gasps dramatically. “See? You’re starving.”
“I’m not starving.”
* * *
Five minutes later, I’m following Kate downstairs despite every survival instinct I possess screaming that becoming comfortable here is a terrible idea. The house feels different in daylight, now that I’ve been let out of the guest room.
Less predatory.
Still massive and intimidating, but warmer somehow. Sunlight pours through enormous windows overlooking the ocean while music plays softly somewhere deeper in the house. The kitchen smells like coffee and vanilla and something buttery enough to make me instantly emotional.
This should not exist alongside the man who hunted me through Santa Barbara yesterday. That’s the unsettling part.
Ruslan automatically pulls out a chair for me when we reach the dining area. I eye him suspiciously while sitting down.
“You look confused,” he murmurs.
“You’re confusing.”
His mouth twitches slightly.
Kate immediately launches into a story about school fundraiser drama while Mrs. Alvarez sets plates in front of us. I barely hear half of it because I can’t stop watching Ruslan move around the kitchen.
Domestic Ruslan should not be attractive. And yet.
The sleeves of his black shirt are rolled to his forearms again, exposing tattoos that disappear beneath his watch. He moves with quiet confidence, occasionally answering Kate without even looking up from the espresso machine.
Like this is normal.
Like he isn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Almost literally.
