Page 30 of The Wrong Brother

Ruslan is holding me there, his pale eyes behind the glasses concerned. “Breathe,” he orders in a murmur.

His chest rises in a slow inhale. I copy the movement, momentarily distracted by the pale chest hair peeking out from the “v” of his shirt.

A slow smile curves his mouth.

“Emma,” he murmurs, “you are going to want to hear this.”

Chapter 8

Ruslan

The realizationthat I shouldn’t bring Emma here hits me halfway across the courtyard as she follows beside me. She’s back in her own clothes, retrieved by one of Stepan’s men and laundered by Mrs. Alvarez. After being woken by Kate this morning, I figured the least I could give her was some privacy and a shower; a small break to consider that maybe…I’m not the monster she thinks I am.

But you are,the dark voice in my head whispers.And you’re about to prove it.

The small studio cottage tucked behind the main house is the one place on this property that actually belongs to me. Not Russ Smith—me.

No staff allowed unless invited. No business associates unless necessary. No women. No meaningless distractions. Just silence, work, and the illusion that I still possess some level of control over my life.

And yet, here she is.

Emma glances toward me as I unlock the door. “This is your office?”

“Mm.”

“It looks less murder-y than I expected.”

A laugh threatens unexpectedly in my chest. Brazen woman. I wasn’t expecting her to be this strange mix of sarcastic and distrusting, hidden by the insecurity I first noted when I saw her in my store.

I push the door open and motion for her to enter first. The cottage smells faintly of cedar and espresso, sunlight spilling through massive windows overlooking the cliffs beyond the property. The space is masculine, but cleanly elegant—dark leather, bookshelves, polished concrete floors softened by antique rugs.

Emma steps inside slowly. Then stops.

I know the exact moment she notices this place is personal.

Her eyes move over the shelves near the fireplace first. Framed photographs and old records, a hobby of mine that no one but Frank knows much about. A chess set, my father taught me to use before he died, worn along the edges. Russian novels stacked beside fashion portfolios and financial reports.

Too much of me exposed at once. Anxiety tightens unpleasantly beneath my ribs.

Emma walks toward the bookshelf slowly, drawn despite herself. “You read Dostoevsky?”

“I am Russian, Emma. It is practically a legal requirement.”

Her lips twitch faintly. Then she notices the framed photo beside the books.

Kate, at perhaps eight years old, sitting on my shoulders during some festival downtown. I remember that day vividly because she laughed so hard that she lost one of her shoes. And it was… so soon after I found her. When I worried she’d never laugh again.

But I don’t say any of this out loud.

Still, Emma’s expression softens slightly, which only makes the anxiety in my chest ramp up. Letting someone see this feels dangerous. As if I have a death wish.

I move past her toward the espresso machine along the far counter before she can look too closely at anything else. “Sit.”

“That sounded hostile.”

“It was an instruction. I’m used to people obeying me.”

She mutters something under her breath that absolutely sounds suspiciously like “asshole” before dropping onto the leather sofa, anyway.