Page 63 of The Wrong Brother

The day before had been torture. The slow, grinding kind that comes from having too much time to think.

Ruslan spent most of Thursday in the suite’s office, taking calls in Russian and occasionally emerging long enough to drink coffee and glare at his phone. Every time I tried to distract myself with television, my thoughts drifted back to Andrei.

To the wedding invitation.

To the bruises.

Unfortunately, TV didn’t help much. All it took was one report of a body found floating face-down in Sloan’s Lake for me to realize that whatever Ruslan orchestrated the day Andrei grabbed me, it had been executed.

Tonight would be the first time Andrei would see us together.

Now, standing in front of the hotel mirror, I wish I could disappear.

The dress is beautiful. Lord&Lion doesn’t seem capable of producing anything less. It’s almost girlish, designed to look like a shepherd dressed in sin. The bodice barely holds my breasts; the laces are taut and the sleeves frilled lightly. The tiered skirt falls to the floor, hiding the sensible heels that will keep me balanced with the gold soles.

The color makes my eyes look greener and my skin look warmer. My hair actually cooperated for once.

I still feel inadequate. The old insecurities are back with a vengeance.

I know what Andrei’s fiancée looks like, and I know that I’m a far cry from her. She’s perfect, polishedVictoria Browne,according to the invitation.

“You are doing it again.”

I glance toward the doorway. Ruslan stands there, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. His expression immediately darkens.

“What?”

“You are talking yourself into misery. You did this the first day we met, Emma. Do you remember?”

I roll my eyes. It’s hard to forget, but I don’t want to give into that smirk.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is absolutely a thing.”

Easy for him to say. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a magazine. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to hyperventilate over an engagement dinner.

Ruslan walks farther into the room. His pale eyes move over me once, twice, and then settle on my face.

“Get hold of yourself.”

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

My jaw drops. “That’s your motivational speech?”

“Yes. You look beautiful. The dress is beautiful; you are beautiful. The problem is that you are acting like someone awaiting execution.”

A scoff slips out of me and I teeter on the heels, Rus stepping forward easily and catching me by the elbow.

“Stop worrying about comparisons.”

Easily said, direct and those pale eyes drop to my lips. For a moment, a brief moment, I think about rising on my toes and pressing my lips against his. But that would ruin the light berry lipstick, so I hold still.

“Own the room,” he murmurs.

“I don’t know how.”