Page 67 of The Wrong Brother

“Not yet,” Emma squeaks out, her hand fisting the back of my jacket. “Russ, this is supposed to rattlehim.” The strain in her voice tells me everything I need to know about how this looks likeI’mthe one rattled.

And she’s right.

The realization arrives just in time. Abruptly, I turn away.

“We’re leaving.”

Emma hesitates. “Are you sure? There are some people, reporters I think?—”

“We’re leaving.”

She’s not wrong; eyes are on us, thumbs tapping against phones, no doubt making note that I left the party without speaking to my brother. I guide her toward the exit before she can argue, my hand firm against her waist. Conversations blur around us as we move through the crowd.

“Ruslan,” Emma says quietly once we’re halfway across the ballroom, “are you sure?”

Finally, I look down at her. Really look at her.

The cream dress. The flushed mouth from earlier. The stubbornness still sitting behind her eyes despite everything this evening threw at her.

Andrei spent months convincing this woman she wasn’t enough. He was a fool.

I stop walking, and Emma barely has time to react before I catch her jaw and kiss her hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her body softens against mine almost instantly, fingers curling into my lapel as the tension between us sparks hot and immediate.

When I finally pull back, her eyes are unfocused. ThePakhanin me catches a younger man turning away surreptitiously, dropping his phone to his side. No doubt he snuck a photo that will appear in the Denver tabloids in the next few days.

Emma sways on her heels, dizzy. My mouth curves slightly.

“Oh, I’m sure. There’s nothing more I want than to leave here, with you.”

Then I lead her out of the ballroom before I change my mind and start a war three days too early.

* * *

The next morning, Denver wakes up obsessed with Andrei Smirnov. As if they weren’t already. Emma has the volume on the television in the living area turned down, but I still catchthe murmur of it. And given the frown on her face, I know she’s watching a recap of the celebration.

We slept in the bedroom last night. Or rather, shelet mesleep in the bedroom. Just the thought of it makes me smirk—as if she could say no if I really forced the issue.

But I hadn’t had to. After coming back, we were both exhausted and stuck in our heads. Emma disappeared into the bathroom as I stripped off the suit and sat on the arm of the couch, trying to contain my anger.

When she came out damp and in pajamas, all she had to do was tilt her head toward the bedroom. I fell asleep with her tucked under my arm.

Now, she flinches when I step out of the room in jeans and a t-shirt. Emma sits curled in one corner of the enormous sectional sofa with coffee in both hands.

She doesn’t try to spare me the view of what’s on the television. Instead, she holds out a coffee and asks, “Do you want to…?” gesturing to the spot beside her.

Cameras flash across the screen as Andrei and Victoria emerge from some upscale bakery downtown looking effortlessly perfect. The anchors are practically salivating.

“Colorado’s favorite power couple…”

“Down-to-earth despite the glamour…”

“Proof that true love still exists in politics…”

I mute the television before the woman can finish the sentence. The silence that follows somehow feels worse.

Emma glances at me carefully over the rim of her coffee mug. “You know, threatening the television isn’t going to help.”

“I was not threatening it.”