Page 94 of The Wrong Brother

Victoria laughs, the sound brittle. “That’s good,” she says, and it feels like she means it, even though sadness settles in her smile. “You two seem very happy together. I was hoping that was true.”

She gives a small shrug, stepping back and into the crowd. In seconds she’s swept up by the shoppers and tourists, her back straight and eyes ahead as her friends hurry across the street.

Nadya is at my side immediately.

“Ready?” she asks. There’s an edge to her voice that makes it clear she isn’t happy with the interaction.

I glance down at her now-empty hands. “Did you tell him?”

She nods, not bothering to lie to me.

So even if society didn’t recognize the meeting of minds that just took place, Ruslan will know. As we move toward the next shop, I can’t help wondering how he’ll feel about that.

Jealous? Angry?

If I tell him what Andrei does to her, will that make the outcome worse?

The fact that it probably will doesn’t scare me like it should. It only makes me feel a stronger pull toward the man I’m slowly starting to see less as a monster and more like an avenger.

Chapter 24

Ruslan

The church gardensglow softly beneath strings of hanging lights and the fading remnants of sunset. Guests drift across the stone pathways, holding champagne flutes and crystal wine glasses while a string quartet plays somewhere near the ancient red stone gazebo.

Emma’s hand remains tucked into my elbow.

Every few seconds her thumb brushes lightly against the fabric of my sleeve as we move through the crowd, and each absentminded touch drags my attention back toward her all over again. It’s early afternoon, a cocktail hour before the ceremony, and all I can think about is how the mauve dress clinging to her bosom brings out the green in her eyes.

This is becoming a serious problem.

I take another slow sip of wine while nodding absently at a businessman attempting to flatter me about the California fashion industry. My focus barely catches half the conversation. Emma stands close beside me while autumn roses bloom aroundus in deep crimson clusters, and I want nothing more than to kiss her.

Not fuck her. Not ruin her in a confession box.

Kiss her.

The distinction feels like both sin and salvation.

Instrumental music drifts softly through the gardens, and the entire atmosphere suddenly feels far too intimate for a revenge plot. Emma glances up at me occasionally with cautious curiosity still lingering behind her eyes, and every time she does it knocks something loose beneath my ribs.

I drain the rest of my wine.

“Are you all right?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

That earns the faintest smile from her.

The wedding coordinator begins directing guests slowly toward the cathedral entrance, herding Colorado’s elite toward polished wooden doors beneath massive floral arrangements. Around us, conversations shift and heels click softly across stone pathways as people begin filtering toward the ceremony.

I stare at the church entrance.

Then I look down at Emma.

An abrupt decision settles into place.

“Do you want to skip it?”