Page 97 of The Wrong Brother

It’s beyond that now. I think of Rus, run out of the only home he ever knew to be forced to start elsewhere. Victoria, her features carefully schooled in public with the weight of that ring on her finger.

How many other people has he hurt?

When the bride’s eyes briefly meet mine across the room, I tighten my grip on Rus’ elbow. Enough that he pauses for a moment, glancing down to make sure I’m okay. I try to give him a reassuring smile, but it’s hard. That haunted look on Victoria’s face was impossible for her to mask entirely.

A woman realizing that she’s in far deeper than she can get herself out of.

Her shoulders remain slightly tense beneath layers of lace and satin, and every time Andrei leans close to speak to her, she reacts half a second too quickly. Like she’s bracing without meaning to.

I used to do that too, toward the end. The thought chills me unexpectedly hard.

Rus pulls the chair out for me, and dinner progresses in expensive, shimmering stages while waiters move gracefully between the tables. The plates too artistic to feel like actual food. Rus drinks slowly beside me, one arm stretched along the back of my chair while conversation swirls around us.

He’s quieter than usual. Has been since we slipped away into the garden, and he almost kissed me.

Did you want him to?

I shake my curls, trying to dislodge the thought from my head. But it sticks, the reminder of his scent filling my space, making my toes tingle and my brain slow. The feel of his calloused fingers beneath my chin.

The secret of that nickname—little lion—and the look on his face when it fell from his lips, like he’d been caught.

That should probably concern me more than it does.

“And now,” the wedding coordinator announces warmly from the front of the room, “before dessert is served, the groom’s family would like to say a few words.”

Oh, no. Andrei doesn’t have any family. Not anymore; his father passed away two years ago. There’s only?—

Rus reaches casually for the glass of champagne that was just refilled. At the main table, Andrei visibly tenses.

The room shifts subtly as attention begins turning toward the brothers. Guests lean in with obvious curiosity, sensing the unsettled atmosphere even if they don’t fully understand it.

Rus rises smoothly to his feet. Every instinct in my body tightens. I ball my hands into fists, resisting the urge to pull him back down into his seat.

He looks magnificent standing there beneath the lights, composed and elegant in the way dangerous men often are. His silver-white hair and pale eyes stand out. The entire room quiets almost immediately as he adjusts the cuff of his sleeve and lifts his glass slightly.

“To family,” he says calmly.

Andrei’s jaw tightens. Soft laughter ripples politely through the room, guests assuming this is merely awkward family tension instead of something far darker.

Rus continues speaking, his voice smooth and controlled. “It has been many years since I returned to Colorado. Long enough that some people likely assumed I never would.”

Every eye in the room stays fixed on him now. Only a handful of men and women here know what truly lies behind those words. Others glance confusedly at one another, at the main table.

“I think life is very interesting,” Rus says lightly, “because eventually, no matter how carefully someone reinvents themselves, the past always finds a way to return.”

The atmosphere changes immediately.

Subtle, but unmistakable. Andrei’s expression goes completely still. Beside him, Victoria lowers her gaze toward the tablecloth.

I inhale once, and then can’t find the strength to exhale.

Rus smiles faintly, though there’s nothing warm in it. “My brother has always been ambitious. Disciplined. Very good at presenting people with exactly what they wish to see.” His pale eyes flick briefly toward Andrei. “A rare talent.”

Silence spreads slowly across the reception. People are realizing this is not a normal wedding toast.

Rus lifts his glass slightly higher. “So tonight, I would simply like to congratulate the happy couple and remind everyone here that truth has an interesting habit of surviving, even in beautiful places.”

The words settle over the room like a guillotine. Nobody moves.