Page 178 of The Wrong Brother

We finally stop outside an aging duplex tucked between two boarded-up houses. The streetlight flickers overhead, buzzing like a dying insect. It’s the last place anyone would guess a woman like Ryder Moreno would go. I’ve been watching her for months—reading reports of the luxurious hotel suites she rents out in her name, only to stay in places like this. My future wife is a mystery.

One of my men nods. “Power usage flagged here all week. Low but steady. Hidden router. She’s still using it as a safe house. You want us in?”

I study the windows, dark but alive in that subtle way electronics always are. She thought no one knew about this place.

She underestimated me.

“Wait outside,” I tell them.

“Shef—”

Being called “boss” still lands strange.

“Outside.”

They obey.

I slip in through the back door without a sound.

The place is sparse and utilitarian, more bunker than home. A folding table covered in laptops and tangled cords. Screens full of shipping manifests, port schedules, and surveillance feeds. Stacks of notebooks filled with tight, meticulous handwriting. A cot shoved against the wall for late nights monitoring; I’ve seen it before, part of my own men’s routines.

That’s what makes this even more painful. Ryder isn’t just the daughter of a cartel leader. She’s a major part of his enterprise, an asset he doesn’t even realize he has.

The room smells faintly of coffee and gun oil.

There’s a rustle from another room; the bedroom? I step through the doorway just as she shoves clothes into a duffel bag, movements sharp and furious. When she looks up and sees me, her eyes flash like a cornered animal’s.

For a second, we just stare at each other.

Predator.

Prey.

Except I’m not entirely sure which is which.

She lunges first.

Her elbow catches my jaw, her knee slams toward my ribs, and we crash into the wall hard enough to rattle the two-by-fours beneath the pitted drywall. She fights dirty and smart, going for joints and tendons, and I’m forced to admire the technique even as I counter it. The Bratva has relied for too long on weapons like guns, tasers, and knives.

This kind of fighting reminds me of my younger days, and I fight a cold grin as I catch her wrist, twist, pivot, and pin her against the mattress.

She bucks, spits at me, fury blazing.

“Get off me,” she hisses.

My pulse slams.

I grip her throat, not choking, just enough to still her, and lean close so she can feel my breath.

“You don’t run from kings,” I murmur, voice low and rough. “You think you can disappear from me?”

Her eyes don’t soften. They burn hotter.

“I’d rather slit my own throat than marry you,” she grits out. “And you’ll only be a king if someone hands it to you, not because you earned it.”

God help me, I almost laugh. This isn’t fear; it’s a challenge.

I’ve been thinking about her nonstop since that night on the boat, since the first time she looked at me like I was something worth fighting. I felt seen, and I’ve been touching myself to those brown eyes in the dark ever since.

I release her throat slowly, fingers sliding down to her upper chest instead. Her heart pounds under my palm.

“You’re not leaving,” I say quietly. “Not tonight.”

The air between us feels like a live wire, sparking, dangerous, inevitable.

Outside, my men shift in the dark. How long do I have before they get worried and come after me?

Inside, she glares up at me like she’d rather die than bow.

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