Page 17 of The Wrong Brother

Then Emma’s, though the expression burned into my memory is one of shock, closely followed by fear. Who is she? And who does she thinkIam? It’s only now, with clarity and time, that I realize how strange it must have looked to her as well—a fashion businessman in California watching local Colorado news.

“No,” I say softly. “An opportunity.”

I loosen my collar slightly, pulse steadying even as my world has begun a slow tilt toward insanity.

“We’re going back to Colorado,” I tell him. “It’s time to finish what was started.”

Chapter 5

Emma

I can’t shakethe feeling that something is wrong.

Not normal anxiety wrong either. Not the lingering humiliation of seeing my ex-fiancé announce his engagement to another woman three months after we broke up.

This feels heavier. Too similar to the kind ofwrongI was trained to recognize in the academy. Like something is closing in around me inch by inch, and I’m the only one who notices.

Uncle Ruslan.That’s what the girl had called him.

Who was she? Who washe?

After returning to the motel, packing all my things, leaving the key card on my dresser, and slipping out the back entrance, I found a shady internet café on the outskirts of Santa Barbara. Crazy that they still exist, but it was the safest way for me to do some research.

Russell Smith is real. Or, as real as a man who appeared about a decade ago in California can be. Lord&Lion didn’t have much of a history, either; just popped up on the fashion scene oneday, taking everyone by storm. Making a name for its mysterious owner.

Ruslan.

A Russian name. There’s no way in hell I’ve walked back into…?

No. My last brush with the Bratva was in Miami, when Ryder Demsky saved my ass by giving me everything she had on Hinto Moreno in order to put him away. Her own father; I don’t even want to know how that bridge was burned.

How the hell have I stumbled onto something that feels like smoke, mirrors, and billionaires over a thousand miles away?

God.

I should never have gone home with him. The only thing I’m grateful for right now is that I didn’t give him any identifying information; he has no idea who I am.

He just…knows every contour of my body. No big deal.

The Uber I’m in jerks abruptly, and I gasp, eyes snapping up from my phone. The driver curses in another language and swerves into another airport lane, laying on his horn as a small group of travelers dashes across the drop-off area.

I tap quickly through the app, throw out a “Thanks,” and yank my bags out of the car behind me. If I’m lucky, they’ll let me exchange my ticket, the one that was supposed to bring me to New Jersey and my parent’s guest room. Not Colorado, or anywhere that felt likemine.

“You’re being paranoid,” I murmur to myself as I weave through a steady stream of people heading for the check-in counters.

The problem is that somewhere beneath the fear and confusion, my body still remembers him too well. His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me like he wanted to peel me apart slowly and enjoy every second of it.

It makes me feel stupid.

Reckless.

Weak.

I glance at my bank account as I wait in line, too nervous to see if there’s even a scheduled flight out to the East Coast. At this point, I’m not sure that I wouldn’t jump on a plane to Alaska, if that’s what it took to get me out of here.

Russ. Ruslan. It just doesn’t feel right, and every instinct in me is pushing me toget out.

Five thousand dollars has turned into just over four in half a day. Uber rides, an order of takeout food that turns queasily over in my stomach, and a new phone that I spent an hour setting up before ditching that motel room.