Page 23 of The Wrong Brother

“This is psychotic.”

“Mm.” I’m not arguing that point.

I turn her toward me fully at last.

God, even terrified, she is gorgeous. The oversized hoodie slips down one shoulder slightly, exposing soft skin I remember biting only yesterday morning. Just the curve of her collarbone is infuriatingly sexy. My body reacts instantly despite the fury burning through me.

Emma sees the shift in my expression and goes very still, but not before swaying forward on her tiptoes.

Interesting… does she feel it, too? The heat between us? The draw?

I lower my voice. “Now,” I say softly, “you’re going to calm down, walk down the street with me, and let me buy you another coffee.”

Her dark brows knit, eyes narrowed.Good girl.I’m not someone to be trusted.

“I think you know, Emma, that I’m not quite what I seem. I don’t believe you are either; but you understand that I’m a man who gets what I want. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathes, the word almost a stutter. Her hand grips my forearm as she sways slightly, eyes unfocused. Worried, I open my mouth to ask her if she ate the food sent to her, if the heat is too much, if she needs to sit—but her eyes drop to my lips and I understand.

She wants this, too.

“We’re going to sit somewhere quiet. And I’m going to ask you questions. If you give me answers… if you’re a good girl…” she shivers at the words, and I lean closer, nose brushing her jaw, “I might let you ask a few of your own.”

* * *

Emma’s shoulders droop the second we enter the café. Not because she trusts me, but because she’s exhausted.

I can see it now that we’re out of the chaos of the market and tucked into the corner of a quiet little place smelling of espresso and cinnamon. Fear burns hot for only so long before the body starts shutting down under it.

She looks wrung out, and sits stiffly across from me at a small table near the window while I order for both of us without asking. Cappuccinos. Fresh pastries she barely touches once they arrive.

Her eyes flick toward me warily over the rim of the oversized mug. I notice she relaxes slightly after the first sip.

Cute.

“You’re glaring at me,” she mutters.

“You ran again.”

“You hunted me through a farmer’s market like a serial killer.”

A dark laugh slips out before I can stop it. The older woman at the next table glances over disapprovingly.

Emma looks almost offended by the sound. “See? That. That’s not normal behavior.”

“No,” I agree calmly. “It is not. But don’t you know? If you run in front of a predator, it triggers their instinct to chase.”

Confusion flickers across her face then. She expected denial, excuses. Most men perform civility after frightening women. I never saw the point.

The silence stretches briefly between us while steam curls upward from our coffee cups. Then Emma says quietly, “You’re being weirdly nice right now.”

My brows lift slightly. “I’m not a complete monster.”

“You bought me breakfast after basically kidnapping me.”

“I bought you coffee. You don’t seem interested in the pastries.”

“That’s not the point.”