Page 55 of The Wrong Brother

Everything happens at once.

Someone grabs my arm, and before I can shout, even just in surprise, I’m falling and jarring my hip against the center console of a backseat.

The door slams shut, and the car pulls away from the curb, smooth and slow, as if it didn’t just swallow me whole.

My heart rockets into my throat. What the?—

I spin toward whoever grabbed me. And freeze.

No.

No, no, no.

Andrei sits across from me. To my right, tucked into the corner of the seat, is a tall black man wearing a gaiter that covers the bottom half of his face. He doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that he just dragged me into a car.

For a second, my brain simply refuses to process it.

The last time I saw Andrei, he was smiling from a television screen beside his fiancée. Months ago, his features twisted into something like pity and disgust when he told me it “just wasn’t going to work.”

The shock is so complete that I don’t even move. Because this isn’t the Andrei I remember. He’d never do somethingthis stupid.

The politician is gone. The warmth, the practiced charm, the easy smile. Gone.

What’s left is colder, and I can see it now, even with the tinted windows dulling the morning light, it’s in the shape of his eyes. His hair isn’t blonde like Russ’s; it’s a sandy brown and perfectly groomed. But they have the same jawline.

His blue eyes lock onto mine without an ounce of affection. Without even recognition.

As if I’m a problem.

A threat.

A loose end.

“You’ve always had terrible judgment,” he says.

The familiar voice lands like a slap. I finally find my own. “Youkidnappedme.”

“You’re in Colorado with my brother.” He practically spits the words out, and I go still.Thisis an Andrei I haven’t seen before. He’s angry and shaken.

For a moment, a small part of me thinksRuslan might’ve been right. Using me as a chess piece might just work.

But why? Andrei didn’t want me. Does he hate Ruslan that much?

What the hell happened between the two of them that would send them both off the deep end?

“And you still thought it was a good idea to have me yanked into a vehicle.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” His voice sharpens. The man sitting to my right remains silent, but shifts. Watching. Waiting.

I hate this.

I hate him.

Most of all, I hate that part of me still remembers feeling like I was falling for him once.

“You didn’t ask a question,” I bite out, stomach gnawing on fear now instead of hunger.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.