Page 64 of The Wrong Brother

His expression softens slightly. “Yes, you do.”

The certainty in his voice catches me off guard. I almost think it’s possible, but we aren’t even out of the hotel yet. The night hasn’t even started.

* * *

The engagement celebration is exactly the kind of event I expected, and nothing I would’ve imagined if Andrei and I had…

But that’s a ridiculous thought. We were barely together. I was just a stepping stone, a rung on the ladder.

The ballroom glows beneath crystal chandeliers while waiters circulate with champagne and expensive hors d’oeuvres. The ceiling is draped in tulle, with fairy lights sprinkled throughout. Everything is rose gold and pink and cream; towering, thin vases of flowers lord over each table. It’s like a fairytale.

Everyone seems to know everyone else, and everyone is watching. Us, especially though not openly. It’s subtle, but I can hear the whispers.

Ruslan remains beside me the entire time, one hand resting lightly against my back. The gesture looks affectionate, maybe a little possessive. Itfeelsprotective, and though I’ll never say it out loud to him, I’m grateful.

People approach constantly. I smile and try to focus on anything but the fact that I’m at my ex’s engagement party. It becomes easier once my FBI mind kicks into gear, cataloging the casual conversation and the unspoken words for what they really are.

Men who want to become business associates. Political donors curious about this brother who has come out of the woodwork. One old family friend, who looks oddly relieved to see Ruslan, whispers a warning: “He has more power now than he did when you left.”

Most are polite. Some aren’t. One woman smiles sweetly while informing me that Andrei’s fiancée used to model. Another comments on how “refreshingly different” I am. A third asks if I work in fashion, and the tone says she already knows the answer.

Each interaction chips away at my confidence. By the time an hour passes, I can feel myself shrinking.

Unfortunately, Ruslan notices. The next time someone walks away after making a backhanded comment, his hand tightens against my waist.

“Come.”

I don’t argue. The ballroom has become exhausting, and I’d be willing to take up smoking just to sneak out a back door. Instead, he leads me through a side corridor and into a quiet terrace overlooking the city. Music still drifts through the open doors behind us, but the noise is muted here. There were curtains obscuring the doors, so this area must be technically off-limits.

I lean against the railing and take a deep breath. The cool air feels wonderful, goosebumps forming over the tops of my breasts. For several seconds, neither of us speak.

Then Ruslan steps closer.

“Look at me.”

I do, and it’s a mistake. His gaze is intense enough to make my stomach flip.

“You are letting them get inside your head.”

I laugh softly. “Aren’t they right?”

“No.” His answer is quick and almost gives me whiplash. Certain. I have to look away.

Ruslan catches my chin gently and turns my face back toward his.

“No.”

This time, they’re almost whispered. It feels personal. And the distance between us disappears.

The kiss that follows isn’t about revenge or politics or Andrei. No one inside matters anymore. Neither of us is performing.

The rest of the evening fades away. Ruslan’s shoulders shift, bunching upward, as he gathers me close to him. His mouth covers mine, tongue lapping slowly across the seam of my lips, and I feel wet heat pool at my core in response.

When he finally pulls away, my breathing is uneven; his hand remains beneath my chin, holding my gaze.

Making sure I’m listening.

“Andrei was a fucking idiot.”