Page 79 of The Wrong Brother

There’s a blurry photo beneath it of Ruslan shoving forward while security grabs his arms, blood visible near his mouth. Andrei looks equally vicious in the picture, tie half undone, expression twisted with rage.

It doesn’t look like a politician and businessman; it looks primal.

“Emma.”

I glance up. Rus stands a few feet away already watching me, his expression unreadable the second he notices the magazine in my hands.

I set it down immediately. “I wasn’t snooping.”

“You were reading public news. That’s hardly snooping.”

He walks toward me slowly, dark coat hanging open now between wardrobe changes. The bruising near his jaw has mostly faded, but even now, covered with makeup, I notice it.

And suddenly I want details. Not the headlines—the truth.

“What happened?” I ask quietly once he stops beside me.

His gaze shifts toward the magazine briefly before returning to me. “Nothing unexpected.”

“Rus.”

“We argued.”

“That looked like more than arguing.”

A muscle moves again in his jaw. It must be a nervous tic. Meaning I’ve hit a nerve. Or a wall.

Ever since the fight, he’s kept part of himself carefully sealed off from me. Still attentive, still possessive. But emotionally distant in a way that makes me feel strangely off balance. It shouldn’t upset me, becauseI’vebeen the one creating that distance. Until now.

Now, it feels like I’m standing too close to a cliff edge without realizing it.

“What did Andrei say to you?” I press softly.

“Enough.”

The finality in his voice stings more than it should.

Before I can respond, the photographer claps excitedly from across the set. “Perfect timing. I want the tension exactly like this.”

Wonderful.

We’re repositioned near the chaise lounge beneath softer lighting while stylists fuss with our clothes again. Someone darkens my lipstick. Someone else rolls up Ruslan’s sleeves slightly, exposing strong forearms and the expensive watch at his wrist. I try to ignore the way my mouth waters at the sight of the muscles and tendons there flexing.

The photographer circles us like a predator scenting blood.

“Closer,” he says immediately.

Rus’s hand settles against my thigh this time. Heat flashes through me so fast it’s embarrassing.

“Excellent,” the photographer murmurs. “Now look at her like you’re obsessed with her.”

Ruslan goes completely still beside me. Then his eyes lift to mine.

The air changes instantly.

I actually forget the cameras exist for a second.

“Jesus Christ,” someone whispers near the monitors.