Page 81 of The Wrong Brother

The problem is that I no longer fully trust my own instincts when I’m around her. Ever since Andrei’s warning at the restaurant, suspicion keeps scraping against desire. Every time Emma looks at me, I want two contradictory things at once: to pull her closer or interrogate her until the truth falls out.

Neither option feels safe.

Emma laughs sharply when I remain silent. “Wow. Okay.”

She turns away, pacing once through the suite before facing me again. “Do you know what this feels like?”

I already know the answer.

“Andrei.”

There it is.

Her voice hardens around his name. “You pull me close when it benefits you, then suddenly shut me out when you’re done pretending.”

“That isnotwhat this is.”

“Then what is it?”

I exhale slowly through my nose. The smart decision would be to distance myself. The smart decision would be to ask questions, dig into her past, and protect myself before this entire situation turns into weakness.

Instead, I find myself staring at her mouth. At the fact that even furious, she still looks painfully beautiful standing in the middle of my suite wearing a luxury sweatsuit and anger.

“Ruslan.”

The warning in her voice barely registers, because suddenly the restraint is too exhausting.

“You are comparing me to him,” I say quietly.

“If the shoe fits?—”

I cross the room before she finishes speaking. Emma inhales sharply as I back her against the edge of the desk, one hand braced beside her hip. The anger between us crackles instantly into something hotter.

“You think I touch you because it’s convenient?” I ask softly, letting my fingers drag up to her waist. Seeing her in those clothes today, beautiful on her body, only made me want to tear them off her.

“I think,” she says breathlessly, “you don’t know what you want. And this might be…a bad idea.”

The words are like a punch, but I’ve taken punches before.

My hand slides against her jaw, fingers tightening slightly as I tilt her face upward. “I know exactly what I want.”

“Revenge.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

I should step away.

Instead, I kiss her. Hard.

All the frustration of the past several days crashes loose at once. Emma gasps against my mouth before kissing me back just as violently, fingers tangling immediately in my shirt. She grips so hard a button actually pops off, and I fight the urge to laugh.

The kiss turns rough almost instantly, the bruise on my jaw aching when she holds my face and slots her mouth over mine. It’s dominant, and I’m surprised to find that I like it. She bites my lower lip hard enough to sting, and something darkly possessive twists through my chest.

Mine.

She pulls away with a gasp, as if she read my mind.