Page 113 of The Bad Brother

Because Jensen killed him.

There was a huge uproar when their parents found out. Monica Pryce—their mother—wanted Jensen arrested for first-degree murder, claiming he’d planned it. That her estranged older son, after years of being on the outside looking in, killed Ethan out of jealousy and spite. That somehow, Jensen was responsible for everything that happened.

It was River who set the records straight while I recovered. Told Colt that Ethan confessed to killing Amy. That he planned on killing Jensen and kidnapping me and that Monica not only knew about it—she helped him plan it.

Colt found Amy in their condo, strangled and stuffed into a closet. After that, every carefully stacked Pryce family domino began to fall. When questioned, their private pilot confessed that Monica paid him fifty-thousand dollars to file a false flight plan to London, marking her as his only passenger, the day of the accident.

Orton Redford woke up and identified Ethan as his attacker and the man who set fire to Jensen’s truck.

Jensen turned the razor blade his brother gave him over to Colt. Prints and blood evidence led them to a man from San Antonio with an extensive and violent record that included assault with a deadly weapon and second-degree murder. When questioned, he admitted to being hired by Ethan to attack Jensen.

Rich dude paid me five-grand to kill some guy but I ain’t killin’ no one for a measly five-grand so I just cut him instead. Told rich dude there was too many witnesses. Called me again—this time offered me fifteen-hundred to torch some truckbut I ghosted him. Dude’s entire vibe was off—seriously something wrong with him. Like puppy strangler kinda vibes.

After that, no one listened much to what Monica Pryce had to say. She hid behind her army of lawyers while the evidence against her and her son piled up and when Colt finally had enough to get an arrest warrant, she was gone. The flight plan said she and her husband flew to New York on business but while that’s exactly where Jensen’s father was found, in some billionaire’s boardroom, when the US Marshals crossed the street to storm their hotel suite, Monica was gone.

From what I heard, the billionaire in question cut ties with the Pryce family immediately, sparking an onslaughtof abandoned deals and lawsuits. Nathaniel, Jensen’s father, has been calling him, begging for a reconciliation. Jensen isn’t returning his calls.

For our part, Jensen and I have barely paid attention to any of it because none of it matters. All that matters is that Ethan is gone and that we’re together. Missing kidney and extensive hospital stay notwithstanding, the last three months have been the happiest of my life.

When I came home, Jensen was already moved into the loft—his extensive collection of bar T-shirts hanging side-by-side with my scrub tops. His toothbrush in the caddy next to mine. Not long after Jensen moved in, Cade and Gunner moved into Jensen’s old apartment. Listening to the two of them bicker at each other from across the hall like a couple of old biddies is one of the highlights of my day.

As promised, Jensen only hired Gemma to be my caretaker for the first two-weeks after I was released from the hospital. After that, he had a revolving door installed on the loft and everyone has been taking turnsvisitingme. If it’s not my mother breezing in with shopping bags from every designer boutique in Clearwater with ait’s only a few things, just in casethen it’sRiver coming up here tosay hi.If it’s not River or my mom then it's Sera or Gemma. On Monday nights, it’s all three of them—Sera with a bottle of wine, River with a pizza, and Gemma with dessert while Jensen disappears downstairs to play pool with Cade and Gunner. I think even Colt swings by on occasion.

No matter how busy they are, Jensen abandons ship and comes upstairs at midnight so he can make me a grilled cheese sandwich before he carries me to bed.

That’s where he is, right now—frying buttered breadand cheese while I wait impatiently on the couch. Not impatient for my sandwich. Impatient for the surprise he’s been hinting at all day.

“Can you at least give me a hint?” I ask over the back of the couch. It can’t be a new car. He gave me one of those last week. When I mentioned in passing that my 90 days was going to be coming to an end and that I needed to go car shopping before then so I had a way to and from the hospital, Jensen didn’t have much to say. The next day, he carried me downstairs (the man is still refusing to allow me to walk more than ten feet on my own) to show me a brand-new, red Ford Bronco, the size of a small tank.

“No, I cannotgive you a hint, Peach,” he tells me with an exasperated laugh while he plates my grilled cheese. I’ve been hounding him non-stop since he came home. “You’re just going to have to sit there and work on your patience.” Sandwich plated, he carries it to where I’m waiting in the living room. Setting it on the end table, he checks the temperature on my tea before he sits down on the coffee table, facing me. “How was your visit with your mom?”

“Myvisitwith my mom was fine.” I give him an eye roll. “She wants us to have dinner with her and Mark at the club next week.”

Jensen gives me a wry smile. “Well, at least she’s stopped pressuring you to move home toconvalesce.”

I laugh when he says it becauseconvalesceis the exact word she used when she showed up at the hospital, the day I was released, to take me home with her.

You can’t think I’d actually allow you to go home with that man, Sloane. He put you in danger and murdered your fiancé. Come home with me, where it’s safe.After the truthabout who Ethan Pryce really was and that their mother not only knew about but encouraged and enabled his escalating psychotic behavior, my mother quieted down considerably. For the last several weeks, she’s settled on near daily visits, usually with some sort of service provider in tow. Today it was a mani pedi. Yesterday, it was a full body massage. The day before that, it was exfoliating facials.

“If you want to have dinner at the club, we can have dinner at the club,” Jensen tells me while reaching under the cashmere throw to pull one of my legs from underneath it. Settling my foot in his lap, he starts to give me one of his magical foot rubs. “We can do whatever you want, whenever you want.”

“Well, we both knowthat’snot true,” I tell him with a frustrated huff. I’ve been heavily hinting that I’d very much like to have sex but even though I was cleared for all physical activity nearly a month ago, Jensen’s been resistant, using Ragnar’slet’s give it a few more days, to hold me at bay.

“Peach...” Stopping mid-rub, Jensen looks up at me through his lashes, his expression telling me the subject of sex is still off the table, at least where he’s concerned. “Don’t start.”

“Well...” Suddenly at the end of my rope, I decide enough is enough. If Jensen isn’t going to make the first move, I will. Pulling my other leg out from underneath me, I toss the throw aside and set my foot on the floor. Pushing myself lower in my seat, I let my knee fall wide, opening my legs to slowly run my fingers up the inside of my thigh. “One of us is going to have to.”

“Sloane.” It comes out low, the sound of my name rough and cracked against the back of his throat. He swallowshard, hands tightening around the foot in his lap like he’s holding on for dear life while his heated, mismatched gaze follows the trail of my fingers up the length of my thigh. “Let’s give it a?—”

“I’m ready, Jensen,” I tell him, his name getting snagged on a soft gasp when the tips of my fingers brush against the damp crotch of my thin, cotton shorts. With my other hand I pull them to the side, showing him my pussy, how wet I am, while I tease us both. Swirling my fingers against my swollen clit, I lift my hips off the couch on a moan. “I promise I’m ready. I’m?—”

Falling onto his knees in front of me, Jensen pushes my hand from between my thighs. Rough fingers gripped around the tops of them, he pushes them wide so he can replace it with his tongue, the tip of it splitting the seam of my pussy to lick its way to my clit on a frustrated growl. “Fuuuck...”

“Yes.” Hands pushing themselves into his hair, I lift my hips off the couch again. Flexing them against the fuck of his mouth on a sharp gasp when I feel two of his fingers slip past my entrance, hard and deep enough to trigger a gush of arousal that soaks the couch cushion under me.

“So fucking dirty...” he groans against me, while he fucks me, his tongue swirling against my pulsating clit. Fingers buried inside me, every stroke of them pushing me relentlessly toward an orgasm I’m not ready for.

I want more.

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