Page 18 of Jealous Stepbrother
UNRAVEL ME…MAYBE
Scarlett
Somewhere between yesterday and today, I hit my head. I must be concussed… hallucinating because?—
“W-what?”
“You heard me. Do as your big brother says. Take. Your. Fucking. Clothes. Off.”
“But… wh-why?” I look over his shoulder, check the room to make sure I’m not dreaming. Has he forgotten where we are?
“So I can erase the image of other guys checking out what’s mine.” His hand slams into the wall beside me when I try to move. “Uh-uh-uh, you stay right fucking here. And before you call me insane again, remember you don’t want to hurt my feelings.”
I’ve tripped and fallen into an acid trip. I’m one hundred percent convinced. “Ash—Asher, we’re in your studio. In your office! Anyone can walk in.”
“Wrong. No one will dare come in here without my explicit permission.”
“That still doesn’t mean…” I look from his face to the glass doors, now frosted—when did they go frosty?—to the very clear floor-to-ceiling glass windows blazing summer sunlight into the room. Sure, we’re insanely high up but still, this is New York City. All anyone needs is a powerful pair of binoculars and… and…
My chin is grabbed in a firm hold and my attention is wrenched back to his. He looks… God, he looks like he’s on the absolute edge of his endurance. All because his staff stared at me for two seconds too long?
I swallow. And whatever he sees on my face must deliver a layer of appeasement because he exhales. But his eyes don’t move a millimeter from mine.
“I’m waiting, Scarlett. Strip or I walk out there and fire every fucking one of them.”
“No—”
“Yes.”
Holy shit. I’ve been in this building less than fifteen minutes. How is this happening?
Asher Fucking Masterson.That’s how.
Hands shaking, I reach for the buttons on my shirt and slowly undo each one, pulling the tails free of my pencil skirt. The same skirt and shirt I found laid out on my bed when I came out of the shower this morning.
Because apparently my stepbrother means to control everything in my life, including what I wear.
I shrug off the shirt, lower the zipper of the skirt. I wriggle free of it and barely feel both items pool at my feet.
His eyes follow my every move with the rabid focus of a wolf scenting blood in fresh snow.
And when I’m left standing in the moss-green lace underwear—which he also picked out—his lips part and his breathing turns choppy.
“Everything, Scarlett.”
My head feels heavy as an anvil when I shake it. “Asher, please. I can’t… you can’t…”
His hand slowly drops from the wall beside my head. He takes one step back, his nostrils flaring as his eyes sear over me from head to toe. Then another step back.
Two more and I realize his intention.
He’s heading out.
To fire people.
I stumble after him, almost face-planting when my heels get caught in my discarded clothes. “Asher! Wait!”
He keeps walking.
