Page 22 of Jealous Stepbrother
He laughs, but the sound is brittle, almost disbelieving. His eyes flare as if I’ve just insulted the foundations of his being. “Hate you? I don’t fucking hate you. If I resent anyone, it’s Victor.”
“Your dad? Why?”
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking hard for several seconds. “Because, as irrational as it is, he met you first. He claimed your mother, and by society’s fucked-up extension, he claimed you. Immediately putting you out of my reach. And all because I refused to go to some boring as shit gala with him. If I’d gone…” He inhales, long and sharp through his nose, fury and regret braided in every breath. “We’d be together already. I wouldn’t have had to wait four fucking years to do this.”
Serendipity at its finest. Because if I hadn’t encouraged Mom to attend that gala—my bid to get her out of mourning my dad after he passed the year before—and offered myself as her plus one, neither of us would’ve been there at all.
We both sit with that for a moment, then he lifts my chin with is fingers. “Any more burning questions you want answers to?” he asks but I see his fierce gaze searching, probing beneath my skin.
I want to ask him what ‘this’ entails, but I don’t have the energy.
So I shake my head. “I don’t think I can take anymore…revelations. This day was… insane,” I choke out, balling my fist against his chest. “You’reinsane. This whole place—” My voice cracks, and a laugh gets tangled in the sob. “I can’t decide if I want to quit or kill you or… keep going.”
His lips brush my hair. “Good. That means I’m doing it right.”
When my tears dry, he disappears for a moment and returns with my blouse and skirt, freshly pressed from God knows where. He helps me dress like I’m fragile and precious—two things I’ve never been to him.
When I’m buttoned up, his gaze lingers. “You look fucking sexy.”
My throat tightens for an entirely different reason. “Did I… do good?” I’m not even sure what I’m asking about and I want to kick myself for the weakness, but I hold my breath for an answer all the same.
The pause is deliberate. Calculated. “You did okay. But there’s more in you, Scarlett. Vastly more. And I’m going to mine every last drop of it until you shine brighter than a fucking diamond.”
CHAPTER 6
OBSESSION’S EDGE
Scarlett
Half an hour later, we’re stepping out of the private elevator into the cool hum of the penthouse lobby.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he slides a hand to the small of my back.
“Dinner. You barely touched your salad at lunch and I need to get this meeting out of the way. Two birds. One stone,” he clips out, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I swallow the scoffing remark about how he expected me to find an appetite for food while sitting naked in his lap while he pretended I wasn’t there in one breath, then touching me all over as if he needed me for his next breath.
I don’t know yet that the restaurant he’s chosen will be the stage for another public scene—one that will strip away whatever fragile defenses I’m slowly rebuilding.
But that’s for later.
Right now, I’m still in his orbit, and he’s not letting me go.
The restaurant isthe kind of place where the waiters wear white gloves and the menus don’t have prices. Every surface glimmers under low, flattering light, and the Manhattan skyline blazes through the floor-to-ceiling windows like someone scattered diamonds across the night.
I’d wanted a little breather, maybe shower before wearing something casual.
Asher vetoed that before I even stepped out of my room, sending me back with a dress he held out and a command to change into something worthy of my “first evening representing House of M.” Which, apparently, meant a black slip dress that felt indecent the second it slid over my skin.
Now we’re here with two investors from Milan and a gallerist Asher calls “essential,” which means I have to smile and answer polite questions about my role. The problem is, they keep looking at me.
And it’s not in the harmless, curious way strangers sometimes do. No, this is longer, heavier, the kind of look that feels like fingers trailing where they shouldn’t.
Having suffered through one catastrophic episode of Asher’s unhinged jealous fit, I lose what little appetite I thought I’d managed to scrounge together as the memory of this morning crashes back—Asher’s voice, low and lethal, laying down rules that made my skin burn.
I’m aware of every one of them.
And so is Asher.
