Page 3 of Jealous Stepbrother
The humming starts soft as a prayer, coiling around my spine and my mind. I blink in the dark, frowning…before I realize what she’s humming.
With each exhalation on my skin, my muscles twitch and tingle with the urge to stay put, not move a fucking inch.
And because the little minx knows she has me paralyzed, putty in her fucking sexy hands, she switches from humming to words.
“…happy birthday, dear Asher…happy birthday to y?—”
I flip over, catching her off guard. She’s close enough that I can feel the soft hitch in her breath, see the wide-eyed alarm in her stunning green eyes.
I drag her arms from my waist and pin them above her head.
Her legs are parted on either side of my torso and I get another hit of her scent mingled with a sweeter, muskier scent.
Sweet heavenly fuck.
I shake my head once. Twice. But it’s no use.
I hear the vicious sound of the last thread of my control snapping.
“Enough,” I deliver, voice low, rough, final. “Hell is about to break loose on this pretty little head of yours. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, little girl.”
CHAPTER 1
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
Scarlett
Four Years Later
The atriumdownstairs is all steel and marble, full of people who look like theybelong. People with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from knowing they’ll never have to prove themselves twice.
I don’t have that kind of confidence, yet.
I’ve spent three years in college and working long shifts, skipping weekends, selling pieces of myself in the form of sketches to brands that didn’t deserve them. I’ve given up nights out, entire holidays, and more sleep than I can count just to make my portfolio bulletproof.
All because I made a choice everyone told me was reckless after I switched from a business degree to design. My bewildered mother called it impulsive. My stepfather called it a waste. I called it the only thing I’d ever wanted enough to fight for.
That fight hasn’t been easy. I’ve sacrificed too much to fail now.
This internship is the payoff. The door I’ve been pounding on since I was nineteen.
The receptionist at the desk looks up and smiles thinly.
“Scarlett Rockwell for House of M?” My voice shakes even saying the name.
Applying here had been a long shot, one I only agreed to because my professor wouldn’t let it go. I’d refused at first. House of M was in another league, and I wasn’t about to waste time chasing something I wasn’t good enough for.
“They’re in the middle of changing creative directors,” he’d told me. “They’re going in a new, edgy direction. I’m putting your name forward.”
I’d thought nothing of it. House of M was a sleek, shadowy label, more brand than person. I didn’t know who actually ran it, and I hadn’t cared to dig. Avoiding certain names, certain people, had been my survival strategy for years.
Then the email landed in my inbox.
Congratulations. You’ve been selected.
And here I am with my hair smoothed into a low braid and my lipstick understated but with enough pop ofcolorto boost my confidence, black blazer over a fitted top tucked into high-waisted trousers. My minimal jewelry is polished but not flashy, the kind of armor you wear when you’re stepping into a room where you can’t afford to look small.
She nods briskly and slides a badge across the shiny surface. “Top floor. Private elevator. He’s expecting you.”
