Page 81 of Jealous Stepbrother
My spine goes rigid. My stomach bottoms out.
No. It can’t be.
Itis. Because of course.
He’s striding across the cobblestones, weaving between Vespas and pedestrians who scowl at his audacity.
Asher doesn’t notice or care.
His eyes are locked on me, ice–blue fire that makes my blood race, my throat dry, and my heart leap with the kind of elation that belongs in Jane Austen books.
“Asher—”
“You think you can disappear on me? You think you can run halfway across the world, flirt with fucking Italian waiters, and I won’t find you?” His voice booms, echoing off the stone walls, drawing curious stares and whispered Italian around us. “Not a fucking chance, Scarlett.”
I freeze, heat rising to my cheeks as people pause, phones half-raised, a spectacle in the making. “Lower your voice?—”
“Don’t tell me to lower my voice!” He’s in front of me now, so close I can smell the jet lag and desperation and glorious sexiness on his skin. His hands twitch at his sides like it’s killing him not to grab me. “You don’t vanish. You don’t board a plane and shut me out. You don’t delete me from your life like I’m nothing.”
I’m trembling, torn between outrage and the ache in my chest at seeing him here, furious and unhinged. “I needed space?—”
“Fuck space.” His laugh is ragged, dangerous, almost unhinged. “I told myself I would bide my time, be the contritelover.” He inhales noisily through his nose. “Then I see you fucking smiling at another guy?”
He leans in closer. “Tell me what you think that does to me, Scarlett?” he breathes, his whole body vibrating, his fists clenched tight next to his thighs.
I shake my head. Overwhelmed and overawed and over-everythingthat he’s here. In front of me.
Throwing his weight and his jealousy and his ferocity about like only my stepbrother, my lover,my Ashercan.
Making a mockery of every feminist, taking-back-my-power speech I’ve driven into myself the last forty-eight hours.
“No? Let me tell you then. It confirms that I don’t do fucking space. I don’t do half-measures. And you—” he jabs his finger against his chest, voice raw “—you happened to me. And now you’re mine, and I’m never letting you walk away. Not from me. Not from us.”
The café door creaks as someone slips out, murmuring, eyes wide. My heart thunders. He’s laid us bare in front of strangers, tearing the lid off everything society claims we should leave buried.
“Asher…” My voice splinters, because half of me wants to scream at him to leave, and the other half wants to collapse into his arms right here in the middle of the cobblestonedpiazza.
His jaw flexes, and then his hands snap around my face, yanking me to my tiptoes, pulling me into a kiss that steals the ground from beneath my feet.
Applause breaks out somewhere behind us, whistles and laughter mixing with gasps.
I shove at his chest, humiliated, shaken,desperately needy,but he only grips me tighter, mouth moving fiercely against mine like he can brand his claim onto my soul in front of all of Florence.
When he finally rears back, his forehead rests against mine, his breathing ragged. “You can hate me. You can fight me. But you’re not leaving me, Scarlett. Not in Florence. Not in this fucking universe. Not ever.”
His charged words only intensify the excited chatter around us.
More phone cameras angle toward us.
“Asher, stop!” I wrench out of his grip just enough to push the café door open, darting inside before the weight of the entirepiazzacrushes me. The tiny bell above the door jingles like mockery to my roller coaster emotions.
It’s quieter inside, but not by much.
Necks crane over cappuccinos and laptops, eyes tracking me, then him as he storms in after me, too big, too commanding for the cozy little space.
Asher doesn’t hesitate.
He follows me, his monster strides eating up the floor until he’s looming over me again, all fury and raw desperation.
