Page 11 of Roaring Flames

I didn’t want to believe it.

Christian wouldn’t leave me behind without even a goodbye, would he?

For years, I imagined something horrible happened to him, and that’s why he left. I read the obituaries every morning with a macabre sort of fascination, searching for any descriptions of my brother.

But there was no need.

He’s alive and well, apparently.

And he didn’t even bother to tell me he was back in town.

Betrayal sinks like a boulder in my gut, but I work to blank my expression.

That’s another thing my father taught me—men in power shouldn’t show their emotions. Because every time they do, the enemy gets another tool to use against them.

Power.

You have all the power here, Ashton.

Not him.

Not her.

Not your father.

You.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I lower my hand and twist the knob, determined to barge right on in.

Locked.

I frown and wiggle it again, but the door refuses to budge.

What the fuck?

Why would Christian lock his door?

Even if he were in a meeting, he wouldn’t lock it. That’s highly inappropriate, especially if he’s with a student.

“Christian?” I tug ineffectually at the knob once more before releasing it with a huff. “What the fuck are you doing? We need to talk about Isabella!”

I fold my arms over my chest as I wait for him to open the door and let me in.

A part of me doesn’t want to see him.

The rest of me wants to run into my big brother’s arms and demand that he take me away from here. Protect me. Tell me that I’m doing an okay job leading my pack.

But that little boy who constantly sought validation died a long time ago. I no longer need my brother to protect or look after me. I can do them both myself.

I no longer have a choice in the matter.

The door opens, and I brace myself, the muscles in my stomach tightening.

But it’s not Christian staring back at me.

It’s Isabella.

Her blue eyes are electric with fury, and red splotches explode on both of her cheeks. There’s a noticeable tremble reverberating through her body as she points an accusatory finger at my chest.

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