Page 39 of The Wrong Brother

The music pounds louder, a disorienting backdrop to the flash of heat that rushes through me.

The man’s smirk only widens as I say coldly, “Let her go.”

Instead of listening, he leans in closer, his hand brushing Jenny’s arm in a way that’s too familiar, too deliberate. Jennystiffens, stepping back instinctively, her discomfort evident. The man doesn’t care; if anything, her reaction seems to spur him on.

“Come on,” he says, his voice loud and slurred. “Just one dance.”

My patience snaps. The music, the crowd, the flashing lights…all of it fades into the background. I step forward, my presence towering over his smaller frame. “I said, let her go,” I growl, my voice low and deadly.

But the man doesn’t heed the warning. Instead, he chuckles darkly, muttering something under his breath as he reaches for her again.

And then it happens.

The world narrows into a sharp, red-hot focus. My hand moves before I can think, curling into a fist that drives straight into his jaw with a force that sends him reeling. The sickening crunch of bone echoes louder than the bass of the club’s speakers. He stumbles back, crashing onto the floor in a heap, clutching his face as blood spills between his fingers.

“Fuck! You broke my jaw!” he howls, his voice barely audible over the music. A ripple of gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd, and I can feel the weight of dozens of eyes on us. Jenny stands frozen beside me, her lips parted in shock as chaos briefly blooms around us.

The man writhes on the ground, his curses muffled by the pounding beat and the frantic energy of people scrambling to get out of the way. I tower over him, my chest heaving, fists clenched, daring him to move, to say something else, to try again. But he doesn’t. He stays down, his groans of pain mingling with the music.

Jenny’s hand closes around my arm, tugging gently but urgently. “Zack,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s go.”

Her touch anchors me, pulling me back from the edge of my fury. My jaw tightens, but I don’t move until I’m certain he won’t get up again. Only then do I turn, my arm slipping around Jenny protectively as I guide her through the parting crowd, the weight of the moment still heavy in the air.

The night is cool when we step outside, but it does little to soothe the heat still coursing through me. Jenny’s hand trembles slightly as it rests on my arm, and I glance down at her, my expression softening. She looks up at me, her hazel eyes wide and searching, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice shaky but firm. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” I reply, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She doesn’t respond, her gaze dropping as she swallows hard. I open the car door for her, ushering her inside before sliding in beside her. The tension in the car is palpable, the silence heavy with words unsaid. But I don’t care about the stares or the whispers we left behind. All that matters is she’s safe.

And I’ll make damn sure it stays that way.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

JENNY

The silence in the car is suffocating, save for the low hum of the engine and the faint, distant thrum of my heartbeat in my ears. My body is buzzing…not just from the alcohol but from everything. The chaos of the club, the way he’d stepped in, the raw fury in his eyes as his fist connected with that man’s jaw…it’s all swirling in my head, too vivid, too intense. I press my fingers against my thighs, trying to steady myself, but it’s useless. I feel like I’m trembling from the inside out.

In the dim, shifting lights that spill in through the car windows, Zack looks... otherworldly. His hair, tousled and wild from the commotion, falls across his forehead in dark waves. The sharp line of his jaw is taut, his lips pressed together in a grim line as he stares out of the window, his expression unreadable. The veins in his neck are still faintly visible, his hands resting on his knees clenched just enough to make the tendons stand out.

I can’t stop sneaking glances at him, my gaze drawn to the strength in his posture, the way he holds himself like nothing could ever shake him. And yet, he’s silent. The distance between us feels like a chasm, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s furious or because I’ve done something wrong. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the lingering heat from the alcohol pooling low in my stomach, making everything feel heavier, sharper.

My skin feels too tight, my thoughts spiraling. God, why does he have to look like that? In the club, under the flashing lights, he hadn’t seemed real…more like some untouchable hero out of a movie. The fury in his face, the way his hair had fallen into his eyes, the veins in his hands and neck…he’d been a force of nature, terrifying and breathtaking all at once. The memory sends a shiver down my spine, and I have to clench my hands together to keep from doing something stupid. Like touching him.

But I can’t stop thinking about the way his body had moved, the sharp precision of his punch, the sheer power in it. It had been savage, raw, and impossibly arousing. I shift again, trying to ignore the ache building inside me, the heat that refuses to dissipate no matter how hard I try to focus on anything else.

“Are you hurt?” I blurt out suddenly, my voice breaking through the oppressive quiet.

He doesn’t turn to look at me. “No,” he says shortly, his tone clipped.

That’s it. Just one word. No glance, no reassurance. I bite my lip, frustration curling in my chest. He’s mad. He has to be. Why else wouldn’t he look at me? The thought makes my throat tighten. I didn’t ask him to do that, to step in like that…but he had, and the fact that he’d done it so fiercely, so completely, makes my heart twist in ways I can’t quite understand.

The car keeps moving, the city lights blurring outside the window, and I can’t stand the silence any longer. I inch my handcloser to him, my fingers trembling slightly as they hover near his. It’s reckless, stupid, but I can’t help myself. I need some kind of connection, some reassurance that he isn’t mad at me, although I’m not so sure why I care now when I never have before.

Finally, my hand brushes his, just the lightest touch, but it feels like a spark igniting in my skin. He doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge it, and for a moment, I think he hasn’t noticed. But I can feel the tension in the air shift slightly, the weight of his presence tilting toward me in some inexplicable way.

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