Page 23 of The Wrong Brother

There’s a pause, and I can almost feel him absorbing my words, irritation and worry mingling on the other end.

“Send me the address,” he says, his tone firm but steady. “I’ll be there soon.”

I hang up, curling up on the edge of the bed, straining to block out the noises coming from all sides.

Every single one feels more heightened, louder, and I flinch, clutching my phone like a lifeline, listening intently for the faintest sound of a knock.

It’s not long…maybe fifteen minutes…before there’s a firm, unmistakable knock on the door. I rush over and peek through the peephole, my heart pounding when I see Zack, his expression hard and unreadable. Taking a steadying breath, I open the door a crack, unable to hide my relief as he looks me over, his gaze assessing the narrow, dim hallway, the flickering lights, and the thin, grungy walls.

“Rough night?” he asks dryly, his gaze finally landing on mine.

I nod, feeling foolish but relieved. “It’s… noisier than I expected.”

“Clearly,” he mutters, his eyes sweeping over the cramped room behind me, the faint smell of stale smoke and something else. He barely contains his disdain. “Let’s go.”

I grab my bag, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and relief, and follow him out of the room. I expect some kind of smug remark, maybe a hint of “I told you so,” but he says nothing as we head to the G-Wagon. The luxury of the leather seats feels like an escape, a world away from that cramped, uncomfortable hotel, and I exhale slowly as the door shuts, finally feeling safe.

Zack’s gaze is fixed forward, his expression unreadable, jaw set. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick, and I realize with a pang of surprise that he isn’t gloating, not even a hint ofit. I study his profile, the way his brow furrows slightly, how his hands grip the steering wheel. He’s focused, frustrated maybe, but there’s something else…a quiet concern I hadn’t expected. I find myself wondering what he’s thinking, almost as if I’m starting to understand him, despite knowing I shouldn’t be able to.

He could so easily make this about him, about being right, about me not listening. But he doesn’t, and that restraint, that silence, tells me more about him than anything he could say. It’s unsettling, and oddly reassuring, and I can’t help but feel something shift slightly, a deeper sense of him that I hadn’t noticed before.

As we pull up to the Hotel de Russie, the grandeur of the place steals my breath, but it’s Zack’s steady silence that lingers with me. We walk through the lobby without a word, and it’s only when we reach the elevator that he finally looks at me, his expression softer, almost unreadable.

“You should learn to listen.”

There it is. I’m disappointed, yet somehow not surprised. But I’m grateful, so I hold back from snapping back.

When we reach his room, I stop short in the hallway, surprised he doesn’t have a separate one for me. Zack opens the door, and I follow him in, finding myself in a small, elegant foyer with two doors on opposite sides and I am immediately relieved. He hands me a key, studying my reaction with that unreadable look.

“Did you eat?” he asks, his voice steady, almost neutral.

“Yes, I got some pizza earlier,” I manage, feeling strangely exposed in his presence.

He nods, giving the slightest hint of a polite smile. “Goodnight,” he says simply, and then he’s gone, disappearing through his door and leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I turn to my room and step inside.

The space opens up in soft, warm lighting, casting a glow over walls painted in a deep, serene ivory. High, ornate ceilings rise above me, creating an airy, almost ethereal sense of space.

Underfoot, the marble floors are cool and smooth, polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflects the ambient light. A lavish, king-sized bed dominates the room, its rich, cream-colored linens spilling over the edges like clouds, each layer inviting and impossibly soft, topped with oversized pillows and a luxurious velvet throw in shades of deep sapphire. The scent of fresh linens and delicate lavender fills the air, making me feel instantly calm.

To my right, floor-to-ceiling windows open to a sweeping view of Rome, the city lights glittering in the distance like scattered stars. The curtains, thick and intricately woven, frame the scene, adding an intimate touch to the breathtaking panorama. Every detail is exquisite, from the carved wood dresser adorned with fresh white lilies to the plush armchair in the corner, draped with a soft, cream-colored cashmere blanket. Each element speaks of elegance and comfort, yet with an effortless beauty that doesn’t try too hard to impress.

A sense of ease fills me, every inch of the room crafted to make me feel as if I’ve stepped into another reality, one where I belong here, surrounded by luxury.

Setting down my bag, I can’t help but feel a strange pull toward the adjoining door. Zack is just on the other side, probably getting ready for bed, his presence almost palpable, even through the walls. My mind wanders to the memory of him earlier in the evening, his expression unreadable, yet somehow softer than I’ve seen before. He’d been dressed down in a crisp dress shirt, the top buttons undone, giving a glimpse of his toned chest. The shirt flowed over his tailored slacks, fitting him perfectly, while his hair, usually so meticulously styled, fell in soft waves around his face, slightly tousled from the flight.

There’s an almost forbidden thrill at the memory of him, in control… concerned for me. I feel a rush of warmth between my legs, the quiet solitude of the room amplifying every sensation. I stare at the door, feeling my pulse quicken, a bit reckless, a bit daring.

I slide under the covers, slipping my hand slowly down my body, my fingers grazing over my bare skin. A slow warmth builds as I imagine his gaze, intense and unflinching, those gray eyes fixed on me with a knowing look that sends a thrill down my spine. I can picture his lips, always pressed into that firm line, controlled, like he’s holding back so much more.

I try to push him from my mind, to replace his face with Brett’s but it’s impossible; the image of him keeps flashing back, and I feel the heat building in my body, a restlessness I can’t shake.

I close my eyes, one hand slipping beneath my shirt, brushing over my stomach as I try to breathe, try to convince myself that this is nothing, that he’s nothing to me. But my body isn’t listening. I can already feel a warm dampness between my thighs, my body betraying the thoughts I don’t want to have. A soft gasp escapes my lips as my fingers slide lower, grazing over the sensitive skin, and I bite my lip, fighting against the rush of sensation.

The tension only builds as my fingers slip over my clit, rubbing slowly, tentatively, as if testing myself, daring myself to go further. My body feels raw, every nerve on edge, and I let out a shaky breath, trying to stifle the small moans that keep slipping out, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds.

Each touch feels like it’s pulling me closer to the edge, and my mind races, the friction against my skin sending waves of heat through me. My fingers move faster, the slickness only adding to the intensity. The more I try to fight it, the harder it is to stop, my body betraying me entirely as I finally let go, my hips arching as a shuddering release crashes over me, leaving me breathless and flushed.

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