Page 163 of The Rules
Julian’s breath caught—just a flicker—but his shoulders stiffened beneath Ben’s grip, hands twitching with the instinct to retaliate, though the calculation in his eyes said he wouldn’t.
Ben's voice rolled out low and sharp.
“You’d live about five more seconds if you touched her.”
There was nothing performative about it. No courtroom control. No lawyer polish.
Just raw, unfiltered threat.
Katherine’s chest tightened—not from fear. From thesoundof him. The heat. The certainty. He didn’t weigh the consequences—he reacted. Instinct. Possession. Fury.
Julian’s grin came slow, feral, teeth flashing like a wolf baring its fangs.
“Ohhh… nowthat’sinteresting,” he murmured. Not afraid. Delighted.
Ben’s grip stayed for a second too long—fingers twisted in Julian’s collar, knuckles white, lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. His whole body radiated warning, violence restrained by inches.
Then, finally, he let go.
A sharp shove—not enough to hurt, but more than enough toremind. Julian dropped back into his seat, shirt wrinkled and pride bruised. Ben adjusted the front of his own shirt with a brisk tug, then sank into the chair beside Katherine. No glance.
No word. Just the crackle of tension.
Julian exhaled a slow breath through his nose. Calm. Collected.
Then he smoothed a hand down his chest, fixing his shirt like nothing had happened at all. Like his brother hadn’t just nearly put him through the table.
He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Relax, brother,” he drawled, that smug smirk sliding right back into place. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with such a...happycouple.”
The words dripped with mockery, but something colder gleamed beneath them.
Katherine didn’t answer. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Beside her, Ben was still stone-still.
She opened her mouth—whether to deny or deflect, she wasn’t sure. The instinct to protect herself kicked in too late.
Because her cheeks betrayed her before words ever stood a chance. That flicker of heat. That rush of color shecouldn'tswallow down fast enough.
Julian saw it.
And his grin deepened.
Ben exhaled—a sharp, guttural sound more animal than breath—eyes locked on his brother like he was calculating how many consequences he was willing to live with.
“Go to hell, Julian,” he bit out.
Across the table, Julian raised his glass with a mock salute, eyes dancing.
“Love you too, Benny.”
She watched as Julian’s expression shifted. The teasing edge didn’t vanish completely, but it changed shape—sharpened into something quieter. Less performative. More precise. Like a blade turned flat just before the strike, still dangerous, but waiting.
His fingers tapped the tabletop in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Not a tic. A signal. For the first time since she walked in, Julian Sinclair looked almost serious.
"Alright. Let’s talk about Crawford," he said—calm now, almost clinical. No mockery in sight.
The name changed the air. Like someone had cracked open a window in the middle of winter. Cold slid through her veins, not from fear, but from the clarity that came with purpose.
