Seducing My Husband's Brother

Tu Casa Es Mi Casa

PURITY

••••••••••

A sticky sheen coats my face as more hot liquid traces its way down my cheeks, gathering at the tip of my chin before falling off.

My gaze remains fixed on the window, my eyes following every streetlight as they rush past us.

It was a December night. Raya had just turned eighteen, and she wanted to go clubbing. She, of course, chose an adult club because, in her own words, "What's the usefulness of being a mafia princess if you can't break the rules?"

Now, she couldn't ask her brothers, because they wouldn't approve and they were busy, so she dragged me along. Coincidentally, we happened upon those same brothers at the same club.

They were enclosed in an exclusive glass booth, men of different calibers sitting around—dangerous men—and a few strippers clinging to them, desperately seeking to win their attention, and probably favour.

That was the first time I saw Ryat for who he is. He welcomed and entertained those strippers with no regards whatsoever to me. Naive and stupid, I created the excuse that he had to indulge. That he wasn't f*****g them.

I'm not sure if it was this resolve that had me completely forgetting the encounter and waking up the next morning with a smile on my face, or it was the way Ryan didn't, for once, glance at any stripper nor let them get close. He was the most dangerous, most powerful man in that booth, yet his restraint was impeccable.

My marriage with Ryat was fast tumbling down the hill at that point, so the thought of Ryan's restraint stemming from a love interest he can't let go of, the thought that he may still love me gave me... hope.

Plus, his refusal to join with a woman in conjugal bliss over the years had cemented that belief in my head, plastering it in every nook and cranny of my heart. Now imagine the heartbreak when I saw him naked in front of that woman; imagine the pain when the thought hit: it should have been me.

After happening upon that hideous sight, I stormed out, headed straight to Ryat and announced my willing participation in my own illegal imprisonment, not even caring about taking Angelo anymore.

Ryat was confused, but I led myself to the car, so he followed suit.

Along the line, he may have asked once—which is decent for a person of his making—what happened, but I didn't speak, and he didn't bother checking up after.

The car rounds up in a luxurious driveway, putting an end to our minutes long ride.

A doorman opens the door for Ryat first, then another opens mine.

Inhaling deeply, I take the man's hand as he helps me out. He bows and I respond with a smile.

My eyes scan the place, taking in the amount of effort put in to ensure that this place earned its reputation.

Tipping my head slightly, I take in the gracious image of Skyline. A Reigns Realty project completed a year ago. The tallest and most expensive apartment in Chelsea, and the penthouse belongs to my dear husband.

It's a beautiful place, and until a while ago, I didn't know he had a place like it. I only came to find out after his promiscuousness was exposed. This apartment is said to be his lair for everything and anything extramarital.

His shadow falls on me, almost shrouding my whole being. He has a structure similar to that of a giant. Not that he's an out-of-this-world kind of tall, but something about him amplifies his 6'2" height, making him cast a bigger, darker shadow than he ordinarily should.

"Why are we here?" My heartbeat spikes, annoyance brewing in my gut. "What are we doing here, Ryat?"

He barely spares me a glance, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the building. "What does it look like?"

I turn to face him squarely, my nails digging into my palm. "Why"—I ask again—"are we here?"

His eyes finally rests on my face, a dull expression on his. "This, my dear, is where you will live out the rest of your life as my obedient, loving wife."

"In your w***e house?" I spit. "I won't be doing that."

His eyes narrow slightly, but he immediately fixes his expression—f*****g Reigns stoicism. "You would."

I shake my head. "You can't do this."

He ignores me, his eyes casually finding the attendant waiting around. "Bring everything inside."

"Ryat!"

He moves first, heading toward the grand entrance.

I take a quick look around, watching as the attendants unload the boot, preparing to usher my things in.

"You are an asshole!" I scream after him, but he doesn't react, doesn't halt, just continues with his stride.

"Make sure she finds her way to the penthouse," he says to nobody in particular, but the guards react.

They close in on me—intimidating, but not touching me.

"Ma'am, I suggest you go in of your own accord," the closest to me gently advises.

Inhaling deeply to clear my thoughts, I conclude that this is better done without force.

As I step into the penthouse, I'm immediately enveloped by the warmth and grandeur of the place. The floors are wide-plank Brazilian wood, polished until they reflect every form of light, bright or dull. The 12-foot ceilings make the space feel even more grand and expansive, and the walls of floor-to-ceiling windows offer breathtaking 360-degree views of the city skyline.

With slow strides, I move to the windows first, feasting my eyes on the magnificent view. From this point, I can trace the jagged rooftops of every building. Cars move along the roads, disappearing behind taller structures and reappearing somewhere else, and down below, I spot the familiar curve of the driveway that welcomed us moments ago.

Just then, I hear light footsteps approaching. It's not Ryat's heavy, ownership-laced stride, no. This one carries no entitlement, no weight of expectation, just an encompassing feeling of protection.

"Breathtaking, huh?"

"Hm." I continue to play the trace game. The one where I follow a car until it disappears and see where it reappears.

His presence doesn't thin, and I find myself melting under the thought of him staring.

"Madam," his voice carries a certain softness, a definite sweetness. "Your bags have been placed in the guest wing. If you need anything, I'll be nearby."

An attendant? But I don't turn to confirm. Nodding instead, I voice my appreciation. "Thank you."

He still doesn't leave.

I wait for him to ask to be excused, but nothing. Instead, I become aware of things I shouldn't. Like the faint scent of clean cologne—too rich for a simple attendant. The quiet steadiness of his presence. The quietly strong way that I'm aware of his existence behind me.

Out of nothing but curiosity, I glance over my shoulder.

He's tall. Not towering like Ryat, but proportioned in a way that feels intentional. His sleeves are rolled just enough to expose forearms dusted with dark hair, veins subtle beneath the skin, and a snake—or is it a dragon?—tattoo that wraps around the length of his right arm, giving him a dangerously seductive presence.

His posture is relaxed yet alert. Like someone used to standing guard but not invisible.

Our eyes meet.

He doesn't look away.

His deep green eyes stare back at me.

Something warm curls low in my stomach, surprising in both its speed and clarity. Not desire exactly—yet—but awareness. The kind that sharpens the air between two people who have just noticed each other noticing.

I give him time again, expecting that he'd leave, but he doesn't.

Confused, I turn to face him. "What are you doing?"

He leans in slightly, like he didn't get the question. "Sorry?"

That voice again!!

Swallowing, to suppress my reaction, I ask again, this time softer. "Why are you standing there?"

A simple smile appears on his face for a fraction of a second, almost like he found my confusion... attractive. "I'm your personal guard, ma'am."

"Personal guard?" I tip my head closer.

He nods.

Disbelief washes over me, settling in my gut like a boulder. A personal guard, even within the penthouse?

Ryat's got to be f*****g kidding me!

Shaking my head, I turn back to the glass, my focus this time on my reflection. On the woman staring back at me—eyes sharper, spine straighter than it was an hour ago.

Why is you acting up, Marisol?

If this penthouse was his playground, then make it the f**k yours!

After all, I breathe, Tu casa es mi casa.