Forbidden to Love My Stepbrother

Chapter 3

It’s just us now and I don't mind that he doesn't want a hug. My heart races, my fingers twitch, and I'm breathing a little faster. Those unusual eyes track me as I take another step closer.

He’s so fit, I want those firm, muscled arms around me, pulling me tight, pressing me against that broad, warm chest.

“Grey.” I start, swallow because it’s been so long since I said a word to him, it doesn't feel real. My smile stretches wide. “I missed you.” And I mean it with every fiber of my being.

Grey’s eyes flicker past me, skimming the railing as if something out there holds more interest than I do. It stuns me cold instantly. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

His gaze snaps back to me. “I have nothing to say.” he replies and it is like he struck me.

“You have nothing to say?” I step closer, holding his stare. “How about you missed me too. How about sorry I didn't reply to any of the one hundred messages you sent because I had a hundred excuses.”

I’m close now, close enough to see how much taller he’s grown. Even in my heels I still have to tilt my head back to meet those eyes. To kiss that hard, stubborn line of a mouth, I’d have to stand on my toes, maybe even jump. His familiar scent, clean seductive smell of cedar and citrus, with a touch of something that makes my mouth water.

I lift my arms, ready to fold into him, when he shoves me back.

Not hard, not gentle, just enough to send me stumbling a step away.

“Freya.” My name on his lips scrapes like nails on a board. “I thought you’d have outgrown this behavior by now. Guess not.” A smile ghosts across his face, the kind you wear when you’re tolerating something unpleasant.

“What are you talking about, Grey? What’s wrong with you?” I push, a little harsher than I need to. He is being too cold, too distant. And he always calls me Luna.

Grey’s gaze slips away from me again, dismissing, and heat surges in my chest. What the hell is so fascinating out there? I grab his arm, and pin him with a glare.

“Don’t ignore me.”

“Freya.” He tries to tug free, but I hold tighter. “There are people below us,” he says, coolly, eyes still refusing to stay on me.

I whirl around. Sure enough, guests drift through the foyer, some moving toward the dining hall where laughter and clinking glasses spill out into the night.

“That’s why you’re acting like a jerk? That’s why you’re pushing me away?”

“Freya.” He pauses, leans in, and for one dangerous second the chiseled line of his jaw distracts me from his words.

“You’re confused. Tonight isn’t about you. Keep your distance and behave appropriately.” This time he yanks his arm free, rough and uncaring. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

He strides away, leaving me nailed to the floor, my insides stewing over what he said. What does he mean? That I’m not supposed to steal his spotlight? I don’t care about that. And last I checked, neither did he. We used to mock nights like this together, gatherings full of pompous, overdressed assholes flaunting their wealth like medals. Why does it suddenly matter?

I turn for the stairs, but Johanna emerges from the dining hall, her eyes scanning until they land squarely on me. My stomach drops, and I groan as her gaze narrows like claws.

“Freya.” She whispers-screams my name as she hurries up the stairs, and her hand clamps around my arm, digging right into the bruises she left earlier. Pain flares, but who cares. “What in the world are you wearing?” she hisses.

“Clothes, Mom.” I grin wide. “Don’t you recognize them?”

“You always test my patience, don't you,” she mutters, squeezing harder.

I yank free, my brows pinched. “I’m already here, Mom. Why isn’t that enough?”

“Go back and change,” she snaps under her breath, sharp but contained. She doesn’t want the important guest to hear.

I sneer, ignore her, and keep walking.

“Freya!” she calls, her warning couldn't be louder if she tried. But I won't stop. I step into the dining room.

Light floods the space, chandeliers throwing gold across polished floors. The long tables are stripped for show carrying arrays of food, crystal glasses gleaming, men in crisp suits and cravats mingling with women draped in diamonds and gold. Their wealth glitters louder than their voices.

I ignore them all. My eyes find Grey. He is standing beside dad, dad who looks like a bloated frog next to him. Robert Zilinski radiates wealth, though I’ve never cared to keep track of his empire.

Grey once drilled it into me anyway: fashion chains, hotels, car dealerships, he’s got his fingers in all of it. A man of great importance in the business world, which is why the room swarms tonight. Everyone wants a glimpse of the future of Zilinski Enterprises. And that future is my stepbrother.

To the world, though, Grey isn’t my stepbrother. He’s my half-brother. A neat lie my father spun to make it look like the company stayed in his bloodline since he never managed to produce a son.

Johanna thinks I should shock him, step up in some grand way. The only shock I want to give him is walking down the aisle in white, towards Grey.

Dad's gaze flicks to me as I cross to the drinks table. His eyes glint, a silent warning. It honestly confuses me how tense he gets just seeing me. It’s as if my mere presence is a ticking bomb. I reach for a glass, lift it halfway, when a firm hand clamps around my arm.