THE BROTHER NO ONE TALKS ABOUT
Aniya
Chapter 1
My name is Niya Calloway, and today is one of those days I've been looking forward to for weeks.
I know how that sounds. Like I'm the kind of girl who circles dates on a calendar and counts down. Maybe I am.
But when your life is as good as mine, you learn to hold onto the good days a little tighter, because some part of you is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It never does, though. Not with Weston.
I fell in love with him before I even understood what love was supposed to feel like.
Our parents arranged it when we were nine... two packs deciding our future over a dinner table neither of us was invited to sit at.
I used to think that would make it feel hollow. Instead it made it feel inevitable, like the universe had simply agreed with what our families already knew.
Weston never let me forget I was chosen, not traded. Every year on the anniversary of our engagement, he shows up with something that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the fact that he actually listens.
The first edition of a book I mentioned once in passing, a weekend at the cabin where I told him, half-joking, that I wished I could disappear for a while.
He remembers things. He shows up. When my mother went through her surgery last spring, he sat in that hospital waiting room with me until two in the morning, holding my hand like letting go wasn't an option he was willing to consider.
So when people ask me if I'm sure...and people do ask, because apparently a twenty-four-year-old getting married still surprises everyone... I tell them the truth. I've never been more sure of anything.
Today we're driving out to his family's estate in Cedar Hollow. His parents are hosting a party, the first time I'll be meeting some of his closest friends from the pack's inner circle, the ones who matter to him most.
I love going out there. His mother, Eleanor, has never once made me feel like an outsider marrying into old money...she holds my hand at dinner and tells people I'm the daughter she never had.
His father asks about my work like he actually cares about the answer. It's the kind of family I used to see on television and assume didn't exist in real life.
"You're quiet," Weston says, glancing over from the driver's seat. His hand finds mine on the console, the way it always does on long drives, like it's a reflex he doesn't have to think about.
"Just thinking." I squeeze his hand. "About tonight."
"Nervous?"
"A little."
"Don't be. Everyone's going to love you. They already do." He brings my hand up and presses a kiss to my knuckles, eyes back on the road.
"I promise you, tonight's going to be perfect." I believe him. I always believe him.
Maybe that's the easiest thing about loving Weston. I never have to question where I stand with him.
He's certain about us, and his certainty has always been enough to quiet every doubt before it has the chance to become a real thought.
We stop at a red light two miles from the estate, and he leans over and kisses me, one hand coming up to my jaw like we have all the time in the world instead of a car full of impatient traffic behind us.
It's a habit we've never grown out of...stealing kisses at red lights, in hallways, in the two seconds it takes an elevator door to close. His friends tease us about it constantly. I've never cared.
The estate comes into view, first the tree line breaking open, then the iron gates, then the house itself, all pale stone sitting proud against the hills.
The gates swing open automatically as we approach, and Weston pulls us up the long drive lined with cars I recognize from a dozen other parties.
That's when his hand goes tight around mine.
Not painfully. Just suddenly. A grip that wasn't there a second ago, and when I glance over, something in his face has changed... jaw tense, eyes fixed on something past the windshield that I can't see yet.
"Weston?" He doesn't answer right away. I follow his gaze, and that's when I see him.
He's leaning against a black motorcycle at the edge of the driveway, arms crossed, watching our car roll up with an expression I can't read.
And for one disorienting second, I think I'm looking at Weston... same jaw, same build, same dark hair... until I actually look at him.
Weston is clean lines and polish, the kind of handsome that photographs well in a suit, not a hair out of place even at the end of a long day.
This man is nothing like that. His t-shirt sleeves are pushed up past his elbows, and even from the car I can see ink crawling down one forearm, dark linework disappearing under the fabric at his bicep.
I don't know why I notice the tattoos.
Maybe because everything about him seems designed to make him impossible to ignore.
I look away almost immediately. He's Weston’s brother. That's the only thought I allow myself to have.
Weston has never had so much as a single tattoo. He says his mother would disown him.
Looking at his brother now, I understand for the first time that the two of them aren't just different... they're opposites standing feets apart in the same driveway, like proof that the same parents can raise two entirely different animals.
I don't need anyone to tell me who he is.
I've heard about Rhys Lancaster my entire life. In warnings, in whispers, in the careful way Weston's mother changes the subject whenever his name comes up.
The oldest son. The one they sent away. The one people say destroys whatever he gets close to, packs and businesses and relationships alike, like there's something in him that can't help but burn things down.
My stomach drops. Please don't let him be here to ruin this.
Weston parks the car with more force than necessary and is out the door before I've even unclipped my seatbelt.
I watch through the windshield as he crosses the toward his brother, every line of his body tight, and for one awful second I brace myself for a fight breaking out in front of half his family's guest list.
Instead, Rhys pushes off the motorcycle and closes the distance first.
He pulls Weston into a hug...quick, hard, the kind brothers give each other when they haven't seen one another in a while... and over Weston's shoulder, his eyes land on me through the windshield.
He holds my gaze for one beat too long before he lets his brother go.
"Relax," I hear him say as I finally get out of the car, my heels crunching on the floor. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I didn't know you were coming." Weston's voice is tight, pleasant on the surface in a way that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Mom invited me." Rhys's mouth curves, not quite a smile. "Figured I'd surprise you."
"You always do."
Rhys's gaze slides past his brother and settles on me again, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and no interest in pretending otherwise.
Up close he's even more of a contradiction.. the same height as Weston, the same build under the shirt, but he carries it differently, weight settled low and easy like he's never once worried about being caught off guard by anything.
"So this is her," he says. Not a question. "The famous Niya."
"Niya, this is my brother." Weston's hand finds the small of my back, steering me half a step closer to his side, and I don't miss how deliberate the movement is. "Rhys."
