The Brother's Web

The Floorboard

The clatter of silver against fine china echoed from the grand dining room downstairs. Dozens of syndicate elites and family associates were gathered, their low, predatory laughter floating up the sweeping marble staircase.

I didn’t care about the dinner. I only came for the floorboard.

My heels sank into the plush runner as I crept down the second-floor hallway. The air up here was stifling, heavy with the oppressive silence of a museum. At the very end of the corridor stood Liam’s bedroom door.

It had been locked since the day of the funeral.

My heart hammered violently against my ribs. I glanced over my shoulder. The hallway was empty. Reaching up, I slid my fingers along the top ridge of the mahogany doorframe. My fingertips brushed cold metal. The spare key. Liam had hidden it there years ago, laughing about how predictable his family’s security was.

My hands shook as I fitted the brass key into the lock.

Click.

I pushed the heavy door open and slipped inside, immediately shutting it behind me.

The room was pitch black. I didn't dare turn on the lights. The faint, silver glow of the moon bled through the massive bay windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floor. The air was stale, smelling faintly of old paper and dust. A mausoleum dedicated to a dead prince.

I moved quickly.

I dropped to my hands and knees beside the heavy oak bed frame. I grabbed the edge of the expensive Persian rug and yanked it back, exposing the polished hardwood floor.

“He’s wearing my clothes.”

The text message had been playing on a loop in my head for three days, driving me to the absolute brink of insanity. If Julian was wearing Liam's clothes, he had been in this room. If he had been in this room, what else had he touched?

I counted three planks from the bedpost. I dug my perfectly manicured nails into the microscopic gap between the oak floorboards.

It was tight. My nail cracked, a sharp sting of pain shooting up my finger, but I pulled harder. With a soft groan of old wood, the short plank popped free.

I tossed it aside and plunged my hand into the dark cavity beneath.

My fingers scraped against bare concrete.

Empty.

My breath hitched. I leaned closer, frantically feeling the corners of the hidden compartment. It was completely bare. The emergency cash, the encrypted hard drive, the two burner phones Liam always kept hidden here just in case his father ever turned on him.

Gone. All of it.

"Looking for something?"

The voice was a soft, deadly murmur in the darkness.

I shrieked, spinning around on my knees.

Julian stood leaning against the closed bedroom door. The shadows masked his expression, but the sheer, overwhelming gravity of his presence instantly suffocated the room. He didn’t look surprised. He didn't look angry.

He looked like a spider watching a fly exhaust itself in his web.

"Julian," I gasped, my chest heaving. "I... I was just..."

"Invading a sealed room?" he finished smoothly. He pushed off the door.

Panic seized my throat. I braced myself for the cold, calculated fury I knew he was capable of. I expected him to drag me up by my arm, to interrogate me, to demand to know what I was looking for.

Instead, Julian took off his suit jacket.

He draped it meticulously over a nearby armchair. Then, he walked toward me, his expensive leather shoes making no sound against the rug.

He didn't tower over me. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, placing himself exactly on my level.

The proximity hit me like a physical blow. The heat radiating from his massive frame, the dangerous, intoxicating scent of bergamot and dark cedar—his own scent this time, not Liam’s.

"Julian, please," I whispered, shrinking back against the bed frame.

He reached out. His large, warm palms cupped my trembling face.

"Shh," he murmured, his thumbs gently wiping away a tear I hadn't realized I shed. "You're breaking your own heart, Elara."

I froze. The aggression I anticipated never came. Instead, Julian shifted forward and pulled me firmly against his broad chest.

I gasped at the contact, my hands flattening against his crisp dress shirt. I tried to push him away, but his arms wrapped around my back, caging me in a crushing, undeniable embrace.

"You're exhausting yourself," he whispered, pressing his lips to the crown of my head. His breath was hot against my hair. "You're seeing shadows where there is only grief."

"I'm not crazy," I choked out, a sob tearing through my throat. The adrenaline crashed, leaving me hollow and terrified.

"I know you're not," he soothed, his large hand stroking slowly down the length of my spine. The rhythmic, heavy pressure was agonizingly comforting. "But trauma lies to us. It makes us paranoid. It makes us look for secrets in empty floorboards because the truth—that he is gone—is too painful to accept."

He was gaslighting me.

My mind screamed it. Every instinct I had told me this man was a predator wrapping me in silk. But my body betrayed me. The sheer, overwhelming relief of being held, of feeling safe, of the heavy, steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear. It eroded my defenses.

I hated myself as I stopped pushing. I hated myself even more as my fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring myself to him in the dark.

Julian held me tighter, his chin resting on top of my head. In the pitch black of his dead brother's room, he held me exactly like a lover.

"I've got you," he murmured, the dark satisfaction bleeding into his velvet tone. "I'm not going to let you fall apart, Elara. I won't let anything touch you."

The drive home was a blur of neon streetlights and blinding panic.

By the time I unlocked my apartment door, my hands were shaking so badly I dropped my keys on the entryway mat. I didn't bother picking them up. I slammed the deadbolt shut, threw the security chain, and leaned my back against the wood, sliding down until I hit the floor.

I pulled my knees to my chest, trying to scrub the sensation of Julian’s hands off my skin.

I was losing my mind. Julian was right. The text messages were a sick prank. The missing items from the floorboard had probably been cleared out by Liam himself before the crash. I was fabricating a conspiracy to avoid processing my grief.

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Bzz.

The vibration of my phone inside my purse made me jump.

I hesitated. My stomach churned with a sudden, violent dread. Slowly, I reached into the leather bag and pulled out the glowing device.

It wasn't Liam's number.

It was an unknown contact. No text. Just an image attachment.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I swallowed the lump of terror in my throat and tapped the icon to download the image.

The screen refreshed.

All the air left my lungs in a violent rush.

It was a photograph.

Taken tonight!

It was an image of Liam’s dark bedroom, illuminated only by the silver moonlight. In the center of the frame, kneeling on the floor, were two figures.

Julian, holding me against his chest. My hands clutching his shirt. His lips pressed into my hair.

The angle was slightly elevated. Slightly obscured by the ornate iron lattice of the balcony outside.

The photo had been taken from the window.

Someone had been standing on the balcony, watching us in the dark.

A new text bubble popped up on the screen, directly beneath the horrifying photograph.

I told you not to trust him. And you let him touch you.

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering against the hardwood. I stared at the door, the walls of my apartment suddenly feeling like a glass cage. I wasn't losing my mind.

I was being hunted.