Breaking Bro Code

Chapter 2

I didn't answer him right away. The gin was starting to settle in my stomach, but it couldn't stop the tears. They were sliding down my cheeks, hot and insistent, ruining the makeup I’d spent an hour perfecting for a night that was supposed to change my life.

"Allie? Talk to me," Roman’s voice came again, low and vibrating with a command that made the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. "You’re scaring the hell out of me. Where are you?"

"I... I'm at the bar," I whispered, the words barely audible over the thump of the club’s music. "The Velvet Lounge. I just... I needed to get out."

"Stay exactly where you are," he snapped. It wasn't a request; it was an order. "Do not move, do not speak to another soul, and do not hang up this phone. You hear me?"

Before I could muster a response, the line went dead. I stared at the blank screen of my phone, the silence of the bar feeling suddenly suffocating. My hands were still shaking, and I felt like a child lost in a department store—except the store was a den of shadows and predatory glances. A man a few seats down shifted, his gaze heavy and insolent as he tracked the way my trench coat had slipped off one shoulder. I pulled the fabric tighter, a wave of cold, sharp panic hitting me.

*Roman is coming.*

The thought should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like a collision course. Roman wasn't just my brother’s best friend. He was a force of nature—a man who lived his life in the spotlight, who commanded respect with a single look, and who had spent the last five years being the forbidden, untouchable older brother figure I wasn't allowed to crave.

Minutes ticked by, each one stretching like an eternity. I finished the drink and signaled the bartender for another, but before he could pour it, the air in the room seemed to displace.

It wasn't just that the door opened. It was like the atmosphere changed. The ambient noise of the room felt like it was being physically pushed back by an invisible, solid wall. I looked up, and there he was.

Roman looked like he’d been pulled from the pages of a magazine, but not the clean, edited versions they posted on the league’s social media. He was wearing a charcoal wool coat over a fitted black shirt that left the top buttons undone, his hair windblown and wild. He looked dangerous. He looked lethal. And the way his eyes locked onto mine from across the room felt like a physical shackle snapping into place.

He cut through the crowd like a razor, ignoring the handful of people who tried to stop him—the socialites, the cameras, the fans. He didn't see them. He only saw me.

When he reached the bar, he didn't say a word. He just stood there, his presence radiating a heat that pushed the cold ache in my chest aside. He leaned in, his large, calloused hand coming up to cup my jaw. His skin was burning, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my cheek with a possessive, almost aggressive tenderness.

"Who did this to you?" he asked. His voice was a low, jagged rumble that vibrated against my skin.

"It doesn't matter," I managed to choke out.

"It matters to me," he countered, his tone dropping an octave. His eyes, a shade of dark, intense brown, searched mine, stripping away the walls I was trying to build. He wasn't looking at me like a friend’s sister tonight. He was looking at me like I was something that had been violated, and he was the one who was going to dismantle whoever had laid a finger on me.

He didn't wait for an answer. He reached out, his hand sliding behind my neck, his fingers curling into my hair with a firm, dominant grip. He pulled me up from the stool, and for a second, my heels wobbled. He didn't let me fall. He caught me, his other arm wrapping around my waist with a crushing force that pinned me flush against his hard chest.

The scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely, overwhelmingly *Roman*—filled my senses, drowning out everything else. It grounded me, even as it sent a violent shockwave of arousal through my nerves.

"You aren't spending another second in this pathetic place," he murmured, his breath fanning hot against my ear. His hand slid down to the small of my back, his fingers digging into the fabric of my dress, mapping the curve of my spine. "And you’re sure as hell not going home to deal with whatever garbage is waiting for you there."

"Roman, I can't—"

"You can," he cut me off, his grip tightening just enough to leave no room for argument. He turned, his focus shifting to the world outside, his arm still locked around me like a cage. "I’m taking you to my place. It’s secure, it’s private, and for tonight, you’re not going to be anyone’s sister or anyone’s girlfriend. You belong to me until I say otherwise."

The word *belong* didn't just rattle me; it lit a fire in my blood. I looked up at him, the height difference making me feel small in the most intoxicating way. For the first time all night, the crushing weight of betrayal felt like it was shifting, replaced by a dark, electric tension. I realized, with a jolt that went deeper than the alcohol, that I was walking away from my life and straight into the eye of a storm I didn't want to escape.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice losing its sharp edge and settling into something smooth, almost hypnotic.

I looked at his profile—the strong, sharp jaw, the way his muscles bunched under his coat—and nodded.

"Yeah," I whispered.

He didn't hesitate. He maneuvered me toward the door, his hand never leaving my side. As we stepped out into the cool night air, the city lights reflected in his eyes, hard and unyielding. When he opened the door of his sleek, black car, he paused, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes.

"Don't ever call anyone else," he said, his voice deadly serious. "You call me. Always."

As I slid into the leather seat, I knew that everything was about to change. I wasn't just his best friend's sister anymore. In his eyes, I was something else entirely.