Forbidden Desires With My Stepbrother

Lena's POV

"Move."

I turned slowly. A man stood at the end of the service corridor, half-shadowed by amber wall lights. Black suit with open collar. Bruised cheekbone, his knuckles were raw, recently cleaned.

He looked like sin wrapped in bad intentions. I straightened. "Try that again with manners."

His gaze slid over me, cool and deliberate. It lingered just long enough to be insulting.

"I said move."

I lifted a brow. "And I said manners."

He stepped closer with calculation, the way a predator studied a locked gate before deciding how hard to break it.

"You're either very brave," he said, "or very stupid.

"Interesting," I said. "I was about to say the same thing."

He leaned against the wall, blocking the corridor with the casual arrogance of someone who'd never heard no enough. "Let me guess. Investor's daughter? Trophy guest? Someone's clever little date hoping to be noticed."

I laughed. "You forgot one."

"What's that?"

"I could be the woman about to make you regret opening your mouth."

Something flickered in his eyes. Interest. That was almost worse than contempt.

He pushed off the wall and invaded my space. Up close, he was larger than he'd seemed, broad shoulders, brutal stillness, violence forced into a tuxedo.

"Here's some advice," he murmured. "If you're going to survive a place like this, learn when to shut up."

I looked him over slowly. "Here's some advice for you. If you're going to threaten women in dark hallways, at least wipe the blood off your hand first."

His gaze dropped to his knuckles. When it returned, the amusement was gone.

"What makes you think it isn't mine?"

Before I could answer, heels clicked against marble. A blonde appeared at the mouth of the corridor. "Your father's been looking for you."

The man didn't turn. "Then he knows where to find me." The woman's gaze flicked to me, cold. "Who's she?"

He kept his eyes on me. "No one."

I smiled sweetly. Then I reached past him, took a champagne flute off a passing tray, and poured it over his white shirt.

The blonde gasped.

I placed the empty glass back. "Now you have something to actually be offended about."

For one long beat, he didn't move. Then his tongue dragged over his split lip, and his voice went lower. "Bad idea."

"Probably," I said. "But satisfying."

I brushed past him. His hand caught my wrist. Heat shot up my arm, hot, instant, humiliating. He turned me back toward him with terrifying ease.

"You have no idea who you're playing with."

"Then maybe introduce yourself."

His grip tightened. Then he let go.

"When it matters," he said, "you'll know."

---

In the ballroom, I found my mother, Elise, in dark emerald silk, her hand resting on her new husband, Richard Blackwood. Billionaire. Industrial kingmaker.

She'd been distracted all night, her smile brittle. Twice I'd caught her scanning the room like she was waiting for something terrible.

A shift moved through the crowd. The