Page 47 of Claimed By The Other Brother

I give the driver my address and sink back against the seat, closing my eyes. My body still aches. My head still pounds. My heart is a mess of confusion and shame and something else I don't want to name.

Yesterday, I was supposed to get married. Instead, I was abandoned at the altar by my fiancé and ended up in bed with his brother. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to stop the thoughts from spiraling.

The city passes by the window in a blur of buildings and early morning traffic. I focus on breathing. On getting home. On escaping this nightmare. The taxi turns a corner, and my apartment building comes into view.Almost there. Almost safe.

I pay the driver, grab my bags, and stumble into my building. Up the elevator. Down the hall. Through my door. I drop everything in the entryway and lock the door behind me. My apartment is quiet. Empty. Exactly as I left it. I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and crawl into bed.

The sheets smell like home. Like safety. Like everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours was just a horrible dream. But my body knows better. Every ache. Every throb. Every buzzing nerve ending. I pull the covers over my head and finally let myself break.

Chapter Seven

Dax

Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bright and insistent. The sounds of Chicago traffic filter up from the street below—horns, engines, the city coming alive.

I stir, my body heavy with sleep and something else. Satisfaction. Exhaustion. My hand moves across the mattress, reaching for warmth.

Nothing.

My eyes open. The bed beside me is empty. The sheets are cool to the touch, the pillow still holding the indent of her head. But Scarlett is gone.

I push myself up onto my elbows, scanning the bedroom. Her side of the bed is abandoned. No sound from the bathroom. No movement anywhere.

The clock on the nightstand reads 7:45 AM. I run a hand over my face, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. Last night crashes back in fragments. The terrace. The champagne. Her mouth on mine. The wedding dressfalling to the floor. The way she felt beneath me. Around me. The way she came apart, crying and climaxing at the same time. The way I held her until she fell asleep.

My cock stirs at the memory, a dull throb building low in my belly. I sit up fully, the sheet falling away. My chest bears evidence of what happened—faint scratches trailing down from my collarbone, marks from her nails when she was clawing at my back. My muscles ache in the best way. My groin pulses with the memory of being inside her.

I swing my legs out of bed and stand, naked, my body reminding me exactly how thoroughly we fucked last night.

The bedroom door is ajar. I walk through it into the living room, half expecting—hoping—to find her there. Maybe making coffee. Maybe standing at the window looking out at the city. Maybe waiting for me to wake up so we can talk about what happened.

The living room is empty.

The wedding dress—that pile of ivory lace and silk that pooled on the floor near the wall—is gone. Her shoes are gone. Her panties. No trace of her remains except the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air and the empty champagne bottle still sitting on the credenza by the door.

She left.

I exhale slowly, standing in the middle of my suite in nothing but my skin, alone. I'm not sure what I expected. She was drunk. Devastated. Looking for an escape from the worst day of her life. Of course she left.

I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, studying my reflection in the mirror. The scratches on my chest. The faint bruise on my shoulder where her teeth grazed my skin. Evidence of a night that shouldn't have happened but did.

I don't feel guilt. I search for it—some sense of shame or regret—but it's not there. Just a low simmer of something I can't name. Want, maybe. Or the ghost of satisfaction that hasn't quite faded.

I dry my face and walk to the kitchen area. The coffee maker is exactly where the hotel staff left it yesterday. I start a pot, the ritual giving my hands something to do while my mind tries to process.

My phone is on the desk where I left it last night. I pick it up, scanning the screen. A few work emails. A text from Mark.

Nothing from Miles.

Nothing from Scarlett.

Not that I expected anything from her. I don't even have her number. No way to reach her. No way to check if she's okay or regret leaving or... what? What would I even say?

Sorry I fucked you senseless hours after my brother abandoned you at the altar?

The coffee maker beeps. I pour myself a cup and take a long drink, the heat scalding my throat. A noise in the hallway catches my attention. Movement. Voices. I set my coffee down and walk to the door, opening it justenough to peer out.

Housekeeping. Two staff members with their carts, preparing to clean the suites on this floor.