Page 61 of Claimed By The Other Brother

We stop. Face each other. The tension is immediate. Overwhelming. My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat. He's standing close. Too close. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—that same expensive, masculine scent that's been haunting me for days. Close enough that I can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes darken as they lock onto mine.

"Dax," I start, but I don't know what to say.

I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling, and he doesn't give me a chance to figure it out.

"I didn't appreciate you running out of my hotelsuite without a word," he says, his voice controlled but edged with something harder.

My defenses snap into place.

"What did you expect? I woke up and realized what we'd done."

"What we'd done?" His eyes flash.

"You mean what we both wanted?"

"It was a mistake, Dax. I was devastated, drunk—"

"It didn't feel like a mistake," he says, cutting me off.

Silence stretches between us, charged and crackling.

"Why are you here?" I ask finally.

"In this club?"

"Business meeting with clients." His eyes don't leave mine.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"My friends brought me to New York." I cross my arms over my chest, a weak shield against the intensity of his gaze.

"To help me move on."

"Move on." He says it like the words taste bitter.

"From Miles?"

"Who else?"

Another silence. Heavier this time. Dax steps closer. I should step back. I don't.

"Have you been in touch with Miles?" he asks, his voice quieter now.

I shake my head.

"He's left me voicemails. Texts. I haven't called back."

"Good."

The word is possessive. Territorial. It sends a shiver down my spine.

"I just wanted to make sure you're okay," he continues, his eyes searching my face.

"I'm fine." I try to sound convincing.

"Or I will be."

His hand comes up, fingers brushing my arm. Just a light touch, but it sets every nerve ending on fire.