: Meeting The Wrong Brother

I drag Finn by his jacket all the way to my company's parking lot, ignoring his protests.

The moment we're in front of his car, I whirl around to face him.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask. “You seriously want to crash your ex’s wedding? Have you completely lost your mind?”

Finn runs a hand through his hair. “I need closure, Sloane.”

“No, Finn. You need professional help. Therapy.”

“I can’t just sit still and watch the woman I love marry someone else.”

God. I want to punch him in the face. I want to kiss him until he forgets Delilah Crestfield ever existed. I want to scream until I shake the stars loose from the sky.

“So what’s the plan, huh? You gonna storm the aisle? Ruin her big day? Shove the groom off the altar and declare your undying love like some cliché rom-com protagonist? Jesus, Finn, you’re better than this.”

“I don’t want to destroy the wedding,” he mutters. “I just… I need her to look me in the eyes and tell me it’s over.”

My breath catches.

I hate him. I hate how stupidly, pathetically in love with Delilah he still is. How after everything—after the endless heartbreaks—he still thinks she hung the sun, moon, and stars.

“Well, I’m not going with you,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to.”

“You’re going, Sloane. End of discussion.”

“I am not.”

“I need you.”

Oh.

There it is. The words that crack me open and leave me bleeding all over this parking lot.

I hate how my pulse jumps. Hate how he still has this power over me.

“If things… don’t exactly go as planned,” he continues, stepping closer, “I need my best friend beside me. I’m not sure I’ll survive on my own if Delilah goes through with this wedding.”

Of course he needs me. He always needs me.

I’ve been stitching Finn back together for so long, I could probably rebuild him from memory. I know every crack, every fracture. I’ve held the broken pieces of him in my hands and pressed them back into place more times than I can count.

But I’m tired.

I’m so tired of loving him when he’s never even thought to love me back.

I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to meet his eyes. “I’m not your emotional support animal, Finn.”

“Please, Sloane. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

And just like that, I cave.

Because I’m weak. Because I’m pathetic. Because I love him.

I will always love him.

“Fine,” I say. “But when this inevitably blows up in your face, I’m not picking up the pieces this time.” Even as I say it, we both know it's a lie.

Finn grins, that boyish, lopsided smile that makes my heart skip. "Deal."

“Did you at least get me a first-class ticket?”

“You know I don't do economy, Sloane.”

“Whatever.”

I turn on my heel and march back to the office.

We’re really doing this.

We’re really flying across the country to crash his ex’s wedding.

What could possibly go wrong?

~~~

[[Seven weeks later]]

I’ve been waiting at Asheville Regional Airport for over an hour, my suitcase propped against my legs.

Finn was supposed to meet me the moment I landed. But of course, Finn Hartley, master of emotional chaos and poor decision-making, is nowhere to be found.

I’ve tried calling him. No answer.

Tried texting. Left on read.

I check my phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing. The battery's at 12%—just enough to call an Uber and find the nearest hotel if I have to.

I'm seconds away from throwing my phone against a wall when I hear the low purr of an engine that sounds like it crawled straight out of hell—a deep, thunderous growl that makes several people nearby turn and stare.

I raise my head just in time to see a monstrous black Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 glide to a stop in front of me.

The window rolls down, and—God help me—the man behind the wheel looks like sin itself.

He’s beautiful in a way that feels wrong. Dangerous. Sharp-jawed, dark-haired, and dressed in all black like he's either about to commit arson or murder.

His eyes drag over me from head to toe, sizing me up. I resist the urge to smooth down my travel-rumpled clothes or fix my hair.

"Sloane Mercer?" he says.

I blink. "Who are you?"

"I guess you can call me the wrong brother," he replies.

"What?"

"Forgive my manners," he says, his voice smooth, deep, and annoyingly sexy. "I’m Knox Hartley. Finn's brother. Finn sent me to chauffeur you to our parents' house."

: Torture Devices

So this is the infamous Knox.

I’ve heard stories. Finn talks about him the way you'd talk about a stray wolf that occasionally shows up to your campfire, steals your food, and disappears back into the woods. Wild. Unpredictable. Maybe even a little unhinged.

Now that I think about it, he does resemble Finn—same sharp bone structure, same annoyingly perfect mouth. But where Finn is sunshine and charm, Knox looks like he crawled out of a lifestyle magazine for sophisticated gangsters.

“How do I know you’re not a kidnapper?” I ask, tilting my chin up. “You’ll have to provide proof that you’re who you say you are.”

“Like an ID card?”

“That would work.”

“I don’t have any.”

“See? Kidnapper vibes,” I say.

“Why don't you call Finn and confirm?”

I cross my arms. “He’s not answering. Why do you think I’ve been standing here for an hour like an abandoned dog?” I glance at the car. “And you showing up in an aggressive-looking muscle car that screams ‘mafia boss’ isn’t exactly helping your case.”

“Are you getting in or not? I have places to be, young lady.”

“Young lady? Did you really just belittle me?"

Knox sighs, a long-suffering sound that suggests I'm testing what little patience he has. “Get in, Sloane.”

I stare at him, deadpan. Then I sigh, because clearly, I have zero self-preservation instincts. I've already agreed to help Finn crash his ex's wedding. Getting into a car with his potentially murderous brother isn't even the worst decision I've made this month.

“Open your trunk,” I say.

Knox pops the trunk from inside, and I toss my bag in, muttering to myself about how this is how women end up on true crime podcasts.

When I slide into the passenger seat, Knox doesn't move.

“Why aren’t you driving?” I ask, glancing sideways at him.

“Your seatbelt.”

Oh.

A safety-conscious potential kidnapper. That's... unexpected.

I snap it in place with a click, and he guns the engine, pulling out of the airport pickup zone and onto the highway with a smooth acceleration that pushes me back into my seat.

The moment we hit the open road, he speeds up, the Shelby Mustang roaring beneath us like a beast unleashed.

"Whoa, slow down!" My hands instinctively grip the edge of my seat.

"Wanna get out?" he asks.

“No. But you're moving too fast. I can't even see the city."

"Asheville? There's nothing to see."

“Easy for you to say. You’ve probably lived here all your life and traveled the world. I hardly leave New York. When I do, I like to... fill my eyes.”

It sounds poetic when I say it out loud, almost embarrassing. But it's true. I collect moments, images, sensations. Store them away for the lonely nights when my apartment feels too empty and my thoughts too loud.

"You think I live in Asheville?" he asks.

I turn to him. "You don't?"

"Nope. New York."

Wait a damn minute.

“You’ve been in New York all this time,” I say.

“You sound shocked.”

“It’s just... Finn’s never mentioned that. Ever. How do you both live in the same city and never cross paths?”

“Finn and I have a... complex relationship.”

The way he says it makes me drop the subject.

We drive in tense silence for a while, until Knox suddenly swerves off the main road with no warning, the car taking a sharp turn that has me clutching the door handle.

He parks in front of a dimly lit building with neon red letters that read:

SENSUAL DELIGHTS.

“Umm… Is this your parents' house?” I ask, knowing full well it isn't.

Knox smirks. “Sensual Delights? Really? Does it look like a house to you?”

The place is exactly what you’d expect an adult store to look like. Dark windows. Shady alleyway.

“A sex shop?” I ask.

“Bingo.”

My brain short-circuits. “Why are we at a sex shop?”

“Need to grab a wedding present.”

“For who?”

“My friend and his bride.”

I hesitate, swallowing hard as the pieces click into place in my mind. “Wait... your friend is Hunter? The groom?”

“Yep.”

“Delilah’s fiancé?”

Knox grins wickedly. “Yep.”

Oh, for God's sake.

Finn's brother is a friend to Delilah's fiancé?

Why has Finn never mentioned any of this? It's like I know nothing about my own best friend.

This is just a time bomb waiting to go off.

“Would you like to wait here or come inside?” Knox asks.

I glance at the building, then back at his face.

Screw it.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out of the car, awkwardly adjusting my glasses and smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of my top.

“Let’s go buy some torture devices in Delilah's name,” I say, not the least bit joking.

Knox chuckles. “Alright, ma’am. But I must warn you, some girls do enjoy being tortured.”

We'll see about that. I'm going to get something with enough voltage to zap Delilah's fake, cheating ass right off the face of this Earth so she doesn't get to ruin Finn anymore.

: Ever Heard Of Knocking?

***

~~KNOX~~

***

I must say, I did not expect Finn’s best friend to be this charming.

Finn’s always painted her as some awkward nerd.

But this?

This sharp-tongued, darkly dressed woman standing in the middle of the sex shop, casually discussing electrocution and BDSM gear with the sales rep, is not what I signed up for.

And yet… I can’t look away.

Her leather pants are sinfully tight.

Her dark boots are heavy against the polished floor.

Her blouse clings to her like a second skin, and those blunt bangs and glasses? They remind me of the dominatrixes in my club. All she's missing is a riding crop and a stern command on those full lips.

I watch as she lifts a violet wand, a device used to deliver electrical sensations such as shocks.

“How dangerous is this?” she asks the sales rep.

“In what sense?”

“Like… would the highest voltage be enough to cause, I don’t know… electrocution? Just enough to zap someone’s soul out of their body.”

I nearly choke fighting a laugh.

“These devices are built to be completely safe,” the sales rep says. “They’re designed for sensory play, not… actual harm.”

Sloane sighs, setting the wand back on the display.

“That’s a bummer,” she says.

She turns to the sales rep with the most deadpan expression I’ve ever seen.

“Are you sure there's nothing more deadly around here?”

The sales rep's eyes widen. “Technically… if you think about it,” she stammers, “everything is potentially life-threatening, right? I mean… people have died from sneezing too hard.”

“So the answer’s no?”

I can’t do this anymore. The poor girl looks like she's about to call security or faint. I step forward, sliding smoothly into their conversation.

“Pardon my wife,” I say, placing my hand at the small of Sloane's back. I feel her stiffen. “She gets… intense sometimes. We’ll take it from here.”

The sales rep all but runs away.

Sloane is staring at me strangely. It probably has something to do with me mentioning the word ‘wife.’

“You know," I say, leaning in close enough to catch her scent, "if you really want Delilah dead, you could just hire an assassin."

“That’d be too obvious. They'll track it right back to me.”

I smile. “Right. But if you do it right, they won't.”

“Do you have a contact?”

I shake my head. “I don't.”

“So you're like a fake gangster?”

“Who says I’m a gangster?”

She eyes the tattoos peeking from my shirt. “You're not?”

I chuckle.

This is going to be fun.

“Tell you what,” I say. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find an assassin.”

“That'd be very much appreciated.”

I release her and start browsing the shelves, casually grabbing a pair of handcuffs, a leather paddle, and a silk blindfold.

I hear Sloane following behind me.

“You seem well-versed in all this,” she says. “It’s as if you know exactly what you're buying.”

“It’s my line of work.”

She pauses. “You sell sex toys?”

“More like… I produce them. And I own a sex club,” I say, turning to face her, bracing for her reaction. Most people either get uncomfortably excited or visibly repulsed. Both reactions are tedious.

She just stares at me, face blank.

“You must be loaded,” she says.

I didn't expect that at all. “Well…”

“Well, what, Knox?”

“I wouldn't know.”

She frowns. “The fact that you're not sure if you're loaded means you actually are. Poor people don't have doubts that they're poor.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep. You're definitely loaded.”

I smile. “Okay, Sloane. Whatever you say.”

I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed talking to someone this much. She’s… different. Most people get all weird when I mention my line of work, my family included. But she seems normal about it. Like it's just another job—which it is, albeit a lucrative one.

Which is probably why I can’t stop myself from asking what's been on my mind for a while. “So… you and Finn. Are you two… a thing?”

Her face goes stiff.

“No.”

“Do you sleep together?” I ask.

“Hell no.”

“Right.”

She looks ready to murder me.

We check out the items at the counter, asking for them to be gift-wrapped.

As we sit waiting, Sloane crosses her arms.

“How are you comfortable with your friend marrying your brother’s ex?” she asks.

Hmm. She went right in. “Well,” I say. “Delilah’s a gold digger. Hunter has the money.”

“Ah. Classic.”

“Hunter’s my friend. I might not like his choices, but as a friend, I respect them.”

“Are you really a friend if you can't fight some sense into him?”

“That would only make me the enemy. You won't win a fight against love, Sloane.”

She glares at me. “I can definitely try.”

I smile, unable to help myself. Her naivety is both endearing and tragic.

“How long have you been trying with Finn?” I ask. “Where has that gotten you?”

Her entire body stiffens. I’ve hit a nerve.

I should stop. Shouldn’t push her.

But there’s just something about her.

Something about seeing someone so pure and innocent that makes you want to crack them open. Break them apart.

“The universe is going to align people who are meant to be together,” I say, eyes fixed on her. “Whether they’re good or bad. Whether it makes sense or not. Best you can do is let people live their lives, Sloane.”

Her eyes are blazing.

“You’re not a very good friend, Knox,” she says.

“Because I tell myself the truth?”

“No. Because you’re selfish.”

I smirk. “Oh? And where has selflessness gotten you? Have you had a proper date in months? Are you seeing someone right now? Or does your entire life revolve around Finn Hartley and his pathetic obsession with a woman who doesn’t give a shit about him?”

Her eyes darken with something violent.

And for a moment, I think she’s going to slap me.

God, I almost wish she would.

But instead, she rises to her feet, her eyes burning holes through my soul.

“Fuck you,” she spits, turning on her heel and storming toward the exit.

I lean back against the counter, watching her walk away.

Her hips sway a little too much in those tight leather pants. And the way her short hair bounces over her shoulders as she pushes open the door and disappears into the night?

Perfection.

I’m going to have a hard time keeping myself from provoking Sloane throughout this wedding.

I’m also going to have a hard time keeping my eyes—and my hands—off her.

She’s trouble.

The kind of trouble I want to drag into my bed and ruin.

~~~

Slaone stares out the window throughout our trip home.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Silent.

It’s honestly impressive how committed she is to ignoring me. Not a single glance in my direction, not even when I deliberately rev the engine just to see if she’ll react.

I’ll admit, I kind of miss the talkative Sloane.

When I pull into my parents’ house, her head jerks up.

I can see her looking at the mansion in surprise, with so many questions written on her face. But whatever she wants to say, she swallows it back.

She unbuckles, gets out of the car, and pulls her bag out of the trunk.

“Let me help you with that,” I say.

“No. I have hands. Thank you very much.”

O-kay.

I let her have that one, walking beside her as she marches toward the entrance.

I open the front door for her, and when she walks in, her eyes sweep over the grand foyer.

“Is there something I should know about your parents?” she says, finally speaking to me.

“Like what?” I ask, though I know exactly what she means. I've seen this reaction before.

“Like, are they from old money or something?”

“You can ask your best friend. He’s upstairs.”

She rolls her eyes, turning her attention to the massive staircase stretching up to the second floor. I know what's on her mind. She's wondering how she's going to drag that bag all the way up.

“Just keep the bag down, Sloane,” I say, amused. “Someone will take it.”

She doesn't argue. She drops it.

“Where are your parents?” she asks.

“Out of the country. They should be back tomorrow or next.”

“Great,” she mutters. “So we have the house to ourselves?”

“Umm… once you exclude the employees, I guess we do.”

“Awesome.” She gives me a look. “Please lead me to Finn’s room.”

I press a hand to my chest mockingly. “Of course, ma’am.”

I lead her up the stairs. We walk down the long hallway before stopping in front of Finn’s room. I don’t even bother knocking, just push the door open.

“Little brother,” I announce. “Your bestie is here.”

And then we see it.

Finn and Delilah pulling away from each other in a hurry.

They’d been kissing.

Finn goes completely still.

Delilah, on the other hand, barely reacts. She just smooths a hand over her hair.

“Ever heard of knocking?” she asks.

I glance at Sloane. Her face has turned to stone.

“How stupid are you, Finn?” she asks.