Be My Brayshaw (Brayshaw High #4)(6)

This blonde, she was a stranger to me then, so did she owe me any loyalty? Not even a little bit and I want nothing I haven’t earned.

That’s the solid truth.

So why the fuck does her betrayal sting like a cut to the chest as if she already holds a place there?

She doesn’t.

She won’t.

Because while she might not have owed me then, she sure as fuck does now.

I slam my notebook shut and toss it to the floor with a huff, my glare flying to the dark, empty hallway. The hallway that now leads to her new bedroom.

At first, she was afraid to move in—only a fool would lay where the wolves sleep, especially when one has been left starved and angry, right?

At least, that’s what common sense would tell you.

So why did the little liar take the stairs two at a time, and how, after being warned to keep one eye open, did she fall asleep with ease?

Running my hands down my face, I let my head fall to the headboard, blindly reaching over for my Brayshaw item—heavy brass knuckles given to me by my father at the age of seven.

I pull them close to my face, inspecting the anchor symbol etched along the curves, a perfect match to the ones tattooed across my knuckles, and read the words scrolled beside them.

Family runs deeper than blood.

Words all Brayshaws live and breathe by, another way of saying never trust blind or give loyalty to those who haven’t earned it. You don’t have to come from the same line to form a solid and strong one.

If only the treacherous blonde understood such a thing.

I close my eyes, pulling in a deep breath to try and relax, but not two seconds later the quiet click of a knob turning has them flying open. I focus, listening to the silence stretching across this wing of the mansion, and for a moment I think I imagined it—three a.m. will do that to you—but then soft thumps sound.

Footsteps.

I bring my eyelids as low as I can without shutting them completely and not a moment later, she tips her head around the corner, only one of her eyes showing as she hides as much of herself as possible.

She was expecting me to be lying down, sleeping, or absent altogether, so the sight of my body sitting up against the headboard has her freezing in place.

I hold as still as a hunter while she searches for a sign of lucidness.

She finds none, and tiptoes a foot farther, peeking into the open room across from mine.

Peeking in on my daughter as if she has any right to go near her.

Brave or stupid?

She leans forward, her hand resting loosely on Zoey’s doorframe.

I jump up as swiftly and silently as possible, and right before she tries to take a step inside, I cage her in, my body forcing hers flat against the wall.

Her gasp is quiet and quickly swallowed.

She knows who’s behind her, which is why she doesn’t bother looking to confirm.

Her grip on the white molding tightens, even more so when I place my right hand beneath hers, my left planting on the opposite side.

I don’t say anything and neither does she.

Tension builds around us, thickening the air as heat and hatred meet.

She as aware as I am.

Her shoulders rise higher, fall faster, her quick breaths fanning across my hand and causing my jaw to clench.

I shift closer, not missing the curl of her toes against the floor.

Is she scared? Nervous?

Turned on?

My dick twitches without permission.

She should be uneasy at the very least.

We opened the door for her, something we don’t normally do, and she stepped right through, hard lies buried beneath a baggy hoodie.

She was a master of hiding—herself, her thoughts, her truths.

I bring my lips close to her ear.

She’s maybe five-five to my six-two, so I have to dip my head to get where I want.

I let out a slow exhale, a sick satisfaction flaring in my groin when her fingers twitch.

Every little thing from me stirs a reaction inside her.

I wait a long moment before speaking.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep,” she whispers. “Thought I’d check on her.”

Anger boils beneath my skin, from her words, from the way they fuck with my head, but I hold it back, moving my hands to her hips and reminding myself they don’t belong there.

She tenses, but doesn’t resist, allowing me to spin her around, still blocking her in with my chest.

It takes her a second, but then her eyes, a brown, almost golden color, the same shade of brown sugar, lift to mine.

I grind my teeth together as I bring a hand up, running my knuckle against the edge of her curved jaw, flexing mine when her pupils dilate before me. For me.

She’d be so easy to please, I can nearly fucking taste it.

Her lips, perfectly pouty, forever rusty red in color, part.

I swallow a growl and allow my fingers to trail lower.

Victoria gives a subconscious tilt of her head, granting me easier access to her neck as she stares, a little unsure and a lot hopeful.

Once I reach her collarbone, I slip a piece of her silky blonde hair between my fingers and force my gaze to soften as much as I can control.

Every inch of her settles.

Just like I wanted.

“I want to fuck you, Beauty,” I whisper, anger causing my pulse to jump, because damn if it’s as true as it is a lie. “So bad.”