Page 42 of Heartless Stepbrother

And Riley stood.

He rose with languid confidence, stretching his arms above his head, muscles shifting beneath his tailored jacket in a way that drew eyes without him ever intending it. Or perhaps he always intended it. His kind never moved without purpose.

He looked down at me, a shadowed grin forming on his lips.

“Showtime for them,” he said, pushing his chair back. The scrape against the patio stones sounded indecently loud. “Andtime for me to check the terrain. While I am gone, do your best to look bored instead of terrified.”

He did not wait for my reaction. He simply turned and walked away, melting into the wedding crowd, his dark head angling toward the bar.

The relief was instant.

The heat vanished. The crushing pressure along my thigh dissipated. His presence unfurled from around my spine like a constricting vine losing hold.

I did not move for almost a full minute.

I sat in silence, letting my body adjust to the sudden absence of danger, letting my pulse find a new rhythm that was mine alone. When I finally lifted my glass of water, my hand was steady. The water was cold, pure, and startlingly refreshing.

Freedom.

It tasted like ice melt running down a mountain, crisp and wild. It washed through me, clearing out the fog he had wrapped around my senses.

The moment lasted only a breath.

Because as I lowered the glass, I caught sight of him at the edge of the crowd, tall, still, dangerous in that quiet way predators are before they strike. And his eyes pinned me, as if he’d hooked something invisible between us and was slowly, deliberately reeling me in.

My pulse stuttered.

No, not stuttered, tripped over itself.

I told myself to look away. I didn’t.

His stare slid over me like a slow caress and a warning all in one, and my skin prickled in rebellion. He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t need to. His silence was its own kind of threat, heavier than anything he could have whispered in my ear.

Then a familiar voice, bright, buoyant, impossible to ignore, cut through the chatter.

“Luna, darling!” My mother’s joy had a texture, soft and shimmering, like morning dew rippling in sunlight. I turned anyway from Riley’s stare, and there she was, dancing toward me in Marcus’ arms, her happiness spilling out of every step. She glowed in her gown, the faint flush in her cheeks proof of champagne and the heady intoxication of being in love.

“You and Riley have to join us on the dancefloor,” she gushed, the words tumbling out like a wish she’d been aching to make. “This is going to be our first dance as a family.”

My stomach dropped so fast it felt like I’d stepped off a cliff.

“Mum, I don’t think—“

”—you don’t think what, sister? That I’d like to dance with you? I’d love to, actually.”

And there he was.

One heartbeat ago, he’d been standing on the edge of the crowd, watching me like I was some delicate animal he was deciding whether to cage or kill. Now, he moved. Not quickly. Not lazily. Just… with the kind of calculated ease that comes from knowing every room bends for you. His suit shifted with each step, all black lines and tailored arrogance.

He didn’t look at me. Not at first. His eyes flicked to his father, his expression softening into perfection. The charming son. The dutiful stepsibling. The mask.

And then his gaze found mine.

Not like the others in this room who saw me as the bride’s daughter. No, his eyes stripped me bare, reminding me in one slow, deliberate sweep of everything that had happened since we met. The veiled threats laced into meaningless flirtation. The brush of his knee beneath the tablecloth, electric and wrong. The certainty that he’d done it not in spite of my discomfort, butbecauseof it.

He stepped closer, extending his hand.

To anyone watching, it was polite. A chivalrous gesture.