All Chapters of Craving The Wrong Brother: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Her voice scrapes something sharp in me. Of course she’s thrilled. Sloane and Serena couldn’t be more different. Although they're both opinionated, Sloane thinks before she speaks. She's often secretive about her deepest feelings; this I know all too well. But Serena says whatever the hell crosses her mind. No filter. No hesitation. It’s like she’s allergic to silence. Every thought becomes a soundbite. It’s no wonder we’ve never gotten along. Especially back when they lived together. That apartment was a minefield. Sloane would be in the kitchen quietly stirring tea, trying to decompress from a long day, and Serena would burst in like a storm, unloading whatever drama she’d dragged home. I remember those nights all too well. Me sitting on the couch. Serena ranting from across the room. Sloane giving me that silent look—equal parts exhausted and apologetic—like she wished she could disappear. I never told her this, but sometimes I wished we both could. “Look,” I say, lowering my

She rises. I smile as I reach for the back of her neck and pull her toward me. The second our mouths meet, it’s a fucking detonation. My lips move over hers with slow intent, and then I’m consuming her—biting, tasting, owning. Her mouth parts, and the groan that slips from her throat rattles straight through me. I kiss her deeper, harder, until there’s no air between us, no space for doubt or fear. Just this heat, this ache, this unrelenting pull. She tries to raise her arms—twice. I feel the twitch in her shoulders, the lift of her elbows. But each time, the metal of the cuffs catches her wrists, holding her back. And fuck, the sound she makes—a whimper dipped in frustration and need—makes my cock twitch. She’s so eager. So ready. So mine. When I finally pull away, we’re both breathing like we’ve sprinted into each other at full force. Her lips are red, kiss-bruised, and her eyes—those eyes—look up at me lustfully. “I want to touch you,” she whispers, breathless. And I almost

I stare at Knox, impatiently awaiting an answer. My heart thuds too fast for how casual I’m trying to look. He keeps his gaze ahead, fingers flexing once against the steering wheel before settling again. “Because I’m certified to carry it,” he says. I frown, not satisfied. “Okay. But why do you have it in your car?” “Where else should it be?” “Hidden at home? You know. Somewhere people can’t just… see it?” He finally turns his head to look at me, that unreadable expression back in place. The one that makes me feel like he’s dissecting me, deciding whether I’m someone who deserves answers or just another person he’ll keep at arm’s length. “You stole my keys to get into my glove box,” he says. “You think I let people sit in my car by themselves?” I feel my cheeks heat, guilt pooling low in my gut. Touché, Knox. I turn my head away, facing the window. Fine. I might have crossed a line. But he’s still the one walking around with a weapon like we’re in an action movie. A part

*** ~~SLOANE~~ *** Today turned out to be more productive than I anticipated. I wish I could say this renewed vigor for work has anything to do with Knox screwing me against a closet earlier today. No. As far as I know, thinking about Knox being inside me is my biggest source of distraction. Not my proudest moment, but I spent half the day quietly plotting how I might steal Knox’s phone and hack into it. Funny, isn’t it? How picturing yourself stealing your boyfriend’s phone—and actively contemplating breaking about a hundred cybersecurity ethics to hack into it—can light a fire under your ass. Normal people would just ask their boyfriends about the things they wanted to know. Normal boyfriends would actually answer. But no. Knox Hartley is about as tight-lipped as a CIA agent under torture. And the inquisitive part of me? Yeah, she’s not resting until she cracks him open. As I drive back toward my apartment, I run through the possibilities like I’m prepping a heist: —

*** ~~FINN~~ *** Delilah hasn’t stopped glaring at me. She’s sitting to my left in the only visitor chair in the room, arms crossed so tightly across her chest I’m half-convinced she’s trying to fold herself in half. Her legs are angled away from me, but her eyes—they haven’t moved. Not once. Not since the doctor gave her visitation clearance. “Could you stop with the looks, please?” I grumble, adjusting myself on the hospital bed. My arm is immobilized in a heavy-duty sling, wrapped and elevated with what feels like ten pounds of gauze and Velcro. “I’m already in pain as it stands. I don’t need you breathing down my neck.” Delilah only glares harder. “I could go to jail for what I did,” she says. “No, you won’t. I asked you to do it. It was my decision.” She looks away for the first time, fingers threading through her hair as she rubs her temple. Her voice comes quieter. Tighter. “Still doesn’t change the fact that I stupidly agreed to break your arm with a hammer and