Todos los capítulos de My Arrogant Stepbrother Is My Mate!: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

POV SIENNAThree years. Three long years of building, with patience and fear in equal measure, a space that finally felt like our own—of breathing without someone watching every step, of choosing without someone imposing anything—had been reduced to barely two worn canvas suitcases, corners frayed from use and straps marked by the weight of everything we had left. There went our lives, piled into the back of a black Cadillac Escalade, immense and cold, that seemed to devour the asphalt as if it owned every inch it covered.I pressed my forehead against the tinted glass, cool to the touch, and let my gaze get lost in the scenery speeding past. The ancient mountain pines rose dark and dense, swallowing the road between shadows that stretched out and closed behind us, as if the world we were leaving behind was fading little by little. Every kilometer we traveled further from the city felt less like a journey and more like a rope tightening, slowly but unrelentingly, around my neck. I did

POV SIENNAAt eight o'clock sharp, the main dining room looked like the stage for an armed truce.A solid walnut table seating twelve people dominated the center, lit by a wrought-iron chandelier whose flames danced over the dark wood, casting long, restless shadows. At the heads sat the hierarchy, Marcus at one end, imposing and composed with a glass of red wine swirling between his fingers, and my mother to his right, wearing an emerald silk dress that screamed a desperate effort to fit in with every carefully arranged fold.And to my utter misfortune, the seating arrangement placed me directly across from Killian.He had changed his clothes. He wore a black shirt with the top few buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing broad forearms crisscrossed with pale scars and pulled tight with muscle. He did not look at me when I sat down, did not even turn his head, yet the air around him hummed with that same heavy, electric charge that made my skin prickle beneath my gr

POV SIENNA:The tactical bunker beneath Iron Ridge Manor looked like the operations hub of a full private army, not just a pack headquarters. Satellite screens lined the walls, 3D topographic maps glowing across glass tabletops, and armed guards stood posted at every entrance, watchful and still.Killian stepped in first, his sleeveless shirt still damp with sweat, training field dirt clinging to his forearms where only minutes before his hands had pinned me to the earth. I followed two paces behind, breath still unsteady, trying to ignore every gaze that turned our way and the lingering heat throbbing soft and persistent on my lip where his thumb had rested barely ten minutes earlier.Marcus stood before the main display alongside two veteran trackers, their faces worn from years of patrols."Killian, Sienna, come forward," the Alpha ordered, his brow drawn tight. "Perimeter cameras picked up movement less than an hour ago. This is no coordinated renegade strike. One figure alone… an

POV SIENNAThe truck door slamming echoed down the empty road like a gunshot that hung sharp in the air.Killian did not give me even a moment to wait for the patrol vehicle behind us. He caught my elbow in a grip firm enough to burn right through my thermal sleeve, steered me toward his truck, and pushed me into the passenger seat before striding around the hood in long, determined strides. When he slid behind the wheel, the space shrank until there was barely any room left between us. The cab filled instantly with his presence: the metallic tang of adrenaline still pumping through him, burnt cedar, and that thick, suffocating heat radiating from every inch of his skin. He started the engine with a brutal roar and floored the accelerator, gravel spitting beneath the chassis as we tore through the forest curves at a speed that should have terrified me, yet somehow left me breathless for entirely different reasons.Neither of us spoke for the first two kilometers. His knuckles were whi

POV SIENNAOn Monday morning at seven‑twenty‑five, a matte black Porsche Panamera waited idling before the manor steps, its engine thrumming with a low, steady purr that you felt more than heard, like the held breath of something powerful.I tightened the strap of my canvas backpack and pressed my laptop to my chest, holding it like a shield against whatever lay ahead. I’d dressed to blend in: straight‑leg jeans, my worn Converse sneakers, and an olive‑green ribbed knit V‑neck top I’d picked up two weeks earlier at a second‑hand shop. Nothing noticeable. Nothing anyone could call provocative. Just comfortable clothes for sitting through hours of writing workshops.As I reached the bottom step, the passenger door unlocked itself from inside with an electric click and swung open. I got in without looking at him, dropped my bag by my feet, and shut the door with a firm, deliberate thud."Treat the hinges with a little more respect, Hayes," Killian said, never taking his eyes from the rea