Possessed by My Mafia Stepbrother
I asked, my voice sharp.
Carter's smirk widened. "You've been staring at her for ten minutes. Don't tell me you haven't noticed how gorgeous she is."
"She's my sister," I said, my tone flat, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.
"Step-sister," Carter corrected, raising a brow. "And don't give me that excuse. I've got a sister, man, and I've never looked at her like that."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat. Because he was right. The way I looked at Valentina wasn't brotherly. Not even close. The things I wanted to do to her were anything but familial—they were primal, possessive, consuming.
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