The Wrong Brother
The tension between them crackled, old wounds resurfacing in the way they stared each other down.
“This isn’t a game,” Adrian said, his voice like granite. “Not for me.”
My chest tightened.
Bruno looked at me then, searching, but I refused to meet his gaze. Whatever spell he had tried to weave, it was broken.
“Fine,” he said at last, stepping back toward his car. “Play house. Pretend this means something. But when he’s done with you, don’t come crawling back.”
The car door slammed, and in seconds, the taillights disappeared down the street, leaving behind silence heavy enough to crush.