Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

"I'm not back with him," I say, but already I'm lying to my little brother, because the truth is that I want to be back with him. Or, at least, I want to try.

Or I think I do.

Honestly, I'm so damn confused it's a wonder I can even think straight. Noah's gotten inside me again, and while it's a nice feeling, it's also a scary one.

Cam leans against the doorframe leading to Griffin's kitchen and stares me down.

"We're just friends, okay?" I say.

"But you want more."

Shit. When did my little brother get so perceptive?

"Maybe," I confess, then exhale noisily. "Honestly, all I know is it feels right being around him."

"Sure, until he rips your heart out again."

"He was young, and Darla was pregnant, and--"

"And you got screwed."

"I did," I say, my heart aching with the words and the memory. "But we're both older now, and we're not moving fast." For that matter, we're barely moving at all. But maybe that's good. I want to be friends. I want to trust him, to know him.

I want all that--and yet I crave so much more, and it's becoming hard to stay away. To play by the rules we set.

From the look on Cam's face, I think he's going to try to smack me down again, but Noah walks up to us, and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or fearful of imminent fisticuffs.

"Hey," he says, with a soft smile aimed right at my heart.

"Hey, back," I reply, unable to suppress my answering grin even though I know Cam is about to nosedive into a giant barrel of worry.

"I told Griffin I'd find you and introduce you," Noah says. "You'll like him. Just don't start listening to his podcast--at least not until after Red Brick is on the market. It's addictive."

"You know Griff?" Cam asks.

Noah nods. "I'm friends with Wyatt and Kelsey. I met him in LA before we both moved here. If it's any consolation, they all know me pretty well, and none of them think I'm the devil. Ask them if you want."

Cam's eyes widen, and my mouth drops open. "What are you--" I begin, but Noah cuts me off.

"We never met in person," he says to Cam, "so we don't know each other that well. Or at all, really. And I get that you're worried about your sister. But I want you to know that I thought I was doing the right thing all those years ago, I really did. I know it hurt Kiki, though, and I would give anything if I could heal that wound. I can't. All I can do is promise you that I'm not going to hurt her again."

He holds his hands out to his sides in a gesture of supplication. "That's it, Cameron. That's the best I can do. But I think Kiki's willing to give me a chance. I hope you do, too."

I feel a tightness in my chest and realize I've been holding my breath, awed by this unexpected speech . . . and fearful of Cam's reaction.

My brother steps forward, and for the first time, I notice that they're almost the same height, with Noah having only a couple of inches on my brother. "If you hurt her," Cam says in a low, menacing voice I don't recognize, "I swear I will rearrange your face."

I almost laugh at the idea of my skinny little brother beating up a man like Noah, tall and lean, with a surfer's strength and the fierce determination of a man who doesn't step away from a battle.

But then my vision clears, and I truly see Cam for what may be the very first time. He's in the doorway, his shoulders wide, his chest filled out. His arms are ripped under the T-shirt he wears, and he looks young and strong and fierce. How had I not seen this before? My little brother's all grown up, and in the kind of way that makes me certain he could make good on his threat.

"Fair enough," Noah says, then holds out his hand. Cam hesitates, then takes it, and I fight the urge to squeal with delight. I have no idea what this means for me and Noah, but I know enough to be certain it's on the shiny side of good.

I aim a smirk at each of them in turn. "If you guys are done measuring your manliness, I'm going to go get a drink." I push past Cam into the kitchen. "Play nice, boys," I say, then pour myself a wine and exit out the back door, enjoying the fresh air and diminished testosterone.

I've stepped out onto a concrete stoop. There's a path that leads from this side area into the backyard proper, and I start to head that way, but I'm stopped by the pretty blonde woman I'd noticed when we first arrived. She's scowling at her phone and shoving it deep into her purse.

"Idiots," she says to me. "And they can't hold onto their idiocy until Monday and normal office hours. Honestly, you'd think I was working a death penalty case."