Filed To Story: Craving The Wrong Brother Book PDF Free by Elysian Sparrow
“Haven’t you been listening?” Mateo asks.
“I have. And I’m trying to understand why you don’t just exchange blows with the man who actually hurt you. I’ve met him once. Why am I being punished for something I didn’t do?”
He leans forward on his cane, tone condescendingly soft. “Because, pretty, I don’t want to harm a single hair on Knox’s head. From what I’ve heard about his lifestyle since he came back, he might just end up enjoying it. You know he had this… strange relationship with the former owner of that club he owns. And his wife.” He raises his brows like it’s some inside joke. “The wife was a sadist. Got off on inflicting pain. Real piece of work, from what I gathered. And sometimes, she took it too far.”
His fingers tap twice against the cane before he goes on.
“Knox pretended to work as a security guard at the club. That was just a front. He wanted proximity. Got close to the husband. Offered himself as a… let’s say, volunteer masochist.”
He chuckles under his breath.
“Creepy story, isn’t it? But he was already broken by then. Traumatized. You see, the things we went through overseas can mess with anyone’s head. And even though he had a plan to blackmail them-had footage, dirt, leverage-he enjoyed it while it lasted. Every moment of it. All the blood. All the bruises. That’s why people are afraid of him now. Not because he’s dangerous-no. Because he’d walk out of that room bloodied… and smiling.”
I’m sure whatever’s running through my head is written all over my face, because Mateo smiles, a knowing smile, like he’s enjoying every second of this little horror show.
“I really admire his ability to find a way to heal,” he says. “Took me a while to figure out how to fix myself. Those therapy sessions? Barely did a damn thing. All that breathing and journaling… waste of time.” His grip tightens on the cane. “I don’t want to harm Knox. That’s never been the point. I want him to admit he was at fault for what happened to us. I want him to say it. Out loud. And then I want him to apologize.”
“That’s it?” Soraya says. “You could’ve done this over brunch. Hug, cry, move on.”
“You don’t know Knox like I do. To get an apology from him,” Mateo says, gaze locked on Finn, “one of you may have to die.”
Finn squirms in his seat like someone just poured cold water down his spine. I don’t blame him.
I want to shut it down, want to argue, to tell Mateo he’s wrong about Knox. That he’d never let it get that far. But the truth creeps in-Knox isn’t exactly big on apology. Not when he’s wrong. Not when he’s lost. Not even when it might cost him something.
So I say nothing. Because denial would be a lio.
“So he apologizes and you let us go?” Serena asks.
Mateo sighs. “He apologizes, and I let one of you go.”
“What does that mean?” Finn blurts.
“It’s simple. I have three requests to make of your brother. The things that are most valuable to him. His pride. His club. And his girlfriend. Then we’ll be even.”
I let out a short laugh. “You want his girlfriend?”
“I don’t want her,” Mateo says. “I want him to leave her. To die alone. I don’t want him to have peace in this life or the next.”
“Knox is going to kill you,” Finn says, no trace of a joke in his tone. “Whoever the hell you are. I don’t care what Knox did to you or what this is about, but you really shouldn’t have involved Sloane.”
There’s a pause in the room. And then footsteps on the stairs.
The masked man who’d gone up earlier appears again, descending slowly into the basement. In his gloved hand is a phone-an iPhone in a pink case.
He walks it over to Mateo, who takes it from him.
“It’s safe,” the man says.
Mateo nods and presses something on the screen.
“Is that my phone?” Serena asks, sitting up straighter.
“Yup,” Mateo replies. “We’re about to call your sister and tell ho you’ve been kidnapped. Then she’ll get Knox on the line. And the real party begins.”
“Why not just call him directly?” Soraya mutters. “You’re really doing everything you can to waste our time.”
Mateo doesn’t look up as he taps on the phone. “And risk him keeping it from his girlfriend? No, thanks. A distressed lover,” he says, “is the strongest catalyst for a man in love. This is the part where you should all start reflecting on your lives, maybe find God in the process-because the next few hours are going to be extremely painful for every single one of you.”
SLOANE
My father is just as bullheaded as most of the men I know.
He decides not to heed my warning and stands there like some old-school martyr, arms crossed, face calm in that way he thinks makes him unreadable. It doesn’t. He’s waiting for the storm that’s about to come through the front door in the form of his wife, Daphne.
The door opens, and Daphne walks in with Beau.
The first person she lays eyes on is Grandma June, curled into the couch with a half-finished glass of wine in one hand and the TV remote in the other,
“You’re back,” Grandma says with a slow turn of the head as Daphne kicks the door shut behind her and sets her bag down.
“Yeah. Couldn’t stand being around my family any longer. Decided to come home.” She looks down at her son and nods. “Beau, go say hi to Grandma.”
The boy hesitates. He’s got one finger lodged in his nostril, and from the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, he’d rather be anywhere else. But Daphne nudges him, and he reluctantly starts walking toward Grandma June.
Even as I watch this unfold, I can feel the tension rising. Daphne hasn’t looked our way yet. She knows we’re here. I know she does. Her neck is stiff, like she’s avoiding turning toward us. My father hasn’t moved either. He’s standing a few feet from me, hands now shoved into his pockets, bracing himself.
Then Daphne finally does it. She turns. Her eyes find mine first.
“Sloane,” she says. “You’re here. Is it two months already?”
I smile, realizing she’s talking about the two-month rhythm I’ve stuck to for years now, the one where I alternate between my parents to pay a visit. One month with Dad. The next with Mom. A habit that started as convenience and slowly turned into a rule.
“Something came up,” I reply.
Her gaze moves to my father, and I see it-the moment her expression hardens again. She isn’t ready to deal with him. Not yet.
“Great,” she says instead. “I hope it’s not anything serious. Because I saw a strange car parked out there with some mean-looking men. Should I be worried?”
“Those are just Sloane’s friends,” my dad says, his voice soft in a way I haven’t heard in a long time. Daphne’s eyes find his again, and they stare at each other across the room.
I take that as my cue to exit.
I start inching toward the stairs, giving Grandma a look that says, ‘Let’s give them some privacy. She ignores me. Typical. Beau is already on her lap, one sneaker dangling halfway off his foot, and she’s patting his back while making him watch the fashion show with her.
“Grandma,” I say out loud.
She rolls her eyes but sets the kid down. “Alright, alright.” She pats Beau on the back. “Come on, Buddy. Let’s go change out of those large shoes your mother has you suffocating in.”
I wait for them at the foot of the stairs. Grandma’s taking her sweet time with Beau, even though she knows exactly what I’m trying to do. Beau shuffles along beside her, dragging his feet with his tiny hand clutching her robe, and he keeps glancing down at his shoes.
When they reach me, I give Grandma a pointed look. Then I start up the stairs.
Behind me, I hear my father say, “I’m going to get your bag and Daphne’s voice answering, “Not yet. Let’s talk:-
“Atleast they’re talking. It’s the only silver lining I can hold onto. I hear Grandma coaxing Beau behind me like he’s navigating Everest lastead of st stairs.
“One foot up the stairs, buddy. Great. That’s it. Now the other one.”
My mind’s spiraling.
How the hell am I supposed to get my mother out of this house without Daphne noticing?
The window?
Oh God. Am I seriously considering asking my post-miscarriage, emotionally damaged mother to climb out of a window?
Yes. Yes, I am.
Even if I did manage to get her out without a scene, where would I take her? And where’s Serena? Why the hell is her phone still switched off?
It’s not like her. She usually replies my texts within minutes-even if it’s just a stupid emoji or a sarcastic GIF. But today? Radio silence. On the one day I actually need a fast response.
I reach the top of the stairs, still caught in that spiral, when the door to the guest room swings open and out steps my mother.
She’s dressed up. A short, blue dress that’s a little too tight. She’s holding a handbag and obviously planning to head down the stairs.
“Whoa,” I whisper, stepping into her path. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t stay here, as you’ve clearly mentioned. So I’m going home.”
“Not right now.”
“What’s your problem? First you wanted me out of your father’s house. Now I can’t leave?”
“Keep your voice down, Mom. Daphne’s here.”