Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man

Justen's thumb hovered over Kloe's contact photo-the professional headshot she'd used for her gallery's website, composed and distant, nothing like the woman he'd left at the reception. His finger descended.

In the darkness across the wall, Kloe's clutch lay where she'd dropped it, the satin exterior catching minimal light. The phone inside began to vibrate, then ring, the sound shockingly loud in the suite's silence.

Kloe's body went rigid beneath Julian's. "No-"

She scrambled toward the edge of the bed, her limbs tangled in the destroyed remains of her gown. Julian watched her crawl, making no move to stop her, his expression unreadable in the dimness. Her fingers found the bag, closed around the phone, and the screen's illumination showed her everything she didn't want to see.

Justen. Calling.

Her thumb moved to decline. Julian's hand closed around her wrist, his grip iron, and he plucked the device from her fingers as easily as taking candy from a child. She reached for it-"Don't, please, he'll know"-but Julian was already standing, moving to the window where the city light provided enough illumination to read the screen.

He looked at her. Held her gaze as his thumb swept across the glass, accepting the call. His other hand found the speaker button.

"Kloe?" Justen's voice filled the room, compressed and tinny through the phone's small speaker. "Where are you?"

Kloe's hands flew to her mouth. She shook her head desperately, backing away until her spine hit the bedpost. Julian followed, his naked body moving with the casual confidence of a predator in its territory. He held the phone between them like an offering, or a threat.

"Kloe?" Justen's voice sharpened. "I can hear you breathing. What's going on?"

Julian's free hand found her waist. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh above her hip, digging in with precise pressure, and Kloe gasped-the sound involuntary, unmistakable.

"Was that-are you hurt?" Justen's concern sounded almost genuine, layered over something darker. "Where are you right now?"

Julian's mouth shaped words against her ear, his breath hot. "Speak."

"I-" Kloe's voice emerged as a croak. She swallowed, tried again. "I bumped into something. A table. I'm fine."

"Where?" Justen pressed.

Julian's teeth closed on her earlobe. His hand slid upward, tracing the curve of her ribcage, and Kloe's voice fractured. "Outside. Getting air. The-the terrace."

"The terrace?" Justen's skepticism was audible. "Which terrace? The hotel has six."

Julian's palm covered her breast, his thumb circling with devastating precision. Kloe's knees buckled. She grabbed his shoulder for support, her nails digging crescents into his skin, and the phone caught her whimper with perfect clarity.

"That didn't sound like-" Justen began.

"College friends," Kloe blurted, the lie desperate and transparent. "I ran into some people from Brown. We're catching up."

Silence from the phone. Then: "Your college friends weren't invited, Kloe. I handled the guest list personally."

Julian's mouth traveled down her neck, finding the pulse point where her heart hammered against her skin. He sucked, hard, and Kloe's head fell back, a sound escaping her that she couldn't have identified-part protest, part surrender, entirely unmistakable in its intimacy.

"Kloe." Justen's voice had changed, stripped of its performative concern, raw with suspicion and something that might have been fear. "Who is with you? Who's making you-"

Julian bit down. Kloe cried out, the sound high and broken, and in the same moment Julian's thumb ended the call, cutting off Justen's rising fury.

The silence was absolute. Kloe stood frozen, her hand still on Julian's shoulder, her body still responding to his mouth, her mind racing through the implications of what had just happened. Justen knew. Didn't know who, didn't know how, but knew something, and the knowing changed everything.

Julian straightened, his expression satisfied, almost smug. He set her phone on the windowsill, well out of her reach.

"He'll be looking for you now," he observed, as if commenting on weather. "Searching the hotel. Calling security, perhaps." His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her swollen lower lip. "You can't go back, Kloe. Not to him. Not to that life."

Kloe stared at him. At the stranger who'd dismantled her world, who'd taken her apart and put her back together as something unrecognizable. She should have felt fear. Should have felt regret.

Instead, she felt only the hollow where her future had been, and the strange, terrifying freedom of having nothing left to lose.