Falling For My Ex's Ruthless Brother

Aurora POV:

My head pounded, a sharp, rhythmic drumming against my skull. A groan escaped my lips as I tried to shift, but my body felt like it had been hit by a truck. Every muscle screamed in protest. The sheets beneath me were silk, cool against my skin, but they felt foreign.

The room smelled wrong. It wasn't the familiar scent of lavender and clean linen from my own bedroom. This was a mix of expensive cologne, something sharp and woodsy, and the faint, lingering trace of tobacco. A man's scent. Not my husband's.

My eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was high, unfamiliar. I was in a massive king-sized bed in a hotel suite I didn't recognize. Panic, cold and sharp, began to crawl up my throat.

I tried to sit up, but a tearing pain between my legs made me gasp and fall back against the pillows. It was a raw, stinging ache that radiated through my lower body.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

With a trembling hand, I lifted the heavy silk comforter. I was naked. And on the pale skin of my inner thighs, there were small, dark red specks. Dried blood. Like crushed winter berries scattered on snow.

My breath hitched. My mind was a fog, a blur of disjointed images.

Last night. Our wedding anniversary. My husband, Julian, handing me a glass of champagne. The bubbles tickling my nose. Then... a wave of dizziness. A searing heat spreading through my veins.

Then I was drifting, fading into some bed. A tall, broad-shouldered figure looming over me. The rasp of his heavy breathing in my ear. His burning Adam's apple brushed against my cheek. I instinctively tried to turn my face away in resistance, but under the drug's effect, I found myself clinging to him instead.

His firm muscles pressed against me, a heat I'd never felt before entering my body. As if responding to me, he pushed harder, like some kind of punitive release. The pain tore a sobbing cry from my lips.

It wasn't a dream.

I, Aurora Sweeney, a woman married for two years, had slept with someone else on my anniversary.

And the blood... the blood meant it was my first time. The virginity I had saved for Julian, for eight long years since we started dating, was gone. Given to a stranger in a haze of drugs and confusion.

I scrambled out of bed, stumbling towards the bathroom. I collapsed in front of the toilet, my body heaving with violent, dry retches. Nothing came up but bitter acid.

My reflection in the vast mirror was a horror show. My hair was a tangled mess. My eyes were puffy. And scattered across my neck and collarbones were a series of dark, purplish bruises. Kiss marks. The brand of my sin.

Tears I didn't know I was holding back streamed silently down my face as I slid to the cold marble floor.

Where was Julian? Why wasn't he here? Did he just leave me?

A cold, hard knot of dread tightened in my chest. I forced myself to stand, to think. I needed to find answers.

My dress, a simple silk sheath, was torn at the shoulder and lay discarded on the plush carpet. My underwear was nowhere in sight.

My phone was on the nightstand. No missed calls from Julian. No texts. Just a few "Happy Anniversary" messages from friends. The irony was a physical blow.

My fingers shook as I dialed his number. It rang and rang, and just as I was about to hang up, he answered.

"Aurora? You're awake?" His voice was laced with impatience. In the background, I could hear a woman's light, flirtatious giggle.

"I had the bellhop take you up to the room. You had too much to drink," he continued, his tone dismissive. "I have a team emergency."

My blood ran cold. He was lying. That giggle wasn't a "team emergency."

I ended the call without another word.

My gaze swept the room. And then I saw it—lying on the carpet near the bed, glinting under the morning light. A cufflink. It wasn't Julian's. It was made of black obsidian, intricately carved into the shape of a hawk, wings poised to strike.

The emblem was so similar to the Chicago Blackhawks' logo. The memory of that solid, burning body from last night flashed through my mind, and I sucked in a breath.

I snatched it up, its cold weight solid and real in my trembling palm. This was my only clue.

I had to know what happened last night.

I pulled on my ruined dress and fled the hotel suite. The bright Chicago sun hit me like a physical assault, making my head spin.

I hailed a cab, giving the driver the address to my bakery, The Rolling Pin. It was the only sanctuary I had left.

Locking myself in my small office, I tried to force the memories to surface. But all I could conjure was a pair of deep, ice-blue eyes and a faint scar cutting through a man's left eyebrow.