Warm My Bed, Brother-in-law Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Brother-in-law Obsessive Gaze.

Read chapter 1 of Warm My Bed, Brother-in-law by PayalSinghRajput on NovelPedia.

DAMIAN POV. "Damn, Damian, are you eyefucking your sister-in-law again?" Marco’s voice breaks the silence of my office, sharp with teasing and hitting closer to the truth than I’d like. I don't bother looking away from the monitor on my desk, the one that shows her moving through Richard's penthouse library like a guest who has stayed far too long in a home that was never actually hers. Elena Vitale. My brother's wife. My obsession. The one thing in this godforsaken city I can't hack, can't buy, can't steal. She's thirty-five. I'm twenty-six. Nine years she has on me, and I've heard every version of why that should matter… from Marco, from my own head, from the part of me that still knows right from wrong. Doesn't change a goddamn thing. Never did. "Shut the fuck up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. Marco’s twenty-nine and knows me too well, has been my right hand since we were teenagers running cons in Moscow's underbelly. He's earned the right to call me on my bullshit. He laughs, dropping into the leather chair across from me, boots propped on my mahogany desk like he owns the place. "You know what's crazy? Five years ago, when Richard brought her home, you called her 'another one of his collectibles.' Now look at you… you've been staring at that screen for twenty minutes, and she's literally just reading a book." I finally tear my eyes away, meeting his amused gaze with the cold stare that's made grown men piss themselves. It doesn't work on Marco. Nothing ever does. "She's different now," I say, and I hate how my voice sounds rough, hungry. "Back then, she was just another pretty face. Now..." Now she's fucking magnificent. Five years of marriage to my bastard brother has carved away the softness I remember from their wedding day. Even though she’s thirty-eight, she has the kind of beauty that only grows more striking with time, losing its youthful softness to reveal something much more dangerous and captivating. Her dark hair is always pulled back in that severe bun that makes me want to destroy it with my fingers. Those storm-gray eyes that look at Richard like he hung the fucking moon, even though we both know he's been keeping her at arm's length for two years. She carries herself with a heavy sort of dignity, walking through those rooms like a queen who knows her palace has become her prison. "She's fuckable now that she's actually a woman and not just a bride," Marco supplies helpfully, and I want to break his nose for saying it out loud, for making it sound so crude when my thoughts about her are anything but simple. "Don't," I warn, and this time there is heat. "Don't talk about her like that." He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but he's grinning. "Possessive about a woman who isn't yours. That's rich, even for you." The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. She should be mine. Would be mine if Richard hadn't seen her first at some charity gala in St. Petersburg, hadn't swept in with his perfectly tailored suits and our father's empire behind him like a fucking crown. I was nineteen then, still licking my wounds from leaving the Vitale family, too busy building Blackthorn from nothing to attend fancy parties where the Bratva's daughters paraded like prize horses. By the time I finally decided to have her, she was already wearing his ring. I turn back to the screen, watching her set down her book and move toward the window. She does this every night around this time, stands there looking out at the city like she's searching for something she lost. I've memorized every angle of her face in profile, the slight upturn of her nose, the fullness of her lower lip, the way her throat moves when she swallows. I installed four devices throughout the penthouse two years ago during a routine maintenance check I arranged myself. Two audio bugs, one is in the living room light fixture, and the other is tucked under the kitchen counter. Camera one, a pinhole lens hidden in the smoke detector of their master bedroom.