Give Back My Brother Chapter 1

The day after I married Mark Torrence, I took a briefcase full of his money to the hospital to see my brother.

Leo, his leg still mangled from the "accident," slammed the cash against my chest, his face a mask of bitter disappointment.

"Jenny, you actually did it. You married Mark Torrence. He's the man who destroyed us."

"Is this what it's all about?" he snarled, his voice cracking. "Do you think money can fix Dad's death? Mom's coma? My leg?"

For years, whenever he begged me to leave Mark, I had only one answer for him: "Leo, I really love him."

But this time, I said nothing. I just knelt, gathered the scattered bills, and walked away without a word.

That night, Mark was in high spirits. He pulled me close, his hand tracing my spine as he whispered, "What do you want, little bird? Name your reward."

I turned in his arms and said softly, "Freedom."

My brother's freedom.

* * *

Mark’s large hand was still wandering over my skin. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "I don't recall putting you in a cage. You've gone wherever you pleased for years, haven't you?"

I snuggled deeper into his embrace, my voice a carefully crafted purr. "I was talking about Leo. Call off your men at the hospital. Please?"

"I'm your wife now. My brother hasn't caused any trouble for years. What are you still worried about?"

In the darkness of the bedroom, his features were a blur, but I could picture the faint, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. The look of a man who owned the world and everyone in it.

His voice was a slow, deliberate drawl. "Freeing your brother isn't so difficult, you know. If your mother were to pass away, he wouldn't have a reason to stay at the hospital, would he?"

My heart stopped. The blood drained from my face, a mercy that the darkness hid my terror.

I forced another playful note into my voice. "Mark, you wouldn't want to see me sad, would you?"

He pulled me tighter against him, but his voice was laced with a cool warning. "No, I wouldn't. Which is why we're never speaking of this again."

I closed my eyes, the scent of him filling my lungs, a wave of nausea churning in my stomach. It took every ounce of my willpower not to be sick all over him.

My brother hated me for marrying our family's destroyer. But did he really think I had a choice?

Mark Torrence's influence was a cancer that had metastasized throughout Sterling City. Years ago, my parents were top researchers in a lab owned by one of his subsidiary companies. He treated them like lab rats, exposing them to a lethal experimental gas. My father died on the spot. My mother slipped into a coma, a shell of a person kept alive by machines.

Faced with the wreckage of our family, Mark had simply stood there, one hand in his pocket, looking down on me and my brother as if we were insects.

"Bury the dead one," he'd ordered his men. "And get the other one to a hospital. I want to know when she wakes up. That data is crucial to my research. There can be no mistakes."

Leo, his fists clenched, had lunged at him, screaming, "You monster! I'm calling the police!"

Mark’s bodyguards swarmed him. Mark didn't even flinch, just gave my brother a look of utter disdain. "The police? You won't even be leaving the hospital."

At his signal, they snapped my brother's legs.

From that day on, Leo was under constant surveillance.

I was only thirteen at the time. Too young, Mark thought, to be a threat. His watch over me was lax. That changed when I was fifteen. I jumped from a third-story window and ran, delirious with pain and purpose, straight for the nearest police station.

I didn't even make it two blocks before I ran straight into him.

His hand closed around my throat. With my free arm, I plunged the fruit knife I'd hidden in my sleeve into his wrist.

Blood bloomed, dark and sudden. His men descended on me. I was ready to die. They twisted my arm until the bone snapped, but I held onto the knife, driving it deep into one of the bodyguard's ribs.

As the man screamed, Mark finally gave me his full attention.

Our eyes met. My own were bloodshot, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of my mouth. Pinned to the ground, I glared at him with every ounce of hate I possessed. Just as the world began to fade to black, he raised a hand.

His men backed off. He walked toward me, his steps measured and deliberate. With a flick of his expensive shoe, he kicked the knife from my grasp. His eyes held a flicker of something new—a dark, analytical amusement.

"Vicious little thing," he murmured.