Marcus

Marcus stared at the girl on the bed, with a hospital gown that looked like the color of puke—yellow and pale against her skin.

And something inside his chest curled.

He’d gone most of his years surrounded by fans that sang his praise, to the point where he had to wear face masks to go out in public.

It was partially his fault, though.

His brother had warned him that a social media presence was only going to bring him more attention. But Marcus thought it was the right thing the arena needed.

They were trying to shut them down, the authorities. But the underground arena had hundreds and thousands of people willing to visit to a site that went down two hours after tickets were put up for sale.

And they sold out.

Every last ticket. Every single time. With resales going up for thousands of dollars.

Plus, maybe he did like the attention. It was addictive, watching the girls swoon over him when he walked into a club. They’d raise their shirts, flashing their tits his way.

For a while, at least.

He’d gotten bored. And he was someone who needed the thrill…the rush.

He’d been planning to tank the race, anyway. It would’ve shocked the entire audience, but it would’ve given him the buzz he needed.

She—the girl who was staring daggers at him, with her chest heaving, was the perfect excuse.

He smiled as he stepped forward, placing a hand to his chest.

It always worked. It was the perfect combo, charming and humble at the same time. “Allow me to apologize, Miss…” he trailed off, his brows slightly raised when it hit him that he’d forgotten her name.

Crap.

“It’s Jane,” she snapped. “Getting your drink all over my blouse and humiliating me for the entire world to see wasn’t enough for you to remember my name?”

He shook his head as molten heat raced down his throat. The feeling was almost palpable, as if he could taste it on his tongue if he tried hard enough. “I was hoping to address you formally, Miss Jane,” he said easily, his smile widening.

“I apologize for how we got off. I was mistaken. I saw no reason why a non-fan would be at the arena. It’s hard to get tickets, you see.”

Her mouth opened, in a retort, but it hung open as her face turned red.

Bright red. Marcus bit back a grin. He liked the color on her face. It washed out the rest of the ugly yellow. And seeing her flustered did something to him he couldn’t explain.

He moved closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “I wish you could’ve had time to watch me race. Maybe I would’ve offered you a ride afterwards.”

Her face turned even brighter as he pulled away. “I’d rather get an allergic reaction and bring myself close to death, than go anywhere close to your bike.”

“You almost died…” he pointed out, biting back a smile. “But you shouldn’t knock it until you try it”.

She snorted. “The only reason why you ride bikes, is because you can’t bring out your dicks and measure them in public.” Her eyes widened as the words tumbled out and she slapped her hand to her mouth.

Almost as if she’d said something forbidden.

The corner of his mouth curved with a smirk as he watched her. “Depends on the crowd. In the right setting, an orgy perhaps, I wouldn’t mind showing you. If—” he tilted his head, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “—that’s what you’re into, Miss Jane.”

Jane stuttered for a few seconds as she tried to reply. “Amanda,” she zeroed in on her best friend, visibly fuming. “Could you give me a moment with him?”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, putting on his killer smile as he winked at the friend. She sighed, swooning almost instantly. “I don’t want to separate you from your friend, but—”

“It’s fine!” Amanda declared, cupping her face with an ecstatic grin. Marcus frowned a bit. Was she okay? He’d seen a handful of faintings from fans. “I’ll give you as much space as you need!”

She rushed out of the room, returning a second later to close the door.

“Here’s what I think about you.” A cold voice cut through the silence.

He turned.

She pushed herself into a sitting position, her chest heaving from the effort. God. His throat went dry. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her in that way, but he couldn’t help it.

Her eyes were the most vibrant shade of hazel, flecks of gold flashing as she glared at him.

“You’re a…” She was stuttering again, her hands moving around.

Marcus opened his arms. “You can go ahead. I deserve it. Every bit of it. An asshole, for not stopping the crowd from taking the videos and invading your privacy. Egoistic, for assuming you were a fan.”

“Yes,” she nodded briskly. “You have a terribly annoying ego.” She thrust her hands on her hips, looking every bit like a storm passing through a bright cloud. “You have fans that throw bras at people’s faces…”

He zoned out of her words, as his gaze dropped to her chest. She wasn’t wearing one. The gown was painfully light too and he could see her nipples outlined against the material. It fell off her shoulders as she gestured animatedly, showing off soft, tanned skin.

His gut tightened as he forced his gaze away—back to her face, where it didn’t help any more.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could put on the act.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping her.

Her brows knit together in confusion.

“Everything you’ve said is true. Would you let me make it up to you by helping while you’re getting back on your feet?”

“You’ve paid the hospital bill.” She bit hard at him. “And I plan to refund every last dollar.”

“It was a nasty fall,” he explained. “You shouldn’t be alone for the next week or so. I have a house. I can hire a staff to make sure you’re taken care of properly.”

Her frown fell off as she folded her arms loosely. “Why?”

Because he was a terrible person, that’s why. Marcus Wolfe was an entitled human who always went after whatever he wanted, even if he was told he couldn’t have it.

He’d won every race since the arena opened four years ago, even when he had a sprain and the doctors told him to go easy on it.

He had a company too—at twenty-five and was a multi-millionaire on Forbes list.

Because he wanted her, as egoistic and illogical as it sounded.

“Think about it,” he murmured instead. “You hate me. You want your pound of flesh for what I did. What better way to get it than to have me indebted to you? I’ll be at your beck and call, and you can use me…” he drawled, “…as much as you want.”

She pursed her lips, thoughtfully.

His phone rang just then and Marcus bit back a curse. “I need to take care of this,” he told her. “I’ll be back. Think about my offer, will you? I’m willing to draw up a contract if that would suffice.”

He walked out, closing the door behind him as he reached into his pocket for his phone.

Ryder.

His brother.

“If you’re wondering if I’m still alive,” he said cheekily as he answered, “I am. The race,” he added when Ryder didn’t speak. He could picture his brother, rubbing his forehead with an exasperated expression. “How did it go?”

“You were going to lose, weren’t you?” Ryder said, his voice rough and low.

Marcus grinned. “You know me too well.”

“You’re an open book, Marc,” his brother’s tone dripped with dry sarcasm. “It’d be impossible for me not to predict your next move.”

“You sure?”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder, at the hospital door and the woman inside the room. His brown-haired, hazel-eyed firecracker.

A sly smile spread across his face.

His brother wouldn’t see that one coming, that was sure.

Jane

“…he asked me to move in with him.”

“He…oh my god!” Jane plugged her fingers into her ears before Amanda began screaming. Her best friend was all over the place, as if Jane had told her that she won the lottery to pay off their joint college loans and credit card debts.

Amanda rushed over to her bed side, grabbing her hands. “Tell me you said yes!” She squealed. “Tell me you said yes?”

Jane said nothing.

Her best friend's enthusiasm fell from a thousand to a zero as she blinked rapidly. “You turned him down?”

She hadn’t.

Not yet, at least.

She didn’t buy his whole speech about being indebted to her, as tempting as he made it sound. Because she really wanted to wipe the smug off his face.

But she wasn’t sure she could stand him long enough for her to think of the best way to revenge for the global humiliation.

Amanda slumped against Jane’s shoulder with a devastated sigh. “You don’t know how many people would kill to be in your shoes.” She looked up, her bottom lip jutting out. “I spent thousands of dollars on raffle tickets to attend his fan signing.”

Jane scoffed quietly. “Did you get in?”

“No.”

“How many times did you try?”

Amanda raised a finger. Then two, then five. Then both hands, with all ten fingers open. “That was just last year alone,” she mumbled.

Jane patted her back. “Sorry for your loss. But,” she added firmly and resolutely, “—I’m not moving in with some stranger, handsome or not. I could ask him on your behalf, though. We could trade places.”

Her best friend waved her arms frantically. “Absolutely not. I’ve gotten close enough to smelling his cologne and getting his autograph. That’s good enough for me.”

Jane was confused. “You literally have his pictures plastered all over your bedroom walls. You had his face on your twenty-first birthday cake.”

“That’s how being a devout fan works,” Amanda told her. “You love them so much, but you know that you can never and should never cross the line.”

It sounded like horseshit.

“He’s not a random person either. He has over ten million followers and he posts everything he does online. You’ll be perfect—” she grinned, “—safe.”

“And,” she joined the tips of her index fingers together, wriggling her brows, “if you’re there, then I could use you as an excuse to get closer to him. Within the boundary, of course.”

The answer was still no.

“Remember the promise you made to me?” Amanda said, making a pleading face. “And you have that project, remember? The one with the documentary?”

Shoot.

She’d forgotten about that. She was about to enter her final year of college, studying journalism. One of her projects was to document how relationships formed.

“There’s no relationship between us, ” she argued, even as his roguish smile, with his messy, gorgeous hair, flashed through her mind.

Amanda shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be romantic. He caused your fall, you ended in the hospital and now he’s offering to take care of you. You’re also…” she tapped her chin, searching for the right word, “…polar opposites. He’s a popular biker, a heartthrob and you’re…”

“Normal?” Jane quipped sarcastically.

Her best friend nodded eagerly. “Exactly. It’s perfect. It’s A material.”

It was trouble, that’s what.

But her best friend had a point. She could either spend the semester searching for the right materials—couples, friends-or she could use Marcus Wolfe as her muse.

“Mm?” Amanda nudged her.

A wild idea popped into her head. Wild, scandalous and exciting. It was the way to get her revenge.

A wry smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She shoved her fingers in quickly, muting Amanda’s ear-piercing squeals and wincing as her best friends threw her arms around her neck. “This is going to be the best summer break ever!”

Oh, it was.

Because Jane had a plan.

She was going to make Marcus Wolfe fall in love with her in thirty days. And then she was going to dump him, on camera, for the world to see.

That would be the perfect revenge.

***

A black Mercedes-Benz sprinter was waiting outside the hospital doors when Jane was wheeled out by a nurse, with Amanda by her side.

Her best friend had ignored her decision to stop by her studio apartment—and rushed there herself—to pack a bag.

A man in a clean-pressed suit and black shades got out of the driver’s seat, walked over to them. He took off his glasses as he nodded curtly. “Miss Forrest?”

He was looking at Amanda.

Jane groaned under her breath. Her best friend quickly shook her head, pointing at her. “That’s Jane. Not me.”

The man looked visibly disturbed by his mistake. He lowered his head slightly. “My apologies, Miss Forrest. Mr. Wolfe didn’t give me a description of whom I was supposed to pick up.”

“It’s fine,” she said.

It wasn’t his fault. Nobody would think a celebrity like Marcus Wolfe would be bringing her to his home. Especially when she was wearing a faded shirt she had since eighteen and an equally ugly pair of sweats she bought from a thrift shop.

Amanda handed the bag to the driver as Jane struggled to stand. He offered a hand, helping her into the van.

“Call me when you get there!” Her best friend shouted as the door closed. The last thing Jane saw was her jumping up and down, tripping over the wheelchair and ending up sitting in it.

It made her laugh, at least.

She leaned into the chair, her fingers brushing over the soft leather. It was soft. Luxury. Unlike the car she bought for a few thousand dollars, that picked the days it wanted to work, had two windows that wouldn’t wind down and an AC that shot out hot air.

***

The ride was about thirty minutes long.

The bus came to a stop and the door slid open seconds later. “We’ve arrived, Miss Forrest.” The driver offered a hand again, helping her down. Jane’s mouth parted as she stared at the building in front of me.

It was…huge.

She had no idea what underground racers made, but Marcus Wolfe’s house looked absurdly expensive. The sleek mansion was larger than her entire apartment building, its glowing windows and towering entrance making her feel very, very small.

“I’ll take you in,” the man offered, sweeping his hand out. “Mr. Wolfe had to attend to some business after he left the hospital, but he’s given me instructions for you to settle in.”

Jane nodded and followed him inside.

The mansion was even larger on the inside, with ceilings stretching overhead and every surface polished to perfection.

She tried not to gawk, but it was practically impossible.

A sharp ringing sound cut through the air. The man fumbled as he dug into his pocket. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his face as he stared at the caller ID, his thumb hovering.

“You should answer that,” Jane said quickly, offering a small, awkward smile. “I’ll be fine. Really. Just point me in the right direction.”

He hesitated, clearly torn, but the phone buzzed again. “Third floor,” he said hurriedly, already stepping back. “Main staircase to the right, then left down the hallway.”

The phone was still ringing. “Just…the room with the blue accent walls. I’ll be up shortly.”

Before she could ask for clarification, he answered the call and strode away.

She stood alone in the echoing foyer for a moment, then shrugged.

Blue accent wall.

How hard could that be?

Jane’s crocs squeaked softly as she climbed, the sound swallowed by the sheer size of the place. She passed several doors, some locked and the others she had to open, but none had an obvious blue wall.

After two wrong turns and one very awkward peek into what looked like a home theater, she finally spotted a slightly open door with a faint blue glow visible beneath.

Relief washed over her.

Got it.

She walked in, glancing around. It was sparsely furnished, but the bed looked large and inviting. She kicked off her crocs and plopped face down on it.

The sheets smelled like cinnamon and she burrowed her nose inside, sniffing happily. She didn’t hear the soft click.

Or the sound of barefoot on the floor.

“Well,” a deep voice said. “Either I’ve forgotten that I invited you, or you’re in the wrong room.”

Jane gasped in horror, jolting and tumbling off the bed. She scrambled to her feet, coming face-to-face with the other person.

A man.

With nothing but a white towel secured low around his hips. Her throat went dry as her gaze settled on the water droplets glistening on his hard, chest muscles. His dark hair hung damp against his forehead.

He wasn’t Marcus Wolfe.

They looked somewhat alike, but he had a dark scowl on his face and an entire arm sleeve of colorful tattoos.

“I—” she stammered as her face turned red, forgetting how to breathe. “I’m here to see Marcus Wolfe.”

He arched his brow, his scowl deepening. “You’re one of his groupies, aren’t you?”

Groupies? Jane rolled her eyes. She might’ve ended up in the wrong room, but she wasn’t going to take insults from him.

She folded her arms tightly. “Who are you?”

He took a step closer, his towel slipping down a half-inch. Her gaze strayed to the sculpted Adonis line below his stomach and Jane’s face grew hotter.

“Ryder Wolfe. Marcus’s twin brother.”

Her eyes widened as her head snapped back to his face.

Marcus’s twin brother???

Jane

Jane’s brain short-circuited. Gave up on her.

Because standing right in front of her was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of marble and bad intentions, wearing nothing but a strip of terry cloth that was practically holding on for dear life.

Ryder Wolfe. The twin.

She blinked once, twice, desperately trying to force her eyes to stay glued to his face instead of wandering down to his abs or the swirl of ink covering his arm. Seriously, what was with this family and having absurdly unfair genetics? Did their parents make a deal with the devil or something?

“Well?” Ryder’s voice scraped against the room, deep and rough like gravel under tires. He didn’t look flustered at all. In fact, he looked mildly annoyed that her existence was interrupting his post-shower routine. “You going to answer me, or are you just going to stand there catching flies with your mouth?”

She snapped her jaw shut so fast her teeth clacked together. Heat flared up her neck, hot enough to fry an egg.

“I am not a groupie,” she spat out, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to sound way more confident than she felt while standing in someone else’s bedroom in sweatpants and shoes. “I’m here because your brother invited me.”

Ryder tilted his head, his eyes narrowing into slits of skepticism. “Marcus invited you. Right into my private quarters. Onto my bed.”

“No!” She scrambled back a step, gesturing wildly toward the door. “The driver! The driver told me to come up here!”

“The driver.” He repeated the words slowly, as if he were talking to a toddler who just claimed the dog ate their homework. He took another step forward, unbothered by the fact that he was basically naked. “You expect me to believe Arthur told you to walk into my bedroom and take a nap in my sheets?”

“He said the room with the blue accent wall!” she cried out, pointing an accusing finger at the wall behind his bed. Only now, looking at it with functioning eyesight, did she realize the horrifying truth. The glow coming from beneath the door hadn’t been an accent wall. It was a monitor on a desk that was currently running a screensaver with a clock. The walls of the room were gray. Pitch dark. Not even remotely blue.

Oh, sweet lord. Kill her now. Just open up the floorboards and let her plummet straight into the basement.

“That’s… that’s a screen,” she whispered, her voice squeaking a little at the end.

“Brilliant observation,” Ryder mocked, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The movement made his biceps flex in a way that should honestly be considered a public hazard. “So let me get this straight. You wandered up the stairs, ignored half a dozen empty guest rooms, zeroed in on my door, kicked off your shoes, and made yourself comfortable. And it has nothing to do with Marcus being downstairs?”

“I didn’t know it was your room!” She felt her temper flaring, pushing aside the mortification. Who did this guy think he was? “Why would I want to sleep in your bed? I don’t even know who you are!”

“Everyone knows who we are,” he said coldly. The arrogance rolling off him was different from Marcus’s. Where Marcus was flashy, grinning, and loved soaking up the spotlight like a golden retriever with an ego, Ryder was icy. Like a razor blade wrapped in leather. “And girls like you always have a story. First it’s an accident, then it’s an autograph, and suddenly you’re ‘accidentally’ waking up in our wing of the house looking for exclusive content.”

“Girls like me?” She bristled, stepping closer despite the screaming voice in her head telling her to back away from the scary, half-naked mechanic. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re not subtle,” he shot back, his eyes flicking down her t-shirt and sweatpants with total dismissal. “You think you’re the first overzealous fan who found an excuse to get inside? Slipping on Marcus’s soda, making a scene at the track, getting your face plastered everywhere for clout… and now you’re here. In my room. Snooping.”

Her jaw dropped. The sheer audacity of this man. She had a concussion! She had bruises on her hip from falling down concrete stairs! And he thought she orchestrated the most humiliating moment of her entire twenty-two years of life just to get close to his brother?

“I was not snooping!” she practically shrieked. “I had a concussion! I fell because your reckless idiot of a brother decided to walk into me! I didn’t ask for any of this! I don’t want his money, I don’t want his fame, and I definitely don’t want to be in the same zip code as your giant, inflated egos!”

Ryder didn’t flinch. He just leaned back slightly against his desk, unimpressed by her outburst. “Cute speech. But you’re still standing in my bedroom.”

“Because you’re cornering me, you psycho!”

“Ryder, what the fuck is going on in here?”

The loud, familiar voice cut through the tension like a switchblade.

She whipped around toward the open doorway. Marcus was standing in the threshold, still dressed in his jacket, keys dangling from his index finger. His hair was a messy halo around his head, but the easygoing, playful smirk he usually wore was nowhere to be found.

His eyes took in the scene in half a second flat—her, flushed red and breathing heavily, standing two feet away from his twin brother, who was dripping wet in a towel.

Marcus’s jaw tightened until a muscle ticked beneath the skin. The temperature in the room plummeted by about twenty degrees.

“Get away from her,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a low, territorial growl that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“Tell that to your little pet,” Ryder countered smoothly, not looking bothered in the slightest. “She’s the one who broke into my room.”

“I told Arthur to put her in the guest suite at the end of the hall,” Marcus said, taking three long strides into the room and immediately stepping directly between Ryder and her. His shoulders blocked her view of his brother. He glanced down at her, his eyes softening just a fraction as he scanned her face. “You okay, Jane?”

Hearing him use her name so naturally felt weirdly disarming, especially after the verbal beatdown she’d just endured.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, crossing her arms even tighter. “Your brother just happens to think I’m an undercover stalker.”

Marcus turned his head slightly, glaring sideways at his twin. “She’s my guest, Ryder. Back off.”

“Your guest?” Ryder let out a short, humorless laugh. He stood up straight, abandoning his casual lean against the desk. “Since when do you invite random charity cases from the track to stay at the house? Have you lost your mind? Lorraine is already looking for any excuse to stir up shit, and you bring a stranger through the front door?”

At the mention of the name Lorraine, Marcus’s expression darkened even further, a shadow of irritation flickering across his features before he smoothed it away.

“What I do in my house is none of your business,” Marcus snapped. “She got hurt because of me. She’s staying here until she recovers. End of story.”

Ryder didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he slowly shifted his gaze past Marcus’s shoulder, locking his eyes directly onto hers.

The cold dismissal from moments ago was gone. In its place was something else. Something dark and calculating. He looked at her not like an annoying pest to be swatted away, but like a complex puzzle he hadn’t anticipated—a threat he suddenly needed to analyze. His eyes traced the outline of her face, lingering on her mouth, before meeting her gaze with an intensity that sent an uncomfortable jolt straight down to her stomach.

It felt like he was peeling back layers, trying to figure out what game she was playing.

If only he knew. The irony was almost hilarious. She wasn’t here to be Marcus’s adoring fan. She was here to ruin him. But standing under Ryder’s stare, the thirty-day bet felt a hundred times more dangerous than it had twenty minutes ago.

“Come on,” Marcus murmured, his hand gently settling against the small of her back.

The heat of his palm seared right through her shirt, sending a tiny shock through her skin. He guided her firmly toward the doorway, physically shielding her from his brother’s line of sight. “Arthur put your bag in the right room. Let’s get you out of here before my brother gives you an infection with his terrible personality.”

She didn’t protest. She practically tripped over her own feet hurrying out of that room.

As they crossed the threshold into the hallway, she heard Ryder move behind them. A low murmur drifted through the air, so rough she almost missed it.

“Good luck, sweetheart.”

She hesitated for a split second, a chill rippling down her spine. She glanced back over her shoulder just as Marcus started pulling the door shut.

Ryder was standing in the center of the room, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes remained pinned on her, unblinking, watching her retreat with cold certainty.

He didn’t just think she was a liar.

He had already decided she was a problem. And by the calculating look in his eyes, he was fully intending to solve it himself.