Charlie flings his suit jacket back over his shoulder. “And I’ll tell you what your brother is too afraid to say, Don’t fuck Donnelly.” “Whoa,” Farrow head-snaps to Charlie and glares. My pulse accelerates. Charlie doesn’t stop. “He’s contaminated. Disease-ridden—” “Charlie,” Farrow warns. Before Donnelly shifts his gaze away, I catch his anger and his hurt. He loves the Cobalts. “—you fuck him, you die,” Charlie tells me. “You understand that; I know you do.” Because Charlie has read most of my smut, including the ones with my favorite trope. “Now isn’t the time to fall for him.” Too late.
