Sibling Teasing

Vanna hops into the passenger seat like she owns the truck—then again, she acts like she owns everything. She kicks her feet up on the dash, leans back, and gives me a slow, exaggerated once-over that makes me want to put the truck in park and walk.

“Well, well, well,” she smirks, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Look at you, Big B. All famous and flustered. Should I start calling you ‘Mr. Sought-After Bachelor’ now?”

I let out a heavy groan, gripping the steering wheel. “Vanna, don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m already started,” she says, flicking her hair with practiced drama. “You should’ve seen your face when they asked about your type. I swear you almost passed out. It was adorable and sexy.”

“Vanna. We’re siblings.”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Not by blood. Which means I get to tease you as aggressively as I want. It’s written in the sibling handbook.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” she says, poking my arm. “Besides, Daddy likes me more—you know I’m the favorite.”

I shoot her a side-eye as I pull onto the highway. “That’s highly debatable.”

She gasps, clutching an invisible string of pearls. “Big B, please. He literally let me pick out the paint color for the barn. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”

I shake my head, focusing on the road. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” she sings, her heels rhythmically kicking the glove box.

The rest of the drive is a blur of her humming and tapping on the window. Every time I sigh, she gives me a look like she’s collecting data for future ammunition. By the time the tires hit the dirt road leading to the ranch, I’m convinced she’s been training for this specific interrogation her entire life.

I park beside the stables, a cloud of dust swirling around us. The familiar scent of hay and worn leather hits me the second I step out, grounding me for a split second. Vanna is out of the truck before it even stops rolling.

“Okay, Big B,” she calls out, already backing toward the main house. “I’ve got to drop my stuff off. My room better still be perfect.”

“It’s your room, Vanna. You’re the one who decorated it.”

“Exactly,” she spins on her heel, grinning. “Perks of being the favorite.”

Before I can argue, she’s halfway to the porch, waving me off like I’m an afterthought. “Go to the stables! Your meeting is waiting!”

She disappears inside, leaving me alone in the sudden silence of the ranch. I turn toward the stables, expecting a groom or a ranch hand.

I stop dead.

Elena Russo is standing there. She is perfectly calm, perfectly composed, her hands folded in front of her. She’s watching me with an intensity that suggests she’s been waiting for this exact moment for a very long time.

Something in me snaps. The exhaustion of the day, the weight of the blackout, and the frustration of being a puppet finally boil over. I take a step forward, my voice sharper and colder than I intended.

“I have no problem with trespassers—until they stop being guests.”

Her lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile and isn't quite a smirk. It’s a look of pure ownership. Suddenly, the anger in my chest is replaced by a cold, rising sense of dread.