Burning Rivalry (Trevor's Harem #2) Read Online Free PDF

to be locked. He seemed surprised and tried to hide it. I saw some of the email headlines. You … well, you should know. I saw the name Brandon. Like, lots from him, and lots of exclamation points. So you should know that Daniel is in there, and just that if you can, you really need to find a way to check it.”  
    I look down at my Fitbit. I haven’t received any new email notifications like that first one, from Jenny, that made me Skype her in what I assumed was secret. But I shouldn’t be surprised; Daniel told me they’d set all of that up: let me get the notification on a suspiciously open Wi-Fi network, let me find and use a conveniently unsecured computer without interruption.  
    It’s just another mind game. Now the network’s secure, I’m not getting notifications, and Daniel is messing in my private affairs while my birth mother convalesces, assuming she’s not dead. Wonderful.  
    “Door to the right of the bathroom,” Erin repeats. “But remember, I only told you that he wants to see you, no more. Don’t tell him I told you I was in with him, or about the email, or any of that. If he asks, I told you that I ran into him when I was walking over to splash some water on my face or something.”  
    I should thank Erin for delivering the message, but I find myself annoyed. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being fucked with. Daniel is up; Daniel is down. Trevor is supposed to be this party’s host, but we haven’t seen much of him so far, and his bride tests , I’m guessing, involve wife candidates screwing other men. The uber-rich are weird. But they cross the line when they fuck with my family.
    I leave the room, hearing Erin’s voice in my head.  
    I saw the name Brandon. Like, lots from him, and lots of exclamation points.  
    I’ll meet Daniel, if he wants to meet with me. No problem.  
    But one way or another, I’m talking to my big brother, too.

CHAPTER SIX

Bridget

    The door to the bathroom’s right doesn’t even look like a real thing. I mean, it’s a door. But that’s about it. Nobody would ever come in here. Not even to get a broom, because in a house like this, brooms are probably kept in crystal racks and can’t be held without pristine white gloves. Dust is terrified around here. It’s not removed so much as murdered, made to have never existed.  
    To me, it looks like the closet in the first foster home Brandon and I shared. There were actually two, with some time spent apart in residence (but still close by) between them. In the second foster home, Brandon protected me with his fists. In the first, we learned what kinds of things kids might need protection from.  
    The mother and father were nice enough. Poor, yes. Oblivious, yes. But mostly kind. They had one biological child: a seventeen-year-old son. Brandon was fifteen, and I was thirteen. The third kid in the house liked me, a lot. Or maybe he was socially fucked up enough to have no other outlets.  
    That house had a walk-in closet just like this. A place where I was taken a few times, before Brandon grabbed a knife and threatened to end our fostership one way or another.  
    I don’t know why the door next to the bathroom, in this posh mansion, reminds me so much of that time and place. It’s only a door, tucked almost into a corner. If the shadows from the long windows fall just right, you might not even notice it, or if you did, you’d take the door for an oversight or unfunny joke on the architect’s part.
    I open it, sure I’m in the wrong place and being foolish. I’m supposed to raise my shields here; I decided that when I agreed to stay. I’d done vulnerable, same as sniped and yelled-at and bothered and weak. Until I hit that first elimination and am told to get my prude ass out with my pile of money, I’m in Iron Bitch mode. At least that’s how it’s supposed to be. But my palm is sweaty on the knob. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat and hear it in my ears. The hallway beyond the door,