Falling for my Enemy's Brother-Chapter 46: Fragile ground

Craig’s fingers tapped nervously on the steering wheel as the road stretched out before him, quiet except for the steady flow of his thoughts.

Her words lingered in his mind, sharp and clear.

’You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I already know who you are.’

He didn’t know what she meant exactly, but it hit him somewhere he hadn’t armored. Not like a knife, no. More like a quiet verdict.

Like she had taken one long, hard look at him and decided he was already a lost cause.

He clenched his jaw, swerved slightly to avoid a pothole, then gripped the wheel tighter.

What did she think she saw? Some arrogant Lesnar? A spoiled, selfish guy who didn’t give a damn about anyone else? Was that all he was to her now?

He hated how much it mattered, how her words stayed with him longer than they should’ve.

But if he was being honest, he’d known this was coming. That moment by the pool...

He knew exactly what he was doing when he said what he said. The words were meant to push her away.

He was angry, cornered. She looked at him like she wanted answers, and he gave her something cruel instead, something he knew would burn.

And it did.

Now she looked at him differently, not with hate but with this quiet disappointment, like he’d confirmed every worst-case version of himself.

He leaned back slightly, fingers running through his hair as he exhaled hard.

Why did it bother him so much?

Why did she get under his skin like this?

Her voice echoed again in his head, not sharp this time but soft and certain.

’I already know who you are.’

The hell did that mean?

Because he wasn’t sure he knew who he was anymore. Not around her.

He pressed his foot on the gas, the tires humming against the road.

He had to find Conor.

Maybe figuring that out would help him breathe again. He texted one of his dad’s security.

His phone buzzed in the center console.

A message from one of his father’s security.

’Conor was spotted around the old Sable Construction site, alone.’

A construction site? What the hell was his brother doing there?

Craig turned the wheel hard, veering off toward the industrial edge of the city. Gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled into the overgrown lot. Twilight was pressing in, and the half-finished buildings cast long, crooked shadows across the dirt.

Then he saw her.

At first, he wasn’t even sure. But the way she moved, cautious and determined, he knew. It was Merlina.

What the hell was she doing here?

He stayed in the car, watching her from a distance. She crept around one of the steel frames, clearly searching. Then it happened: her foot caught on something. She staggered and went down hard.

Craig was out of the car before he could think twice.

Then he stopped.

For a second, he just stood there, frozen and unsure.

Maybe she didn’t want him here. Maybe she didn’t need anything from him anymore.

But then he saw her stumble, her face tightening in pain.

His breath caught. That hesitation vanished.

He stepped forward.

"Merlina," he called, his voice soft, low but laced with concern. It wasn’t the kind of voice she was used to hearing from him. No sharp edges, no arrogance. Just worry. Just him.

She turned, startled, clutching her arm. Dirt streaked her jeans and her hoodie. She winced, clearly in pain, but still tried to sit up straight.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice tight.

"I could ask you the same," he replied, crouching beside her. His eyes swept over her arm, already starting to bruise.

"I was here looking for Conor," she said.

His brow furrowed. "Alone?" He glanced around, uneasy. "Why didn’t Louis come with you?"

She nodded. "I wanted to do this myself."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Yeah? Look where that got you." He offered her his hand but she didn’t take it.

She tried to push herself up, gritting her teeth. "I’m fine."

"You’re not."

"I can help myself."

He didn’t argue. Just watched her try and fail to get on her feet. Her leg buckled, and she nearly fell again.

That was enough.

"Come on," he said, already slipping an arm under her shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"You’re bleeding. Let’s go."

She let him guide her this time, maybe from exhaustion, or maybe because somewhere deep down, she knew she needed him.

He opened the car door and helped her into the passenger seat, careful not to press too hard where she’d winced. The door remained open, letting the breeze drift in, carrying the sounds of the quiet around them.

Without a word, Craig knelt in front of her, the gravel pressing into his knees as he reached into the glove box and pulled out the first aid kit. The light from inside the car washed over both of them, soft, warm, intimate.

Her arm lay tense against her lap, scraped and tender. She didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on something far ahead that wasn’t really there.

He looked up at her from where he knelt, fingers moving slowly as he unzipped the kit.

"Let me see," he said, his voice quiet, gentler than she expected.

"You don’t have to—"

"I’m not doing this for points," he said softly. "Just... hold still."

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t stop him either.

So he reached up, took her arm carefully in his hands, and began tending to the wound. His touch was steady, delicate, focused. The kind of care you didn’t fake. And though she kept her face turned away, her breathing shifted, quieter, slower, uncertain.

Her heart beat faster, not from pain.

He was so close now. Concentrated, calm, and sweet in a way that caught her completely off guard.

She tried not to stare but failed.

The curve of his lashes, the gentle way his fingers moved, brushing over her skin with a quiet care that made her chest tighten. He wasn’t just dressing a wound. He was tending to her without even realizing it.

Her eyes drifted to the faint cut on his jaw. She hadn’t noticed it before. Had someone hit him? Had he gotten himself hurt recently? Or had it always been there, hiding beneath the hard lines and quick remarks?

He leaned in a little more, inspecting the bandage like it mattered, like she mattered.

And that’s when she forgot herself.

She looked at him, really looked, and for a second the ache in her ankle disappeared. All she could feel was the quiet between them, heavy, warm, alive.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

She blinked and turned away too late.

"What?" she asked quickly, flustered by how fast her heartbeat jumped. Her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore.

He didn’t look away.

"I can’t wait for you to finally talk to Conor," he said, voice low. "So you can see how wrong you were about all of this."

She swallowed hard. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

"So you can finally stop hating me."

Her eyes met his again, steady now. She didn’t blink this time.

"I told you," she said softly, "this isn’t about you."

But he leaned back just enough to study her like he could see right through the walls she’d built.

"Really?" he asked. His tone was quiet but it hit like a challenge. "Because it sure as hell looks like it is."

Neither of them spoke, but everything between them felt different now.

Then came his voice again, this time softer, more tired. "I’ve been trying."

She scoffed. "Trying? You mean ignoring me when I say hi to you? That’s your definition of trying?"

He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t argue. He just looked down at her arm, his jaw tense, his fingers slow as they smoothed out the last edge of the bandage.

She could hear her own pulse, loud in her ears.

"I told you," he murmured, barely above a whisper, "I was having a bad day."

She exhaled. One word, sharp. "Yeah."

She didn’t believe him, not completely, but the way he said it, the heaviness in his voice, lingered in her mind.

As he stood, the space between them seemed to pulse with tension, quiet and loaded. Then he closed the first aid kit and brushed his palms against his jeans. "Can you walk?"

"I think so."

"Come on."

He offered his hand. She hesitated, then took it, only for a second but long enough to feel how warm his touch was.

When she stood, he didn’t linger. He let her walk ahead.

His voice followed her closely, careful and steady. "Careful. Don’t step over that beam. It’s rusted."

She did as he said.

"Stay left," he added. "There’s a gap up there."

His tone wasn’t commanding. It was protective, gentle, like someone who knew how easily the world could hurt you and wasn’t about to let it happen again.

She hated that it got to her, that it made her feel safer than she wanted to admit.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally, her voice quieter.

"I was looking for Conor."

She didn’t press. Just walked beside him, their steps nearly in sync now. The air between them wasn’t as sharp. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was magnetic, as if their bodies hadn’t quite stopped remembering everything their mouths were trying to forget.

Then his phone buzzed.

Craig stopped mid-step, pulling it out and reading the screen. His eyes narrowed.

Merlina kept walking, determined. She didn’t notice him slow.

But then he moved closer, quickly.

His hand reached out, resting softly at the small of her back.

She shivered at the touch—warm, steady, and grounding—his fingers tracing a gentle line along her spine. The sudden contact stole her breath, leaving her heart pounding in her chest.

"What are you doing?" Her voice came out smaller than she wanted, the vulnerability threading through it impossible to hide.

"Conor’s not here," he said, his tone serious but laced with something else, something more intimate, like he hated being the one to say it.

Her body stiffened, eyes flickering with determination. "I’m going to find him."

She stepped forward, past him, but he caught her again, his hand curling around her uninjured arm this time, firm but careful, stopping her in place.

"If you want to find him," he said gently, holding out his phone, "this is where he is."

She looked down to the text on his phone, her breath shallow.

’Conor Lesnar.

Eclipse Club, 9th Avenue.’