“Knows what?” His fingers fell from my chin, and I stared at my feet, enclosed in trendy black heels that matched the black cocktail dress I’d worn to dinner, where Lucas Perrone had proposed.

“About us.”

He faltered, mouth gaping, and it was the most unusual sight. Zach didn’t normally struggle for words, threats, insults.

He blinked and the moment was gone. “I don’t give a fuck what Dad knows or doesn’t know. You’re gonna break this engagement, and you’re not seeing him again.” As if the issue were settled, he staggered into the living room where he sprawled onto the sofa, one leg bent and a foot resting on the floor. I averted my gaze from the bulge behind his zipper.

I needed to get him out of my house pronto. “I’ll call you a cab. We’ll talk tomorrow about this, I promise.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “My cab just left, and we’re talkin’ now.” His brows narrowed over angry hazel eyes. “C’mere,” he said, patting his lap.

I backed up, shaking my head.

“No? You want it extra rough? Is that it?”

I didn’t want it at all, but I knew better than to voice it. I scratched my arm, digging in a little deeper than usual.

“You think marrying some mid-forties vanilla hack is gonna ‘fix’ you? Make you normal? We both know you’re nothing but a slut.”

I clenched my teeth. His insult maimed more than his hands did, especially since he was the only man I’d ever slept with. He perceived any guy who glanced in my direction as a threat, as if I welcomed the attention, and he’d become downright vicious since Dad set me up with Lucas.

Dad had always made decisions for me, from what school I attended to which program I chose as a major. I’d earned degrees in accounting and business but harbored no desire to use them. He expected me to hop on board the family legacy in a managerial capacity, but unlike him and Zach, I had no interest in mixed martial arts or running an enterprise of venues and training centers.

I chalked it up to the fact that we didn’t share DNA. Mom married Abbott De Luca when I was six, but he was like a dad to me, especially since he’d legally adopted me, and as such, I’d never thought of Zach as a step-brother. Not where it counted. The step part got lost in the sea of right and wrong and perversely unacceptable.

I folded my arms and put another foot of distance between us, backing toward the foyer. No one made me more uncomfortable in my own house, in my own skin, than my own brother.

He seemed pissed that I wasn’t rising to his bait by responding. “You’re my slut, aren’t you, Lex?” He pushed off the couch, as if he only now realized I was retreating, and gripped my arms. “My little whore who loves to be fucked.”

“You’re hurting me,” I said, barely above a whisper, but his fingers pressed harder when I tried to pull away.