As his meaning registered, I flushed and glanced at the ground. “I didn’t move my hips.”
“Maybe it’s a subconscious way of physically preparing yourself, but either way, make it stop.” He raised the knife, forcing my eyes up. “Be stealthy,” he said, “but don’t hesitate. You’re not grabbing my wrist—you’re yanking it. Use speed, leverage your body weight to bring it down.”
“Cristiano?”
He shifted behind me. “Hmm?”
“Did you know, according to Jewish folklore, a pomegranate has exactly six-hundred-and-thirteen seeds?”
“What?” he asked. “I—”
With his wrist firmly in my grip, I rotated, and this time, while we were tangled, I poked the sheathed blade into his ribcage. “Bang, you’re dead,” I said quietly.
His eyes met mine over his shoulder. A moment in our shared history passed between us. I’d just repeated back to him the words he’d said to my nine-year-old self in my parents’ closet before he’d whisked me away down the tunnel.
“Who knew pomegranate trivia could save your life?” he asked, and I was grateful for a reprieve from the gravity of the memory.
We separated, and I was surprised to find myself out of breath. At least I’d have more than enough free time here to get in shape. “Supposedly King Solomon had his crown modeled after a pomegranate. Thank you, religious studies,” I said. “Can I see the knife?”
His eyebrows rose. “Not yet.”
“Afraid I’ll hurt you?”
He removed the knife from its leather case and showed me the fine, smooth edge that ended in a sharp point. “You’ll hurt one of us if you try.”
“So that’s it?” I asked.
“For today, yes. It’s an introduction to get comfortable with panic. If we reenacted this for real, you’d be dead before you even registered what was happening.” We briefly met eyes, and he added, “I don’t want that, so you’ll have to learn how to stay calm and practice these moves until you know them with your eyes shut.” He turned the blade, and it caught the light. “When I’m not here to practice with you, Alejo or Solomon or someone else will.”
I squinted up at him. In the sun, his coal-black eyes were closer to the color of coffee beans. “You don’t want me dead?” I asked, testing out how it felt to tease him.
He put the knife away and wiped his hands on his pants. “Of course not.”
“Just trapped.” My humor faded. I glanced beyond the cliff, out toward the Badlands’ gates.
With a knuckle under my chin, he gently turned my face back to his. “I want to make sure you’re prepared,” he said. “At some point, you may find yourself in a position where you’ll need to defend yourself.”
I’d already found myself in that position. “What makes you think I wouldn’t use what I learn against you?”
Searching my eyes, he lowered his hand back to his side. His demeanor shifted away from its rare lightness—espresso beans darkening to pitch black. “Dinner will be served shortly.” He turned toward the house. “Wash up.”
10
Natalia
Dinner will be served shortly. Wash up.
Like any other command from Cristiano’s mouth, he’d ordered it nonchalantly and with no room for argument.
It wasn’t nonchalant to me.
Balanced on the edge of his bed after our impromptu street fight, I waited for him to vacate the shower. Since the day before, I’d been married off, shuttled to a new home, shuttled back to my father’s, told this was my new life, and held at knifepoint.
And now, Diego was trying to turn me into an information mule. I’d wrapped the phone in a bra and shoved it to the bottom of my overnight bag until I could decide what to do with it.
Use his desire for you against him, Diego had said.
Wiggling my hips against Cristiano had been enough to get his attention. It was becoming obvious it was important to him that I be willing, but I was sure his patience had a limit. A perverse side of me wanted to tempt him just to prove that he was no better than his father or brother. That I was here because I had to be, and that he’d fuck me against my will with no more thought than he’d give to fucking me against a wall.
But did I have the guts?
I tiptoed to the bathroom, careful to stay out of view. In the mirror, I could see the hazy outline of his bronzed, naked form through the steamed-over shower door.
He flipped off the water and stepped out before I could retreat. “Well, well,” he said, nude and dripping on the bathmat.
My face burned. I was mortified, but for some reason, I didn’t want him to know it. I fought my instinct to run and hide in the closet and held his gaze instead.
I could face him.
Just as long as I didn’t look down.
He grabbed a towel from a hook and came around to face me, scrubbing it through his hair. “How long were you standing there?”