I could feel that same sting, Cristiano’s big hand landing squarely on my ass, spanking me into the submissive role he knew would leave me wet.
But I wasn’t going to beg for anything.
“Turn and face the back of the room,” Cristiano said to me.
As I did, my eyes landed on the White Monarch he’d left on the desk.
He noticed it, too. We exchanged a look before he slid it outside my reach.
My trust in him would never be absolute—and it seemed the reverse was true, too.
From behind, he slid the lapels of his jacket to my elbows, trapping me and exposing my upper back. “Last chance to say mercy, mariposa.” He spoke quietly so Scratch wouldn’t hear. “Tell me you’ve learned your lesson. I warned you once. No lie, no betrayal will go unpunished. Say mercy, and I’ll turn that sweet ass red in return.”
He wanted an out, but not for me. He’d walked right up to the line, and now he expected me to pull him back so he wouldn’t cross it. So he could sleep easy at night knowing he wasn’t his father.
He was. And I’d be the one to prove it to him.
I met his burning gaze over my shoulder, and I could see that no part of him doubted I’d concede my loyalty and my dignity. “I won’t beg for anything, even your forgiveness, and I won’t be bent over your knee as punishment.”
He drew back. It gave me a secret thrill to surprise him. Now, the tables were turned, and he had to decide what to do. “Careful, sweet girl. The thought of spanking you until you’re dripping wet turns my dick to stone. But my cartel’s name on your skin? I’ll truly own you then, and I don’t think I need to tell you what that means.”
Heat pulsed in me. I didn’t need to be told because I felt it, too. His hand would only dominate my ass for tonight, but the act of permanently marking me said ownership in a soul-deep way.
“Give me a reason to do it, and I will take it,” he warned.
“Take it.”
He searched my eyes, perhaps looking for any doubt or reservation. After all, I had to be willing, or I suspected he wouldn’t go through with it. His expression eased as he tilted his head and seemed to find the answer in my gaze—one that pleasantly surprised him.
Cristiano wanted my loyalty, and as with anything else he desired, he would take it.
But that wasn’t enough. He would make sure the world knew it.
He’d make sure I never forgot.
I belonged to Cristiano now, and I’d have it permanently stamped on my body for all to see.
17
Natalia
The butterfly stung. I peeled back the bandage on my shoulder. Orange wings shimmered iridescent within black window panes. Slightly whimsical and a touch artistic, I was grateful to see it was a tattoo I would’ve chosen for myself, although until tonight, I would’ve balked at the script, sugar skull, and red roses inked around it.
In the mirror of Cristiano’s bedroom on the top floor of his nightclub, I read the tattoo reflected back at me over my shoulder.
Calavera Cartel.
Yes, I’d agreed to it, but that didn’t change the fact that the asshole had branded me like I was cattle and sent me upstairs to bed like I was a petulant child. I’d tried to sleep, but I was drunk on a cocktail of emotions. A bitter aperitif of adrenaline, anger fizzing like soda water, an infuriating sweet-and-sour clash of irritation and worst of all—secret excitement from Cristiano’s absolute arrogant and unapologetic claim over me. I was sure he couldn’t wait to pluck off the cherry garnish and slice clean through it with his teeth. It would be irreversible when he did. Cristiano liked permanence, no room for question. An entire town nobody could take from him, a Catholic marriage to bind our souls, a tattoo to remind me of my place. Or was it a warning to others? Certainly, nobody else would get too close to me when they saw who I belonged to.
When we’d danced at the costume party, my fury was aimed as much at myself as at him for my unsettling attraction to a man who’d so flippantly come on to me while knowing I was spoken for. Not many men would take another man’s woman, then threaten to remove his hands if he touched her again.
I was angry at myself again, this time for the secret thrill that came with being staked by a man as wild and hard to pin down as Cristiano. Could the thought of it both make my pussy flutter with excitement and also piss me off? Could I have both allowed it to happen and use it to prove he was a bastard to decorate my body like a wall in his home? He had no right to assert his dominance in such a permanent, irrevocable way, even if it aroused the hell out of me.