“Don’t make me shoot you, kid.” Shane warns. “You know I can’t let you point a gun at the boss.”
Brutus circles the scene, head lowered and hackles raised. His decision on who to protect now is a challenge. Sniper growls by my calves, obediently guarding his one true master. I stare at her scrunched-up face colored in a tide of fresh blood and feel myself slip from the throne I sit on with pride.
There’s no pleasure to be found in watching my sweet little liar suffer. We all know she was plotting an escape. The enchanting woman is a survivor, an angel who had slayed her own demons. Realization explodes inside me, the maddening concept of admiration so raw and revealing. It’s her personal experience, her knowledge of an all-consuming darkness with its vicious thorns and venomous vines that snare me.
She’s traveled the same path and survived. Her deep understanding is the scribe for my unspoken affliction. The interpreter of a language so undefined that it was impossible to translate—until she appeared. And now, I’ll use every inch of her body and soul until my affliction is no longer an issue.
A tornado gathers momentum inside my chest. It begs to cover the high moon on a quest to camouflage the crimson stain creeping closer to her scarred mouth. Those sexy lips that can do no wrong.
My spine stiffens, braced for conflict of the worst kind. I need her alive. “Stand down, Shane,” I bark, low and cagey.
“Tommy…” he argues. “You know I can’t do that. Tell her to put the gun down first.”
“Both of you… fuck off…” Carina yells, jabbing the gentle floral breeze with unfriendly, cold steel.
Brutus hovers close to her long, lean legs, his threatening glare glued to Shane.
“Throw the gun away, Carina,” I say firmly. “You’re making things worse.”
Sniper yaps, his ears pricking up at my fractured tone. Her throat bobs as she swallows, unsure of what her next move should be. She swipes her brow with the back of her hand again and smears the leaking trail of blood.
Our eyes meet, hers riddled with confusion and valiant strength, mine cautious.
“She won’t pull the trigger, Shane,” I say confidently, letting her see my own weapon pointed at the gravel under my feet. “Carina. Don’t test my patience. This won’t end well if you shoot. For your own safety, do not defy me.”
In the moments of rippling unease, my dogs sense the gravity of my command. Brutus howls and Sniper lunges. The two animals go head to head. One defending Carina, the other protecting me.
The chaos distracts her. I lunge forward and seize the gun from her curled fingers while she screams at the snarling duo to stop brawling. Finally taking control of the firearm, I raise it to the starry sky, fire a warning shot and whistle.
Both dogs separate on my command, lower to their bellies and pant hard in the aftermath of war. They've never fought before. Not once.
“Check them over. Call the vet if you need to,” I snarl at Shane, all the while glaring at Carina.
Her face is ashen beneath streams of tears, cheeks glistening. As she tries to stifle a sob, her throat jerks. A tiny hand glides to her stomach and stays there as she stares up at me in silence. She glances over her shoulder, wary and uncertain. The ballsy woman thinks I’ll punish her. Perhaps I will.
My jaw tightens, determined to keep my cool and not toss her over my shoulder to carry her indoors for a lesson in obedience.
I hold out my hand in the space separating us and wait for her to take it with strained patience. She mindlessly fingers her mouth, takes a deep breath, and ignores my offering.
The instant she darts left to dodge my show of peace, I snare her bicep, roughly halting her getaway. I ignore the spasm of pain rocketing up my shoulder, disturbing the perforated muscle healing under a clean dressing.
“Take my hand, Carina. That’s an order.” My stern request clips her unruliness.
Her bottom lip wobbles. Immediately, she captures it between her teeth. In her own time, she sets her small hand on top of my palm and returns my glower with watery, wide eyes, still dignified in our momentary truce.
Knots curl and twist around my gut, thick and corded in their pursuit to hamper me. I stare at the fragility of her untrusting expression. How the glazed sheen coating her seductive amber eyes begs for a grain of clemency.
Unspoken wishes shadow her elegant features. And the realization I would steal a fistful of stars from the heavens to help her shine again hits me hard and awakens a new concern.
This woman is more to me than just a somebody.
She’s mine.
The hairs on my nape stand tall, like soldiers of war assembling for battle. I don’t need emotional ties of any sort. They only serve to distract from the end goal of my destiny—to prove Uncle Angelo was right—to become legendary.
I’m no longer an apprentice standing beside the throne. I’m seated on top of Colombia, wearing my rightful crown.
My time has finally come.