I smirk, push away from her, and settle flat on my back. “You’d like that,” I mutter.
“So would you.” She smiles over at me, her lips curling with satisfaction. “Wrap it up in dollar bills with a fat ribbon tied around and pretend it's an agreement. But you're only paying for my company, because you think having all that money gives you limitless power.”
“It does.” My eyelids are heavy, and the gunshot wound throbs under a clean dressing.
If not for my slamming pulse and solid dick tenting the sheets, I’d easily fall asleep straight away. Though something tells me it won’t be that easy. As I lie beside this frustrating woman, it’ll be the biggest challenge of my life not to punish her for making me feel off kilter. As much as her presence holds the weight of an anchor, it confuses the fuck out of me.
I sigh loudly for show. “I’m tired. I have a busy day scheduled for tomorrow.” I ignore her glare. “And you’re coming with me.”
“Where to?” She fists the sheet, practically mummifying herself in cotton so there’s no naked skin on display.
“We’re going back to where it all started. To the plantation where my father waits in a gilded coffin.”
13
CARINA
I wake up naked in a bed fit for a king.
My sticky eyelashes peel open, encrusted with salty distress from the harrowing events a number of hours ago. An achy cut on my head has dried to a gross scab and my lungs are as tight as a drum.
The empty space beside me is where Tomás fell asleep. I listen carefully to detect a telltale sound, to hear water jets in the gargantuan shower or splashes from the faucet. There’s only the quick thrum of my pulse and a low groan as I throw back the high thread count sheet to sit up.
I’m still in shock from how he had killed one of his henchmen without questioning why I was really outside. He just fired, once, then a second time. It shames me to admit the flutters in my chest are born from the words he chose.She’s somebody to me.
The ruthless king had shot one of his own in a monstrous act. He murdered him because of me. For justice—or an important reminder of the pecking order. I shouldn't be so compelled by his reasons for doing it, but I am.
I want to understand why he didn’t accuse me of spying himself. Why am I safely tucked up in his bed, untouched, and a slave to his mystery?
It’s not the first time he’s spared my life. Since he cut me loose from the plantation, to caging me on the pavement while an influx of bullets soared straight at us—he’s kept me safe. I’m balancing on a tightrope, wearing a false harness of trust when the truth is, he could snip the rope at any moment.
He could have beaten, abused, or tortured me in the hours that followed. But he didn’t. For a man so caught up in wrong doings and evil, he revealed a softer side. Humanity shone from those serious eyes of his, those shadowed, ever assessing irises that quietly study my every move.
Threatening expectations spat from his mouth, yet soft full lips teased as if he struggled to keep them off mine. Quick reactions didn’t choke or hurt, they only warned me of his capabilities. Whether that was desire for a kiss would remain his secret.
The battle within me clashes like sharpened daggers. How can I agree to his crazy sex pact? He refers to it as an agreement, but that would mean I’d already agreed. I haven’t. Why would I consent to a perverted contract written by a gangster? Can I trust him... even when he’s saved my life more times than he’s fucked me?
If I don’t agree, he’ll do unspeakable things. My family wouldn't stand a chance against his arsenal of weapons and loyal goons who stalk the country without consciences.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and settle the soles of my feet on the deep plush rug. Daybreak streams in through the windows, spilling pale sunshine on the robust masculine furniture. It’s a reminder that not all things reject the light, that maybe Tomás has another side to him. A duplexity to his personality that I’ve somehow uncovered. Or perhaps it’s my own wishful thinking.
Hollow and bruised, I pick another of his folded t-shirts from the walk-in closet and dress. The never worn before fabric holds no scent of him, just a muted cotton aroma of newness and wealth. Hurrying to the ensuite, I squeeze out a blob of toothpaste onto my forefinger, run it over my teeth, then rinse, and spit.
When I stuff my fingers into my tangles to tease them out, I realize I’m trying to look half decent for him. I hit my fist on the counter and hiss when it hurts more than I expected.
Fuck him.
In a bad mood, I stomp through the bedroom and find the door unlocked. I’m still free to roam through his home, even after the accusations thrown at me. My light-footed steps descend the serpentine staircase encased by a glass handrail.
Rather than obey the growl coming from my empty stomach, I aim for his office door at the end of the long hall past the living room. The closer I get, the faster my heart races.
From beyond the closed door, I overhear his silky voice scored with a thousand unforgiving blades to harshen its texture. I freeze, subconsciously tapping my lip. All the valid reasons not to enter his realm of business are nailed into my mind one by one, with arrows of doubt. I’m nervous—not scared.
My spine straightens, vertebrae after vertebrae, in preparation to meet my nemesis. I suck in a lightning breath, lightly bang the door twice, and trap the air in my lungs. He stops talking and the hush that follows whirls me into a vortex of apprehension. When the door swings inwards, I blink in the breathtaking sight of him ignoring everything else.
My mouth goes dry and I wilt a little under his brooding silence. He’s bare-chested, his sun exposed muscles flexing and gleaming under the first light of a new day. Diamond studs in his earlobes catch my eye, the tiny jewels glinting like beams from a lighthouse, warning travelers of the peril ahead.
A twenty-four-carat chain the color of a Brazilian sunset sits above his collar bones, enviously snug to his skin.