Symmetrical arches house thin French doors, all of them acting as a shield to keep the velvety night sky out of reach, except for one set. They’re wide open, inviting cool air indoors and my gaze outwards to the terrace where the shadows begin to move.
Boots scuffing snaps my attention to the man dressed in a leather jacket and skinny black jeans. Disheveled hair is as dark as the night to match a layer of messy scruff and the hand wrapping a revolver is decorated in ink and silver rings.
My knees go soft. Not because he’s roguishly handsome, because his dark eyes projecting murderous impulses are all over me, and the hefty object I’m gripping like a courageous knight with a needle sized sword. Immediately he takes aim, stalks past a pillow stuffed couch, and dips his hip next to the liquor cabinet.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice is smokier than the cigarette he plucks from a pack with his teeth.
I try to speak, but the air has dried my parted lips and fright has turned my words to powder. Instead, I shuffle back, my ass butting into an ivory column.
His eyes narrow and then, as if assessing the entire room and its potential for danger, he sets the gun down. A solitary flame blazes until puffs of smoke escape his mouth.
“I’ll give you three seconds to tell me why you’re in my home with that fucking ugly ass lion in your thieving hands?” He tosses the zippo onto the counter, traps the butt between his teeth and unscrews the lid from a bottle of tequila. “Are you a new maid?”
Hishome. He’s Tomás’ brother.
My inhale is small but enough to help me breathe. “I’m with Tomás. We arrived this evening.”
“Bullshit,” he rasps, before taking a swig of tequila straight from the bottle. “There’s no way you’re here with Tommy.” As he finishes a deep-throated laugh, he collects the gun and points it at my heaving chest. “Strip. Let’s see what weapons you’ve got hidden under there.”
“I swear…” I raise my hands, lifting the lion into the air. “This is all I have…”
“Do it.”
“Tomás drove me here from Bogotá. Ask him. He’ll confirm it.” I barter with him.
The good-looking guy takes one large step closer, the threat of his aim unwavering. Impatience tightens his mouth, so he speaks with a sinister snarl. “You clearly don’t know my brother, do you? Now take off your clothes before I shoot you in the head.”
It’s clear to me Elias’ paranoia runs in the family. Then again, I can’t blame him for being suspicious when Tomás hid me away in his suite the second we arrived.
I swivel slowly and let the statue tumble onto the soft fabric of the neighboring couch. Gradually, I drag the hooded top up and over my face. The negligee is still beneath, its silky satin skimming my chilled skin.
“And the rest,” he mutters. Something dark lurks in the depths of his coal-colored eyes, a wickedness that tells me he’s getting off on this control. “Once I’m certain you’re not carrying a knife, we’ll talk.”
The nightdress puddles at my ankles, my bruises and scars visible under the lamplight.
His brow scrunches, those inky irises of his assessing my naked figure. “You in some sort of trouble?” He pinches the cigarette between his finger and thumb. “Who did that to you?”
When my mouth opens to speak, the words drown under Tomás’ sonorous voice, a thunderous downpour of icy hail and broken stone. “André!” he growls like the lion has come to life and taken over his soul. “What the fuck are you doing?”
André’s head rotates the instant his brother storms indoors, with the rush of a hurricane and the bitterness of a blizzard. “You know this pretty little thing?” He cocks his brow, a look of confusion on his face.
Caught between lamplight and dimness, a trail of shade splices Tomás’ contorted expression, making him the glorious monster I suspect him to truly be. His presence seems to swell in the half light, a nefarious temper mimicking the tones from the navy sky haloing his braced form.
My stomach flutters when our gazes clash, his slowly descending to my tattered dignity. The muscles in his jaw work in tandem with clenching fists, the kiss of shadows deepening the hollow of his corded throat. The blood-red stone trapped in a bed of gold deepens in color when he swipes a hand over well-kept stubble.
“I know her.” His tone slides out with precise annunciation, controlled like the boss he’s rightfully become. “She’s with me.”
“What the fuck, Tommy,” André mutters under his breath, shaking his head. “You brought a fucking puta with you?”
The transformation from contained ruler to aggressive warrior happens instantaneously. He no longer possesses the godly aura of a king when his fists hammer his brother’s chest, knocking him off balance and removing me from the firing line. His nostrils flare, the rings around his pupils morph to a shade more obscure than evil itself.
André staggers a few short steps, the back of his calves clipping a chunky coffee table. Fixing his boots to a solid stance, he points the gun in my direction again.
“Is there something you need to explain to me, brother?” he hisses. “Why did you risk bringing a whore to our family home? Is this what power does to you, cabrón?”
Tomás stands stoic, almost statuesque. His entire body vibrates, his hands ball, and his vicious glare burns into the man threatening me with a bullet. In a heartbeat, he charges, throws himself on top of André, and pushes him onto the cushion filled sofa. The handgun skids out of their reach and settles under the buffet table.
“I don’t owe you an explanation. I’m the head of this family now,” Tomás bites out between punches. “My word is final. She’s mine, which makes her off-fucking-limits.”