Antonio slowly removes his hand, and we glance at the welts on my skin. They’re a fresh, vivid red. Tomorrow there will be bruises.
Acid tickles my throat. The insults I want to hurl are on the tip of my tongue. But I won’t be reduced to the animal he’s pushing me to be.
I stay quiet and let my eyes spew the fury.
To his credit, he doesn’t look away. He takes all my anger, my disgust, every drop of it—until I’m tired of looking at him.
When I’m done, I turn and walk across the room and through the doorway with my head high.
He can go straight to hell.
16
Antonio
Are there cameras in the bathroom?
It was a whisper, but I’m sure Victor heard every word. I’m also sure an image of my father came to mind when he heard the fear in her small, timid voice.
It was bad, although not as bad as the marks I left on her skin. Marks not put there for pleasure—mine or hers, or as a calculated punishment to teach a lesson. I have no problem marking her in either of those ways. But the welts on her skin are the stain of a raging, out-of-control man.
Like my father.
I’ve seen angry, red handprints before. On my mother’s smooth cheek, her neck, arms—anywhere my father could reach. It always started with an open hand. Then his fists would fly, and before he was done, he might kick her, or beat her with some shiny object that caught his attention.
Violence begins with a whimper, not a roar.
I’ve spent a lifetime evading Hugo Huntsman’s shadow, ridding myself of his stench. In less than thirty-six hours, Daniela has managed to coax the rage to the surface. To dredge up the pain I keep buried,the rage, stir it ruthlessly, and send me back to the edge of the abyss.
She’s not entirely to blame. My father’s DNA is a powerful force, rotten to the core. The roots are deep and clawing, their tentacles insidious. True escape is not part of my destiny.
Darkness is my destiny. I accept it. But I will not be Hugo Huntsman. I’d rather be dead.
Without a word to Victor, I go to the library and pour a whiskey, emptying the tumbler and pouring another before putting down the bottle.
This is not the life I want. Not for me, and not for her either. She’s an innocent woman who doesn’t deserve to be saddled with a monster.
But it’s not so simple. I vowed to marry her—to keep her safe. A drop of my blood sealed the oath. Honoring that promise will require sacrifice—from both of us.
It might have been easier to have married her right after her father died, when she was young and more malleable. But I had a war to win, and power to solidify, and she was little more than a child. Beautiful and barely restrained, even then, but much too young for my tastes. Now she’s been out of the country, living in the US, where arranged marriages and other old ways of our world don’t exist—at least not in the open. It’s hard to walk away from that kind of freedom once you’ve tasted it.
But she will. I’m not going to give her a damn choice.
Daniela’s spirit needs to be broken.No.Not broken. I don’t want that either.
Her fire makes my blood hot—and my dick hard. I’ve spent more time than I care to admit thinking about fucking the little hellion. I want her passionate.I want her hungry.I want her blood to burn the way mine does. But that passion needs to be better controlled. I need her compliant. Obedient. It’s for her own good.
Most women who grew up like Daniela already understand the danger that lurks in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. They learn, as teenagers, to balance their safety with their desire for freedom. Mothers, older sisters, and wise aunts pass on this life skill, much the same way they teach about fashion or babies.
But Daniela has no sisters, no aunts, and her mother died when she was twelve. She had the maid, but the dangers Isabel knew were far different from the ones awaiting her young charge.
Her father taught her nothing. He sheltered her from anyone and anything that could do her harm. He protected her, but in the process he denied her important life lessons.
I don’t know any more about teaching a woman how to balance safety and freedom than her father did. Maybe less. My instincts are the same as his: Take away all autonomy, any meaningful choice, and confine her to the house, unless she’s well-guarded or with me. But unlike Manuel, I can’t keep her cloistered forever. At least I prefer not to. She’s an adult now, and she deserves more—at least an opportunity to earn more.
I’m prepared to give her some measure of freedom, but first she needs to submit to the rules and stay within the boundaries I construct. It’s the only way to ensure her safety in this dangerous world.
“Senhor,” Victor calls from the doorway. There’s a brittle politeness in his voice that’s not normally there. “Where should I serve dinner?”