Chapter 5
Diamond
I'm not trying to provoke him anymore.
That's the strangest part of this whole messed-up situation. For the first few days, I threw everything I had at Cesar Vega—tantrums, skin, attitude—trying to get a reaction. Trying to make him see me as something other than a job.
Now I just want to be near him.
I wake up thinking about the way he looked at me last night. The roughness in his voice when he said you will be if you do it again. The promise underneath the warning.
And he didn't follow me. Didn't push me against the wall and show me exactly what happens. Just let me walk away, even though I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way down the hall.
He's stronger than me.
I don't know why that makes me want him more.
I find him in the gym around nine. The house has a full setup in the basement with weights, treadmill, heavy bag, and Cesar is using all of it. I stop in the doorway and watch, telling myself I'm just passing through.
I'm not just passing through.
He's shirtless. All that ink on display, muscles moving under tattooed skin as he works the heavy bag. His back is a landscape I want to explore, more ink disappearing into his waistband, the flex of his shoulders with each punch.
He's not young. There's gray at his temples, lines around his eyes. Fifteen years older than me, which should feel like a lot.
It doesn't feel like a lot.
It feels like exactly what I want.
"You going to stand there all day, or you going to come in?"
I jump. He hasn't turned around, hasn't stopped hitting the bag, but somehow he knew I was watching.
"I was just—"
"Staring." He catches the bag, stills it. Turns to face me, and I get the full effect—sweat-slicked chest, dark eyes, the kind of body that's built for violence and probably other things too. "It's fine. I don't mind."
I don't know what to do with that. The old Diamond would have a comeback ready, something sharp and flirty. This Diamond just stands there with her mouth slightly open, trying not to drool.
"Come here," he says. "I'll show you some basics."
"Basics?"
"Self-defense. Just in case."
I should say no. Should keep my distance, stay on my side of the invisible line we've been dancing around. But my feet carry me into the gym anyway, stopping a few feet away from him.
"Closer."
I step closer.
"If someone grabs you from behind—" His hands land on my shoulders, spinning me around, pulling my back against his chest. I gasp at the contact—all that bare, sweaty skin pressed against me through my thin t-shirt. "What do you do?"
"I don't know."
"Elbow." He guides my arm, slow and deliberate. "Right here, into the solar plexus. Hard as you can. Then stomp on the instep. Then run."
"What if I can't run?"
"You can always run. That's the second rule." His mouth is close to my ear. I can feel his breath. "The first rule is don't get grabbed in the first place. Stay aware. Watch exits. Trust your instincts."
"What's the third rule?"
His hands tighten on my shoulders. "If someone wants to hurt you and running isn't an option... you hurt them first. Harder than they expect. You go for eyes, throat, groin. You fight dirty. You survive."
I turn in his grip. We're face to face now, inches apart, and his hands are still on me.
"Is that what you did?" I ask. "Did you fight dirty?"
Something shuts down in his expression. His hands drop.
"That was different."
"Tell me."
He's quiet for a long moment. I think he's going to walk away, retreat behind that wall of professional distance. But instead, he moves to the weight bench and sits down, forearms braced on his thighs, staring at the floor.
"Her name is Rosa," he says. "My sister. She was twenty-two. I was twenty-six. She'd been dating this guy for about a year. Marco. He seemed fine at first. They always do."
I sink down onto the floor across from him, cross-legged, waiting.
"It started small. Jealousy. Checking her phone. Telling her what to wear, who to see. By the time she told me about it, he'd already broken her wrist once." His jaw tightens. "She made excuses. Said she fell. Said it was her fault for making him angry. The usual bullshit."
"What did you do?"
"I told her to leave him. She said she would. She didn't." He looks up at me, and his eyes are flat. Empty. "Three months later, he put her in the ICU. Fractured skull. Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding. The doctors said if she'd gotten there twenty minutes later, she would have died."
My chest hurts. I can barely breathe.
"I went to find him," Cesar continues. "He was at a bar, drinking with his friends, laughing about something. Like he hadn't just beaten a woman half to death." A pause. "I waited until he went out to the parking lot. And then I killed him."
The words hang in the air. Simple. Brutal. True.
"You killed him."
"Yes."
"Do you regret it?"
He meets my eyes. Holds them. "I regret getting caught."
I'm not scared.
I'm wet.
"Your sister," I manage. "Is she okay now?"
"She's married. Good guy, treats her right. Two kids. Lives in San Diego." The ghost of a smile crosses his face. "She calls me every Sunday to make sure I'm not 'backsliding into my criminal ways.' Her words."
"Are you? Backsliding?"
The smile fades. He stands up abruptly, and the wall comes back down.
"I need to finish." He nods toward the heavy bag. "Go find something to do. Stay in the house."
"Cesar."
But he's already turning away, dismissing me, putting his back to me like I'm not even there.
Fine.
I leave him to his workout and wander back upstairs, but I'm exhausted. I've barely slept since the spanking—too wound up, too confused, too busy replaying every moment and then touching myself until I came hard enough to forget my own name.
I curl up on the couch with a blanket, telling myself I'll just rest my eyes for a minute.
I'm asleep before I finish the thought.
***
The nightmare comes fast.
I'm back in my apartment in New York. It's dark, and someone is in the hallway. I can hear footsteps, slow and deliberate, getting closer. I try to run but my legs won't move. Try to scream but no sound comes out.
The door opens.
He's standing there. I can't see his face, but I know it's him, the one who's been sending the messages, the one who wants to watch me die. He's smiling. He has a knife.
You thought you could hide, Diamond. You thought Daddy's money could save you.
I try to fight. I remember what Cesar taught me—elbow, stomp, run—but my body won't cooperate. I'm frozen. Helpless. He's getting closer, and the knife is at my throat, and I can't—
I jerk awake with a scream.
The living room is dim, still daylight, barely an hour since I lay down. My heart is slamming against my ribs, and I'm shaking so hard I can barely breathe.
"Cesar?"
No answer. He must still be downstairs.
I throw off the blanket and stumble toward his room, bare feet cold on the hardwood. The adjoining door is closed. I press my ear against it. Nothing. Try the handle, but it’s locked from his side.
But I can hear something. Water running.
The shower. He must have just come up from the gym.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't. But my hands are still shaking and I can still feel the phantom knife at my throat and I need him.
I go around to the main door of his room. It's not locked.
I push it open.
The bathroom door is ajar, steam curling into the bedroom. I can see his silhouette through the frosted glass of the shower—broad shoulders, narrow waist, all that ink.
"Cesar?"
The water shuts off. The shower door opens. He reaches for a towel without looking, wraps it around his waist, and then steps out.
And sees me.
"Diamond." His voice is sharp. Concerned. He walks to me, water still dripping down his chest, and his hands are on my face before I can speak. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Nightmare." The word comes out broken. "I fell asleep on the couch and he was there, the stalker, he had a knife."
"Hey. Look at me." His thumbs stroke my cheeks. I'm crying, I realize. When did I start crying? "You're safe. It was a dream. He's not here."
"It felt real."
"I know. But it wasn't." He pulls me against his chest, and I go willingly, pressing my face against warm, damp skin. He smells like soap. His arms wrap around me, solid and sure, and I feel the terror start to drain away.
But something else is building in its place.
He's practically naked. Just a towel between us. I can feel every inch of him: the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle, the heat radiating off his skin. My hands are flat against his back, and I can feel the scars there, the texture of ink.
"Diamond."
I tilt my head back. Look up at him.
He's so close. Water droplets clinging to his jaw. Dark eyes burning into mine. His hands have shifted—one on my lower back, one tangled in my hair.
"I want to kiss you," I whisper.
"You're scared. Not thinking clearly."
"Yes, I am." I press closer, and I feel him—hard, thick, impossible to miss even through the towel. "I've wanted this since the first day. I touched myself thinking about you after you spanked me,” I admit. “Tell me you don't want me and I'll go back to my room and never mention it again."
His jaw flexes. His fingers tighten in my hair.
"I can't tell you that."
"Then kiss me."
Cesar, my bodyguard, breaks.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, and I moan against his lips as his hand fists in my hair, tilting my head back for better access. His tongue sweeps into my mouth like he's trying to devour me, and I let him. I want him to. I want him to consume me completely.
I press myself against him, feeling that hard ridge through the towel, through my thin pajamas. He groans into my mouth and his hips jerk forward, grinding against me, and the friction is so good I gasp.
"Mija." The word is a growl against my lips. "You have no idea what you do to me."
His hands grip my hips, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist and he walks us backward until my back hits the wall, and then he's kissing me again, his hips rolling against my center, the towel doing nothing to hide how much he wants me.
I'm on fire. Burning from the inside out. I reach between us, desperate to touch him, to feel—
He catches my wrist. Pins it to the wall above my head.
"Not yet." He's breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine. "Not like this."
"Why not?"
"Because when I fuck you, Diamond, it's not going to be against a wall while you're shaking from a nightmare and I'm dripping wet in a towel.
" He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are black with want.
"When I take you, you're going to be ready.
You're going to be begging for it. And I'm going to take my time. "
I whimper. Actually whimper. "Cesar..."
He lowers me to the ground slowly, keeping me pressed against the wall, his body still caging mine. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I shiver.
"Can you be good for me, mija?"
God. The way he says that. The way he's looking at me, like I'm something he's been starving for.
"Yes," I breathe.
"Good girl."