Chapter 17 #2
I bristled. He just had to break everything for me.
My family, and now my only friendship. I was done with him.
Dropping the cutlery in my hands into the sink with a loud clatter, I stalked out to the storeroom and locked myself in it.
Backing away from the door, I gripped the low counter and took deep breaths.
I liked this room. No windows. Just brick walls painted in terracotta and raw wooden cabinets.
It even smelled like home with the spices and saffron I had spilled.
I should probably clean that up instead of hovering in a corner, furious with my boss.
I just wanted a few minutes to collect myself.
I traced the knife digging into my skin in my skirt pocket.
It felt heavy, a weight in my linen skirt.
Not for long. When his guests left, I was so fucking killing him.
The door burst open.
Might do it sooner.
Framed against it, the devil who’d come up from hell.
“You’re mad.”
I wanted to yank the dry tone out of his throat, snap it in two, and make him choke on it. “Furious.”
“Show me, then.”
?Qué demonios? What the hell was wrong with this man? Did he want to die so badly? “I’m not a fucking show,” I snapped.
“No,” he laughed. Strangely, that was the first time he’d done that. Sweet and venomous. Soft and dark. A baritone of sharpness and heat. Music. It reminded me of a short snip of a note. I forgot all about it at his next words. “You’re my private entertainment.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He glared at me. Hands in his pockets. Two top buttons undone in his dress shirt. Sleeves wrapped tightly around his wrists. Black shirt. Black pants. Black soul. “I’m pissed.”
“Your problem. Not mine.”
His eyes flashed. I was too vexed to give a shit. “Ask me why.”
“I’ve got better things to do.”
“Ask. Me. Why.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re full of yourself.”
He said nothing. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just stood there like a massive heat-block blocking my exit.
He wasn’t scaring me, but for some reason, my breathing dipped.
I didn’t like it when we were in close quarters.
There was always an odd connection between us.
“All right. Why?” I wanted out of this room, and maybe even out of this house.
He made me vibrate with agitation. The thought alone had my hand curling around the knife in my pocket.
He followed the movement. When his gaze pulled up, it was almost full of pride. “Because you should be living.”
Ugh? “Last I looked, I was breathing.”
I didn’t know why his gaze dipped to my heaving chest. Even less why my nipples pebbled to attention. I needed to get laid.
“Living, Anna. Not hiding in the storeroom. Being out there. Fighting me. Standing up for yourself. I want your emotions.”
I scoffed. “You’re not worth my emotions.”
“Don’t do it for me, then.” He watched me sharply. “Do it for yourself. You’re born to be a firecracker. Not a fucking ice queen.”
I couldn’t even process his words. Let alone know his intentions. “You don’t want my emotions. If they show up, you’ll be dead.”
There. I’d said it.
“Do it then.”
?Qué demonios?
I was too stunned to move. The blood in my veins crawled to a stop. As if in slow motion, I blinked. Once. Twice. Then he smashed the tension with the last thing he could have said.
“What will you do if I kiss you?”
I opened my mouth and closed it again. “?Qué?” This man was giving me whiplash.
“A kiss.” Heat rose from the tips of my toes. Joder, what the hell. His voice dipped. “Call it a dying man’s wish.” I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
He straightened up against the doorway.
Oh no. “No me jodas.”
“I’m not fucking with you.”
Like hell. He took one step into the room, and the walls shrunk in. “Basta ya.”
“Show me, then. Show me it’s enough.”
I fucking did. Pulling the knife out of my pocket, I waved it wildly in front of me. “No me toques.”
“How can I not touch you?” His gaze turned bitter. “When that’s all I want.”
Alarm bells went off in my head. I jabbed the air in front of me. I fucking hated him. “Te odio,” I snapped.
“I know you hate me.”
The room shrank. Joder. He was two strides in. I had to do it. Another step. I had to. Another. I shrieked. Pulled the knife in.
What the hell was I doing?
His lips tilted in amusement, and he easily caught my wrist. Brought it down flat on the counter before I hurt myself.
“Suéltame.” My voice cracked. Hatred and frustration bundled in the demand to let me go.
He didn’t. Instead, his unblinking intention focused on my face as he worked my hand to grip the handle tightly. “Like this,” he rasped. “Sí?”
“Te dicho que soltarme, joder.”
“Make me, Anna. Make me let you go.”
My grip was tight around the handle, but it was only because he was forcing it.
His other hand caged me against the counter.
All I had to do was twist my hand and stab him.
I could do it. He’d let me. I knew it like I knew the exact number of notes in my favorite sonnet.
I’d practiced it over and over again. Like I’d practiced holding this stupid thing in my hand.
But he didn’t look convinced. He looked like I needed a push. I did. Because his warm breath was twisting my insides. The pulse on my collarbone had gone wild.
To my horror, he drew closer. Inch by inch, he drank the air between us. He surrounded me. His presence. His scent.
My vision zoomed in on his lips. His upper lip was a perfect cupid's bow, framed by his light scruff that ran around his mouth and outlined by his sharp jaw. I shouldn’t have been noticing this.
So stop it. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t move either.
Or breathe. My entire body went stiff with tension.
An electric air hummed between us. His breath was a mixture of saffron and whiskey.
It floated between us like dark magic. Then he did an atrocious thing.
His lips brushed mine. So lightly it could have been a dream.
I struggled to breathe. He pulled back. Stared at my lips like he was counting the lines.
A sigh fell between us. Then he gripped the nape of my neck and did it again.
Fully. Possessively. Ownership outlined with it.
Joder.
I struggled in his arms. Opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off, but he swept in with his tongue and brought his taste along with it.
It branded my insides and burned them into molten lava.
Made me weak. My resistance wore off. For just a second, an insane thought danced in my head.
Kissing him feels like a good day on the Playa de la Vibora.
My head dipped back. A low groan filled the room. I wasn’t sure whose. I thought it was him, but I couldn’t be held responsible for my thoughts because I was kissing my father’s murderer.
My. Father’s. Murderer.
My vision blurred. Sickness twisted my stomach. I yanked back. The crack in the air was the sting on his cheek. The imprint of my palm painted on his face.
“?Hijo de puta!”
But he wasn’t paying attention to my insult.
He was staring at the black fabric of his shirt.
Where it was staining in the center of his chest. Right in the middle, a knife was planted into it.
Mine. I choked on a sob. System shutdown.
Going down. My gaze jarred off and focused behind him, but black spots danced before me.
My teeth chattered. Words spilled out. I didn’t know what.
Bile was rushing up my throat. I pushed him away.
Stumbled off him. Staggered out of the room.
The house was warped, and it carried me to the basement.
The rooms shifted and spun. Cried and laughed.
Somehow, I made it to a toilet somewhere.
Bile splashed all over it. It must have been the evil inside me.
I lay there for what must have been hours.
Shaking. Sweating. Muttering. Then, after the sweat on my spine had cooled down completely, I brought my shaking hands to the handle and flushed it down entirely.