War
CARLOS
I scrub my fingernails vigorously, slowly making my way up my arms until I reach my elbows, not stopping until the water is no longer tinged with red and the smell of iron doesn’t stick to the back of my throat.
The hot spray of water over my body is heaven after the long day of violence and adrenaline constantly coursing through my veins.
The war is predictably going my way, and after two weeks what’s now left of the Fuente de la Muerte Cartel will be dealt with swiftly.
I have eliminated most of their chain of command, burned their drug warehouses to the ground, sent proof of their illicit activities anonymously to the FBI, and plundered so much of their money that they’re shitting themselves.
Only their boss, Santiago Ferreira, remains in hiding, not letting up, scheming and landing a few good blows.
I’ve lost five good men.
Even if it was only one, that would be too much.
I step out of the shower, quickly dry myself, and pull on my sweatpants, not bothering with a t-shirt.
The elevator feels like it’s moving at a snail’s pace today, even though I know there’s nothing wrong with it—I just want my little dove.
The crisp air feels good on my overheated skin, even tempering my lust down a fraction.
Just a fraction.
I have kept my word to Estelle for two weeks.
No sex.
Not even a single kiss.
I’m dying.
No wonder I’m more of a savage with my enemies than usual.
The glass door of the pool house slides open almost soundlessly, and I step inside, leaving my shoes by the entrance. Her door is wide open, as usual, and I wonder once more if it’s force of habit or if it’s meant for me.
I choose to believe the latter.
Estelle’s soft form is illuminated by the dimmed bedside lamp at her back. She never sleeps in total darkness, and once more I wonder if this is her usual way or just for my benefit.
I lift the duvet and slide underneath, careful not to wake her, although I always feel her breath hitch when I bring my body flush with hers.
She knows I’m here.
But other than that first night two weeks ago, she doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
A groan almost escapes my mouth at the first contact of her back pressed against my front, my erection nestled against her plump ass.
The moment my head hits the pillow, exhaustion overtakes me, and I’m dead to the world.
When my consciousness starts seeping through the deep, dreamless sleep, the first thing I become aware of is the lack of warmth pressed against my chest.
I’m alone.
The sunlight from a slit in the curtains warms my legs. This is the first time Estelle woke up before me and somehow managed to slip out of bed without rousing me.
I find her outside in the outdoor kitchen area, wrapped in a pink satin robe that hugs her form. I’m enraptured for a moment by the sight of her ass jiggling as she whisks eggs.
The messy braid falls past her shoulders, wisps of hair sticking out. She’s so focused, even on the simple task of making an omelet, that I have to press my lips together to keep from chuckling.
I'm fully aware that we’re about to speak for the first time in nearly two weeks, even though we have shared a bed every night since she moved into the pool house.
“Good morning.”
She stops whisking and turns to look at me, her eyes running over my bare chest and stomach before assessing my face.
I know what she sees: dark hollows under my eyes, an ungroomed beard, and my shaggy hair. At least I’m not losing weight, thanks to her.
“I thought you’d sleep until later. You look like you need it,” she says.
Her passive-aggressive tone catches me off guard. She goes back to whisking the eggs faster, lips pursed.
“If you missed me, you can just say so,” I tease.
She throws the towel, and it lands over my face. I’m still shaking with laughter when I stand behind her and plant soft kisses on her shoulder.
“I missed you, too, little dove,” I whisper against her ear, smirking with satisfaction when she shivers.
“Eggs and bacon?”
“Mm. I’m hungry for something else,” I say, turning her around after she pours the eggs into the pan.
Estelle’s eyes grow heavy with the same lust I know she sees in mine. Running my thumb over her pouty lips, I lower my head, ready to taste her, to devour her.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
I turn toward the source of the sound, beyond irritated. Grayson stands right outside. I almost tell him to go away, until I see the deep lines of worry on his forehead.
“We have a situation,” he says, his tone grave.
Tearing myself away from Estelle is one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a while.
“To be continued, little dove,” I whisper and turn to leave.
“Carlos,” she says softly.
When I look back, she’s biting her lip, brows furrowed as she wars with something. I see the moment her mind is made up.
“Kiss me,” she says.
I’m back in front of her in two strides, my mouth descending on hers hungrily, giving and taking, pouring into her all my pent-up desire and everything yet unsaid.
When I pull away, I feel the finality of a decision I didn’t even realize I was making. Her soft gaze meets mine, and I know in this moment I’m hers, just as much as she is mine.
Whether she understands it yet or not.
My fingers run down the side of her face before I walk away. Grayson’s back is turned but immediately falls in step with me as we head toward the house.
“What happened?” I ask.
“They have Alice.”
Hands clenched into fists, I turn to him, stopping in my tracks. He faces me, features grim. I have a hard time keeping my anger from boiling over.
“How?”
His jaw clenches. “We think someone on her detail was bought.”
"Motherfuckers."
Santiago Ferreira is a dead man.
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