Page 45 of One Rule

As if she heard me, her bottom lip trembles and a shudder wracks her sinuous frame. Just like it did the moment reality set in and grief hit—each sharp lash dealt by fate struck her small frame until she could hardly stand.Her sobs—each second she’s in pain is a direct insult to me.

I’ve had to watch her break down and be sedated twice now.

Those two instances are going to cost Diaz and his son heavily. More than they’re willing to pay.

Another jerky movement shifts her, bringing her closer to me, and her soft breaths fan across my chest. I’m turned toward her while counting the discreet blinking red light in her ceiling vent that shows the camera there is recording. It’s not the only one in here either, and I wonder what she’ll think the day I show her where each device is located.

Yet right now I can’t think past her distress. It cuts me and eviscerates the last thread of humanity I cling to where she’s concerned because when it comes to her, there will never be a second or inch of space between us. Not now or the day I claim what’s mine—give her my last name.

I know where she is at all times. Anything less than her happiness is un-negotiable.

Moreover, the proof of that is the cameras embedded inside each wall she inhabits.

In the alarm clock on her nightstand to the right.

In the A/C vent above my little rebel's bed and inside her closet via a hidden passageway.

In the frame of a painting across her four-poster bed, one she loves, of a large black and white piece I commissioned from a popular tattoo artist of the work he did on my sleeve last year. It’s a bit gloomy. Haunting yet beautiful. An attraction to the darkness and unpredictable nature of the ocean, I share with the beauty sleeping now against my chest, sighing as I pull her closer.

Because Liliana Armas is no wallflower.

Not shy or timid, something I adore about her and find little ways to nurture.

I’ll make this right, sweet girl. One day everything will be okay.

I’ll make it so. Take every blow and kill in her name while she finds peace in my bed each night.

In her sleep, her face pinches tight—as if reacting to the ire vibrating beneath my skin—and I force myself to calm down. I keep my touch light on her back, gentle sweeps up and down the length of her spine while matching my breathing to hers. A rhythmic cadence that I follow while the soft light of a nearby salt lamp casts a gentle glow across her delicate features. Her face is still flushed and pink—the track marks left behind by her earlier tears are evident in the streaks of mascara dried down each perfect, rosy cheek.

She never removed her makeup and I fix that by reaching carefully behind me and opening her bedside drawer. In here she has a bunch of things that don’t make sense to me—products that I wouldn’t know what to do with—but the small packet of wipes at the top is all I need.

It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to take a single sheet out before tossing the rest aside. I’m gentle as I wipe each cheek and under her eyes, removing every smudge until what’s left is her soft face with just a hint of splotchiness left behind from days of crying.

And while the decisions I make won’t always be the ones she approves of, I do it with love.

Because the day she walks down the aisle to me, everything will be as it should’ve always been.

* * *

An hour later,I slip from her bedroom and back to my penthouse to grab a quick shower. It’s been a long day and it isn’t done for me yet, but I left a small note on her bedside table letting her know where I am on the off chance she wakes up.

The sedation medication was meant for them to get the rest both mother and daughter needed. More than the meager three or four hours a night my rebel had been surviving on since this nightmare for her began.

Grief is a horrible thing; I know that.

It hurts and leaves you gasping while the hole in your chest makes it hard to breathe.

I’d experienced that same loss feeling when my grandfather died and I still remember how she never left my side. We were teens then, and had only known each other for less than a year, but she fought everyone to stay with me when I needed her the most. Helped me the same way I’ll take care of her now.

I’ll love her through this. Be there in whatever capacity she needs me.

Entering my living room, I find a visitor and I’m not surprised. “I see you’ve made yourself at home?”

“It’s what parents do after their kids have their own place. We return the favor.”

I snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I can come and go as I please while using everything in your house. That I’ll touch and use and leave a mess behind for you to clean.”

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