Page 56 of Falling for the Enemy

With his shirt untucked and hair a spiky mess as though he’s been running his hands through it in frustration, my bull paces beneath a pole light, his Glock clutched in one hand, phone in the other.

He looks as unhinged as I feel.

I open the throttle, revving the jet ski’s engine in order to alert him to my hasty approach. Despite the distance, visible relief washes over his stony features when he spots me, slightly softening his expression.

Teetering on the precipice of losing every last morsel of sanity I’m busy desperately clinging to, I wave to him and take a deep breath.

The exhale that follows is cathartic.

My smile is forced and likely maniacal as I come to a coasting stop next to the salt-kissed wood, but I care little. I made it home in one piece, with remnants of my pride somehow remaining intact.

Right now, that’s what matters.

Not waiting for me to stand, Casper crouches and lifts me off the vessel without bothering to tie it off. Sore from the time I spent in Alejandro’s bed, along with the rough ride inland, I sway on my ruined Louboutins the moment my feet hit the dock.

My stumbling only ups my bull’s ire.

With a growl, he grasps my hips, steadying me. The move isn’t sexual, but my flesh burns all the same. Stomach roiling, I slap his hands away and step back.

Thanks to the ghost of Alejandro’s touch still haunting me, in addition to the smell of his sweat and cologne that cling to my skin, having Casper’s palms on me is unsettling.

My reaction gives my bull the wrong idea.

“How fucking badly did thesvolochhurt you?” If there was a wall close by, he’d likely shove his hand through it. Enraged after the night’s events, his control appears to be shot. Understandably so. Mine nearly is as well. “Did the Colombian rape you? If so, and he still breathes—”

“Nyet!” I snap, my disheveled appearance adding fuel to the fire. Tattered men’s shirt. Mussed hair. Smeared makeup. Teeth-marked neck.

The image I’m projecting isn’t a good one.

I need to diffuse the situation before he continues assuming the worst and truly blows a gasket. If that happens, he’ll storm off in a murderous rage, and go on the hunt for Alejandro, a move that would surely lead to one of their deaths.

I can’t let that happen.

My anger with Alejandro is immense, the emotions he evokes in me conflicting. Neither statement can be denied. But just as he forbade his men from touching me, I’m forbidding mine from touching him.

Turnabout is fair play after all.

“I wasn’t raped,” I add, forcing my tone to soften as I palm his chest and rub circles above his thundering heart. The comforting move is maternal rather than intimate. “If I had been, the rapist’s mutilated cock and still-beating heart would dangle from my neck for all to see.”

I don’t need to elaborate further.

He knows the words I speak are truthful.

“As for the kingpin, da, he continues to breathe.” I glance toward the mansion and scan Mina’s dark window as a white SUV approaches, following the paved drive that circles my property. “And he will continue to do so until I decide otherwise.”

Needing to pivot the conversation before Casper has a chance to ask the questions that undoubtedly drip from the tip of his inquisitive tongue, I return my gaze to his.

Lifting my hand from his chest, I brush my fingers through his hair, knowing each stroke of my nails across his scalp will further calm him.

Just as it always did when we were kids.

“Now,” I whisper, forcing a calming smile. “Did you and the rest of the Kings learn of what happened on the rooftop?”

He dips his chin in affirmation. “Ivan infiltrated the hotel’s security system and secured the recorded stream while the masquerade’s guests remained enthralled in the party, unaware of what happened outside.”

We had the event’s band to thank for that.

Their music covered the sound of the gunfire.

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