Page 89 of Deception & Desire

Minutes pass, or hours—I can’t tell. Time stretches, a dull blur of waiting, my body stiffening with every passing second as I attempt everything I can think of to free myself.

I let my anger fuel me through it. It’s easier than the terror of what I saw, of the possibility that he might not be…

Just as the weight of those thoughts feels too much to bear, the door to the cell creaks open. My heart skips, and I snap my head toward the sound, hoping—praying—it’s Leon.

But it isn’t.

I feel the dread settle into my bones as her dark features turn on me. As emotionless and cold as the last time I saw her.

Carmen.

The Cartel Princess.

26

LEON

Iwake with a sharp inhale, like I’ve been ripped out of a nightmare and hurled into a world of pain.

The ache in my chest is instant and excruciating like someone’s sitting on my ribs, pressing down with unbearable weight. My head spins as I blink up at the sterile white ceiling, the smell of antiseptic flooding my nose.

It takes me a second to piece it all together—where I am, why my body feels like it’s been smashed to pieces. But then it comes rushing back in a wave of red-hot fury and agonizing dread.

Max.

The gunshot.

Mia.

My pulse spikes, echoed by a nearby heart monitor.

I need to move, to find her, to protect her. But when I try to sit up, pain rips through me like a lightning bolt, forcing me back down with a groan.

“Easy there, Leon,” Isabella’s voice cuts through the panic, hoarse but familiar.

I turn my head, finding her sitting in a chair by the bed. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days, dressed in a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to her.

“Where’s Mia?”

My sister’s eyes scan my face, my body—lingering on my chest—before she sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose in a gesture that’s so reminiscent of Teo I almost do a double-take.

“Safe,” Isabella says quickly, firmly. “She wasn’t hurt in the attack.”

I stare at her hunched form momentarily as I roll her words through my mind. Trying to decide if it’s enough to offer me some relief.

It’s not

“Where is she?” I try again.

Isabella hesitates. It’s a small moment, one that I doubt anyone else would notice unless they’d known her from birth.

But before she can answer, the door opens, and a doctor walks in—a middle-aged man with sharp eyes,

“You’re awake,” he says, glancing at a clipboard before looking at me. “That’s a good start.”

“What happened?” I growl, frustration bubbling over.

“You were incredibly lucky,” the doctor says, setting the clipboard down.

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