Page 27 of Hostile King

Hesitantly, she accepts the hard liquor and ignores her brother's threatening stance. “I hope we can make it work. I’m willing, if you are.”

She tilts her head to look up at me.

I study her for a long minute, aware of the distinct vibrations ordering me to run and astutely conscious of the fact she’s not the one for me. I almost laugh at the cruelty of my awakening. This isn’t going to work.

“Or you could walk away.” I suggest, raising the tumbler to my mouth and noting how her eyes follow the movement. “I’ll understand. There’s no bad blood between us, Bianca. We’d remain allies.”

Mikel folds his arms, his mouth contorting to a grimace. A snort shoots down his nose. “You’d be lucky to call my sister your wife. If she walked away from this, I’d be the guy picking her body parts out of a trash bag. Our uncle would kill her.”

8

CARINA

Teresa Souza isn’t just any mother.

She’s the woman who raised four cartel sons and stood beside the late kingpin. There’s no doubt she’s from a fine pedigree in her own right. It shows in the way she carries herself, how she exudes silent authority, oozes fortune, and emanates femininity.

She sits on a padded ivory chair, positioned at an oval table set for three people, in a contemporary kitchen where high ceilings are met with carved roses and four-leaf clover cornice.

André walks ahead of me, moving towards his mother who rises to greet him. He dips to kiss the side of her face, not out of ceremony or respect—because he clearly adores the woman. Her stature, although regal and fierce, seems petite and fragile next to his solid physique.

“You look tired, André,” she fusses, patting the coarse hairs on his square jawline.

A lazy smile curls the corners of his mouth. “It's not the first all-nighter I’ve pulled with a good-looking girl, Mama.” His throaty chuckle flames my skin; the wink he shoots at me makes the blaze worse.

“Wait…it’s not like that. We’re not…” I step closer, unsure why I’m justifying myself. Yet not wanting to drop a match into the vipers’ den until I know all the facts. “It’s Tomás I wa—”

A combed eyebrow drifts higher the second I cut myself off from revealing something utterly absurd. A truth so devastating no one would believe it. I’m in awe of a man who saw no future with me.

I’m guessing it’s a temporary infatuation or a fleeting obsession. Either way, the potent emotion was bashed between boulders and ground into particles smaller than grains of sand the instant his dominant figure turned into a speck from the air.

“You wouldn’t be here if I thought you were fucking both of my sons separately,” she replies without bitterness or hostility. It’s more factual and to the point, giving the impression that being with them at the same time is acceptable.

André grunts, his lips quirking to a smirk. “He’d never share her.”

Her head rotates like an owl. “André, you don’t need to share with your brother.” She scolds playfully. “Out of all my sons, you get more sex than any one man deserves.”

As he snatches a bread roll and rips it apart with his silver clad fingers, Teresa leaves the table. She passes the vast marble top island where a large basket crammed with pale pink flowers and woody eucalyptus sits as the centerpiece.

Three dazzling chandeliers hang midair, reflecting a soft radiance to compete with sunlight streaming through the windows beyond an informal sitting area.

“Welcome to Mag Mell.” Her warm smile reaches the corners of her fascinating green gaze.

Her pale complexion is free of makeup, yet thick ebony lashes frame her eyes like a natural liner. A knee-length silk dressing gown, the print bursting in exotic flowers, is casually pulled in at the waist with a matching belt. The mini heels of her furry slippers thwack the tiles underfoot.

Teresa takes a silent second to blink in my grubby toes, bruised throat, masculine shirt worn as a dress and crimson streaks decorating my legs with random flare.

“You've had quite the night.” She extends her arm, gesturing towards a nook beyond us. When she walks, I follow like an obedient puppy dog. Although rather than lick her hand, I’d bite her, not understanding what she expects of me.

Reaching a beveled door, only a few steps from the kitchen, she stops.

“There’s a bar of handmade French soap by the faucet. It’s my favorite. Please, freshen up a little before sitting with us. You can spend as much time as you like in the bathtub once we’ve eaten.”

I nod and walk into the powder room, happy to have a moment to myself. The blood that had tipped Tomás over the edge had dried to crusty brown and the distinct musk of our hedonistic, unruly sex still clings to my salty skin. I resist the urge to strip and climb into the deep white basin, rather than simply washing my hands in it.

Gathering the lavender-scented soap, I lather it to a milky lotion and flick the lever with an elbow to rinse the filth from my murderous hands. The act of cleansing awakens reality. I’d shot a man with the intention of killing him.

Not simply for justice, or revenge for what he’d done to me—for Tomás. To prove my loyalty and adoration. Not that it mattered to him in the end.

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