Page 48 of Hostile King

Weightlessness plays havoc with my belly when the elevator descends at speed. I slip into the safety of my mind where I’ve lived for so long. Numbness snatches the dread and weighs up my fear.

Tomás has his scars, and I have mine.

Perhaps words are just that—frivolous whispers without substance or meaning. What if he never surrenders the four-letter word and shows me the power of it instead? Giving me more than just words.

Being his queen, standing by his side—feeling his love surround me—isn’t that enough, rather than a spoken sentiment which could easily be hollow.

A ding announces our arrival on the ground floor. When the doors slide open, a cut glass chandelier dazzles with daylight and mingling guests’ chatter. The noise reminds me of squawking parrots. I immediately look for Tomás, but he’s not here.

André takes the lead with me nestled next to him, casually passing high class couples checking in at the reception desk. The hairs on my nape do their own thing. Some quiver and others rise like hackles.

“Play it cool. If I kiss you, kiss me back.” He smirks, trying to make light of my antsiness.

He knows there are eyes on us from every corner of the reception. I can feel them eyeballing us too. It could be Souza soldiers or their enemies.

“Kiss me, and I’ll bite your tongue.” I bat my lashes at him, playing the game even though my pulse is out of whack and any second, I could vomit on his sleeve from nerves.

“I’d like that.” His arm squishes me against him. I almost trip over his boots as we keep walking. “Nothing beats hardcore foreplay.” He rasps the last word, practically buzzing sex as we move from one end of the reception to the other.

It’s not the worst place to be, pride of place beside a rebellious Souza. Except it’s not where I belong. We don’t gel like lubed up body parts or slip into a natural thrum of naughtiness. He’s like a mischievous big brother who also happens to be drop dead gorgeous.

“It’s been a pleasure to have you stay with us, Mr. Souza.” A smartly dressed concierge bows politely when we reach the main doors. “Please come again.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely come again,” André chuckles. “Hopefully in the car ride to the airport.” He tightens his arm around me playfully.

The concierge smiles as if he likes the idea. “Very good, sir.”

Muggy hot air and honking horns replace the relaxing piano concerto from indoors. I stumble outside with my mouth wide. We’d arrived at nightfall, disembarked the private jet, and jumped straight into a waiting car that pulled up at this hotel. I could have been in any city in any country.

I’ve only ever travelled through descriptive words, pictures, and movies. Hungry for adventure and starved of living, I swore to myself I’d experience life and all of its destinations. Bogotá being the starting point of my journey. And look where that got me.

Now, I’m in a different city with limited time to take it all in. I let André usher me through the rotating glass doors while I gawk at the sundrenched neighborhood.

A golden statue stands out from the skyline, dominant in the bright blue sky. André catches me staring at it.

“That’s the iconicÁngel de la Independenciawith the golden goddess of victory on top,” he says like the perfect tour guide. “Take a good look, because you won’t be back in Mexico after today.”

“What the fuck kept you?” Giovanni appears beside us. Up close, his eyes are like a tropical lagoon, profoundly green. He smells like eucalyptus and sunshine even though his expression is hard and stern. “Matheus is in the car with Mama. You’re fucking late as usual, Dré.”

“Chill out, Gio,” André palms his twin’s jaw with a light tap. “We’re here now. No need to get your silky boxers all twisted around your strung up balls.”

Giovanni folds his arms over the plain t-shirt he’s wearing. “How about I wrap them around your puny neck?”

“Jeez…that’s kinky as fuck, brother. I always thought you were the vanilla twin.”

Giovanni grunts, almost breaking into laughter, but not quite reaching the momentum. “Shame you're the twin with acucaracha-sized dick.”

He shrugs, unphased that he just compared his brother’s dick to a cockroach.

“We all know I used up the good stuff in the womb. What’s the name they call the second born?” His forehead creases, pretending to think. “Runt—yeah, that’s it. Runts are generally smaller, weaker, and dysfunctional. I’d hate to be all cliche, but if a pig grunts—it’s a pig.”

André shakes his head in response while Giovanni continues. “Just so we’re clear,littlebrother, the girls use my dick to scoop up all that creamy vanilla.”

“My dick gets no complaints from theseñoritas,” André nudges me and uses his strength to manhandle me along the street.

Giovanni frowns. “They don’t? Fuck, I get complaints about how big my dick is all the time.”

The two of them chuckle in tandem. It’s a quick melodic appreciation, oddly sexy and terribly wicked.

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