Page 71 of Hostile King

Enrique runs short nails through the bristly dark hairs on his jawline. “You could say that. I’m guessing you don’t know who her brother works for?” The fucker smiles, lapping up his enjoyment of this mind fuck of a conversation. “Well, well, if you weren’t on his radar before, you sure as hell will be now and with those bruises decorating her skin, I’d hate to be you. I love how karma kicks in eventually. Even powerful men like you can disappear without a trace.”

The sides of my desert-dry throat stick together making it tricky to inhale and then the space around me starts to move, the disconcerting sensation similar to the motion of my yacht on the rolling ocean.

Carina’s voice becomes misty and distant, her bold presence the only thing I sense, her seductive fragrance the only scent I smell, and her wild pulse the one thing I can focus on.

“Tomás, come with me, you need to lie down.”

My legs begin to move, albeit in a stagger. “What the fuck is he talking about, Cari?”

20

CARINA

I’m torn.

My iron-clad loyalty toel Fantasmaclashes against my unfailing devotion to Tomás. The two worlds can never meet. My past must remain in the shadows where I was stolen from, and my present is where the light shines on new growth.

Asking Sal for help had exposed my relationship with his covert employer who flips lives and controls them from afar.El Fantasmais the destructive ghost you’d never see coming with endless resources, unlimited funds, and an unbreakable requirement for trust and seclusion. There’s nothing he couldn’t or wouldn’t do for those he cares about.

And one of those few people in his close circle is me.

He has the mastery to delete a life, not only in its physical form, in its entirety—both your identity and history. So, telling Tomás that my only true friend in this world, aside from my big brother, is an ex-cartel monster living in a hidden oasis in the jungle—that tidbit of information is strictly confidential.

I can’t reveal his identity—I won’t.

I’ve sat here in this chair watching Tomás sleep since he more or less collapsed onto the mattress. His mercurial mood rapidly switched from mighty god to sweat-drenched warrior. As we moved, he locked me next to him in a spurt of rabid stubbornness.

I’ve never met a man—or any living person—who could possessively cage my every step, even when their own limbs are heavy.

Before his slitted eyelids finally closed, he made me promise not to leave this room. He had tried to get me to lie with him, however the bed was too narrow and given his manly size, it was impossible.

Enrique swung by, and without uttering a word, had pricked a vein in Tomás’ arm again to administer another dose of pain relief. A few minutes later, he returned and tossed a sunny Hawaiian shirt at me to replace my damp towel, then skulked off.

I haven’t taken my eyes off Tomás, lost in the hurricane that is him and I.

A silver glow blankets his magnificent form, so the color of his skin appears ethereal, saintly even. It looks so light and paper thin, the unblemished complexion I’m used to admiring struggles to regain its dominance as he rests.

Shadows darken the perfect outlines of his bare torso giving him a lethal edge of risk and danger.

If he wasn’t recovering from a near-death experience, I’d touch myself just to ease the constant state of arousal siphoning through my veins. There’s a powerful force growing within me, from protection to a deep-seated need for his dominance.

My hooded gaze skims his sweat-glistened torso as my brain conjures all sorts of filthy scenarios. Perhaps I’m only good at being bad and he’s the only one who appreciates it. Despite the trauma we’ve both endured, my temperature is off the charts and my mind wanders to dirty, dark places.

I visualize how impressive his solid dick would look in the moonlight. The fleshy weapon, in a state of repose, safeguarded under the flimsy material of his boxer briefs. The secret fantasy quickly plays out in my mind where I’m sponging his chest with warm water to cleanse his regal physique and fondling his dick until it rises for me.

My heart flurries, the awareness of my clit swelling shoots tingles all over me. A delicious shiver makes me moan into my fist.

There really is something wrong with me.

As much as I want to taste the saltiness of him mixed with the muskiness of me, I crave his leadership too. Tomás knows exactly how to control my body and bring out the hedonistic side of me. So, watching a deity like him sleep without even a cotton sheet to hide his masculinity plays havoc with my common sense. I’m shocked how after everything he’s done; he still has this unorthodox effect on me.

Most of all, I hate how simply being in the same room as the man makes my moral code go wonky.

I’ve suffered so many mixed emotions since arriving in Mexico. Anxiety being the clear leader, an ugly festering emotion that won’t leave me alone. I’m not afraid of him—I’m worried about the pain I’ll suffer and the grief I’ll endure when the colorful spectrum of light he offers me disappears.

Even now, kissed by moonlight, he’s still a rainbow, albeit a gothic version of muted, tenebrous tones—each shade varying in complexity.

Part of me doesn’t care what unholy acts are camouflaged within that sunless aura of his. However, can I truly forget the carnage we barely survived and the explosion he had engineered that put innocent lives at risk?

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