Page 21 of Hostile King

6

CARINA

“This isn’t my apartment block…”

I lower the aviation microphone on my headset and press my nose to the window as the helicopter I’ve been cooped up in for too long finally hovers over a landing platform on the roof of a high-rise tower.

The slow rising sun colors feathery clouds with a fresh new break of sunlight, slashed with periwinkle and gold.

“Where are we?” I ask, not recognizing the skyline.

André speaks to the pilot through his headset and pats the man’s shoulder from behind once we touch down. None of us have spoken since he jumped in beside me, buckled up, and gave the order to takeoff.

For the entire journey my mind was astray. I’d swallowed back the painful lump in my throat, doing my best not to cry, while André’s knee bounced as he fidgeted with his family signet ring.

I didn’t want comfort or pity. Not even a single glance of concern. I just wanted space to figure out what happens next. A place to hide away and face my ultimate dread of being alone again. Tomás didn't complete me—his damaged mind complemented mine.

The wicked pain he offered fed my appetite for a passion I never believed could exist, and now I’m cut free, spinning out into the universe without an anchor.

The engine noise cuts out. “We’re inChapinero,” Spitfire answers in the new hush. “This is a Souza-owned hotel. Tomás gave the instruction to bring you here.”

My tired pulse fires to life again. “Why? I have an apartment. What about my clothes…my personal stuff…my job?”

He ignores my rant. “The entire top floor is completely closed off to make it private. The presidential suite is all yours.” Spitfire twists in his seat and offers me a keycard. “This will give you access to the building. The passcode to enter your suite is your birth date.”

“Are you joking?” I fist the hem of the buttoned shirt drowning me in material softer than silk. “A hotel…”

“Thanks, Spitfire.” André cocks a bushy brow at me. “Better than a sicario popping a cap in your skull while you sleep in your pokey apartment.” He chuckles as he rips the headset from his ears. “I need a fucking drink.” Alcohol is already strong on his breath as he sighs, and dark crescents of exhaustion bruise his under-eyes. “Let’s go, Carina.”

He shoves the passenger door open and leaps from the helicopter, raising his arms over his head to stretch.

“When can I go back to my apartment?” I shuffle out behind him making sure to keep my legs discreetly squeezed together as I swing my bare feet out first.

“Never,” he snaps impatiently. “It could be worse. Get used to it.”

“So, why are you here?”

“To make sure you stay out of trouble.”

When he offers his ringed hand to help me, I shake my head and jump down unaided. “I can manage on my own. And I’d rather not have an in-house babysitter either.” I smile tightly when he narrows his eyes in silent assessment.

“If I’m the babysitter then that makes you the baby, right?” he mocks, his voice hoarse and thick as he pulls a squished pack of cigarettes from his jeans’ pocket and shakes out a cigarette. “And by the way, little fire starter, keep your hands off my smokes.” He winks as a small flame blazes the tip. “Tomás might give you his last breath, but I’m not in love with you. So, don’t start any more fires.” Smoke billows from his nostrils as he exhales.

Love.

My scalp tingles at the mention of such a small word with life changing complications. “He doesn’t love me.” I fold my arms over my chest and stare back at him.

André shrugs, ruffles his fingers through messy ebony hair and scratches his unshaven jaw. “Look…you’re stuck with me until Tommy says otherwise.” His torso angles around bringing his gaze with it. “Which means I’m stuck with you too. You’d better get used to it or I’ll chuck you off the top of this ten-story building and tell Tommy you jumped.”

As he smirks, I see the devil dance inside him. He’s not really threatening me, but his warning stings of danger. The wind whips strands of hair across my face like protective bars, oddly easing my vulnerability.

“You’d better think of another way to get rid of me. He knows I’d never willingly jump.” I hold up my wrist to the powerful sun rays warming the early morning mist clinging to the heights of my new prison. André’s gaze settles on the silvery scar, his face deadpan. “However…he’d probably conclude that you got blind drunk and fell over the edge with me.” I draw my lips to stave a smug smile.

Coal-colored eyes sparkle in the change of light, an undercurrent of immorality flashing with speckles of sunny humor. A faint smile dances on his lips.

“Okay, Carina.” The way he says my name, all husky from too many cigarettes and late nights has my skin prickling. It sounds just like Tomás after he’s emptied himself inside me. I shiver. “Let me think of a better way to kill you, and then I’ll run Plan B past you for critique.” He juts out his hand. “Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, endorsing our handshake as a truce.

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