Page 40 of Hostile King

Between my legs throbs from being so utterly ruined. My limbs are weak, bruised, and stricken, a vision of violence that’s actually battle scars of salacious passion.

How can I tell my brother I’ve fallen for the devil himself? That the devil’s sadism could cost me my life or set me free.

Am I ready to trip into the rabbit hole and fully embrace his world?

“Tomás!” Bianca fists the door, her erratic thumps persistent. “Get your hands off me.” She argues with the man guarding the door. “If you shoot me, my uncle will hack off your ugly head.”

Tomás blinks at me for a beat then marches towards the exit, flinging the door open.

“Sorry, Tommy. She’s your woman. I couldn’t shoot her.”

“She’s not mine,” he snaps.

I crunch over dagger-sharp edges in thin heels and rush up behind him. Eight men assemble in the corridor, all of them dressed in black suits. Bianca’s complexion pales when her wide eyes settle on our incomprehensible state. No one could possibly understand the depths we had sank to find euphoria in each other's arms.

“What the hell did you do?” Her gaze cuts from him to me, a sprinkle of compassion darting over my sullied complexion. “Are you okay?” She frowns and my insides recoil.

“Shane,” Tomás barks. “Make sure Bianca doesn’t return to the party.” He seizes my bicep, uses his body to shield me, and drags me into the hallway. “I’ll be down in a few minutes. Watch her.”

“What the hell is this?” the dark-haired beauty refuses to stand at peace.

Immediately, suited bodies gather around Tomás and I like plates of armor slotting into place, trapping us in a circular prison.

“Bianca,” he snarls, looking over his shoulder as we move towards the lobby elevator. “When I come back down, you’ll meet the real Tomás Souza.”

11

TOMÁS

My soul is a turbulent ocean, fatal and unpredictable. And Carina is the moon casting brilliant light into the shadowy depths.

The wrung-out pain in my gut no longer resists the absolute decision I’ve made—because this time, it's the right one.

Bianca’s ass hits the wallpaper, never taking her eyes off us as armed soldiers escort us to the elevator. Being so close to Carina tests me in ways I never expected. Nothing could have prepared me for the woman who melted my ironclad defenses with a red-hot flame of destruction.

Our fingers graze as we stand side by side, then part just as quickly as if we’d been caught. I rein in my anarchic impulses, not wishing to reveal these feelings to anyone else. My enemies are everywhere, and Bianca would soon be the newest of them all.

Carina sucks in tattered breaths, subconsciously lifting two fingers to her defined lip line, the edges of her nails tipped in blood. A mind-fucking combination of my life source and hers in one bloodied mess. The sight of it should create agony in my mental prison, but it doesn’t. Rather, it magnifies the affection I have for her.

The weakness within me needs her beyond reason, risk, or selfish reward.

Together, we ride the elevator to the top floor all the while studying each other's disheveled appearance, quietly aware of the cosmic collision we’d survived and the wall of guards surrounding us. Once we’re finally alone, safely behind the locked doors of my suite, I glance at my slashed palm and blink away the inexorable snare of a maelstrom.

Her tiny voice drifts into the chaos I’m fighting against, its sweet tone unintentionally intrusive with sexual provocation.

There’s too much at stake for this to be my ruin. Responsibility twines with my newly placed crown. Its heavy burden gives me the strength of mind to keep walking through the regally decorated room fit for a king without crumbling. Heavy drapes and a thick carpet complement each other in boring shades of taupe. Nothing impresses me these days—except for Carina’s beauty.

I keep going until I’m in the adjoining bathroom where a free-standing bathtub sits in front of a gleaming window that highlights the cityscape. Stopping at the polished marble top vanity, I glance at a duo of snow-white bathrobes hung on a hook next to the shower and blow out a breath.

His and hers—a reminder of what could be. How we’d fuck in the tub and wash away our sins together.

I’ve created this situation. While my family celebrates with the Morales cartel, I’m sinking under the ridiculous notion of a thing called love.

Immediately hunting a fresh bar of soap, I flick up the gold lever and plunge my hands under a waterfall of boiling water. It stings the cut and burns my skin. Yet I repeatedly rotate the soap to lather up a citrusy, cleansing foam to eradicate the signs of my madness.

After sixty mind-numbing seconds, the water runs clean. Next, I wash my face and blot it dry with a soft face cloth before studying my haggard reflection under the recessed lights. My torso still wears contaminated dried streaks. I swallow hard and make a spur of the moment decision not to erase them from the very spot where my heart thumps out of sequence. I want her hemoglobin to fuse with my flesh.

It’s a screwed-up fantasy, a crazy way to own all of her.

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