“Please,” I barely whisper, falling onto my knees so I can meet him eye to eye. “This isn’t you, Enrique. My heart knows this isn’t you—”
My pleas fall on deaf ears when his impenetrable mask slips over his face. “I don’t have a choice. It's the only way I can keep you safe,” he replies, his tone a mix of remorse and anger.
Tears pool in my eyes when he stands from his crouched position and exits the room without a backward glance.
Chapter 22
Wrapping a towel around my body, I exit the steam-filled bathroom. My steps are slow, weighed down by the guilt hanging heavily on my shoulders. I’ve been sick out of my mind with worry all day. I paced the floors for hours, ate more chocolate than I’ve consumed my entire childhood, and begged Maya to disclose if she knew of Rico’s whereabouts. Nothing worked to calm the uncertainty twisting my stomach. Not even the world’s hottest shower.
My breath catches halfway between my lungs and my throat when I step out of the bathroom. Rico is sitting in the same high-backed chair he's always waiting for me in. A potent rush of yearning slams into me just from the sight of him, and the desire to cry overwhelms me, but I manage to respectfully hold it in.Just barely.When he lifts his eyes from the tube of moisturizer in his hand to me, my feet push off the ground and rush to him before he has the chance to nod his head.
My frantic speed slows when the quickest flash of a devilish smirk has me stumbling over my own feet. Rico's smile enlarges over my clumsiness, which only makes my movements falter even more. As I slowly saunter towards him—hips swinging, heart rate surging—my eyes run over him, seeking any indication of the repercussions of my foolish actions. Thankfully, none are found. He appears like he did before he left. The only difference is his suit jacket has been removed and slung over the back of the dressing table chair; his gold watch has been placed on a crystal dish on the antique dresser. . . and the smell of cheap floral perfume is permeating off him. The scent is so strong it causes my stomach to swirl.
My speed slows even more, closely followed by the beat of my heart. The twisting my stomach has been doing all day winds up to my throat. When I stop in front of him, Rico’s hands move to my towel to pry it open, whereas my eyes scan every inch of him. I'm no longer searching for evidence of my stupidity; I’m seeking signs of betrayal.
My switch from panicked to enraged is quick, completed in under a second, when my eyes zoom on a red smear on the collar of his dress shirt. If I'm not mistaken, a vibrant red smear of lipstick. Blood roars to my ears, and my back molars smash together.
“What?” I stammer when Rico’s deep voice breaks me out of the jealous trance the red mark on his shirt forced me into.
He lifts his eyes from my tattoo to me. “It’s looking much better today. Is it still itchy?”
Catching my lower lip between my teeth, I shake my head. I've lost the ability to talk as our interaction this morning regarding the Popov mistresses runs through my blinded-with-jealousy mind. Rico neither denied or agreed that he had mistresses. He just skirted my questions like any real criminal mastermind would.
The room spins as the swirling of my stomach amplifies. Rico once again smiles at my wobbly composure. It doesn’t have the same effect on me as it did earlier.
“We’ll give it a few more treatments with the hydrocortisone cream before switching to a standard moisturizer.”
After closing my towel, he stands from his seat. Noticing the eccentric switch in my composure, he eyes me curiously, his eyelids growing heavy as he scans my face. I roll my shoulders and force an expressionless look to mask my furious appearance. Until I've had time to assess the situation properly, I can't jump to conclusions—no matter how much my brain cites my reasons to.Accuse now, ask questions lateris the tactic it wants to use.
Not buying my attempts to veil my anger, but apparently not wanting to push the issue, Rico presses a kiss to my temple and ambles into the bathroom.
“I’ll be out in a few.”
His usual alluring composure is still beaming out of him in invisible waves, but his shoulders are slumped a little lower, and his cockiness isn't as paramount. But even with his demeanor askew, I go looking for trouble, unable to harness the voice in my head telling me it isn't just his composure that’s changed. I smell a rat from a mile away.
I wait until I hear the shower door opening before carefully prying open the bathroom door. Wanting to ensure it doesn’t unexpectedly announce my arrival, I embrace its closure, meaning it only gives out the slightest click when it shuts. With my heart walloping in my chest, I slant my head to the side and prick my ears. Happy I haven’t attracted Rico’s attention, I quickly span the distance between the door and the linen basket sitting at the side of the double vanity.
Just like every other time I’ve showered in this room, the mirrored wall is thick with steam… but it isn’t dense enough to fully conceal the visual of Rico in the shower. He's standing with his feet planted the width of his shoulders and his head hanging low. Water is pelting out of the shower head, squashing his normally tousled locks into smooth wisps of hair. With his palms flattened on the white marble tiles, he steps deeper into the spray, allowing the steaming hot water to run down the length of his spine. His posture looks defeated, but it doesn’t stop the vehement jealousy pumping through my body.
When I snatch his dress shirt out of the basket, fiery rage adds to the pink hue blemishing my cheeks. There's no doubt the red mark smeared across the cuff on his collar is lipstick. It's as obvious as the sun hanging in the sky. Pain twists my heart and swirls my stomach.
Dropping the shirt onto the floor, I stumble my way out of the bathroom, my steps wobbly and unsure. My brain is telling me not to be so dramatic; it's just a little bit of lipstick on the collar of a stranger's shirt. My heart… it's not even functioning right now to articulate a response to my soul-shattering discovery.
Fighting through an upwelling of tears pricking my eyes, I throw one of my short-sleeve shirts over my head and yank a pair of cotton panties up my quivering legs. Numerous scenarios explaining how the mark could have gotten on Rico’s shirt run through my mind as I'm dressing, but not one acceptable reason is found as to why there would be a pair of female lips sitting intimately close to his neck. Unless he was. . . I slap my hand over my mouth to stop my stomach's vicious heaves. I thought Rico was waiting for me to feel comfortable around him, and that was why he hadn’t put any moves on me the past five nights. Obviously, I was wrong.
When the creak of a door sounds through my ears, I rush my hand over my cheeks, ensuring no sneaky tears have trickled from my eyes before climbing into bed. I can hear Rico moving around the space, but since my stomach is so queasy, I refuse to look at him. I don't think I could stand the sight of him right now.
I stiffen like a board when he slips into the bed and curls his arms around my waist. Just like he has done every night we’ve been together, he draws me into his chest, surrounding me with his scent and warmth, a smell still doused in rich floral perfume. Incapable of battling the sting of jealousy, I push away from him and scamper to the furthest edge of the bed. I’m dangling so dangerously on the edge that one more inch would have me sleeping on the floor.
“Don’t fight me, Kitten. Not tonight.” Rico’s tone is both stern and pleading.
The mattress dips when he moves over to my side of the bed and gathers me back in his arms. I kick and wail against him, devastated and inconsolable. My fight is so vicious, one of my wildly flung legs kicks him in the shin in the process of breaking free.
The deep growl torn from his mouth puts a stop to my wailing. I freeze absurdly in fear and arousal. I’ve never heard such a provocative noise.
“I need my light. I need to hold you.”
His words pain my heart, but it doesn’t ease my anger. Pretending he hasn’t noticed my cold demeanor, he caresses me like he does every night, his hand running down my forearm, his warm breath tickling my neck. The only difference tonight is I don’t melt into his embrace. I repel from it.
