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No, sir. I’m not interested in those chiselled pecks, or those broad shoulders, or his bulging biceps. I’m definitely not interested in his thick red lips or that dark stubble around his sharp jawline, and count me out for anything involving those fucking dimples.
I am not interested!
It’s all I can tell myself to stay calm as I’m led down the winding mansion hallways by two guards that are so darkly dressed and mannered that they might as well be muscular shadows.
I distract myself from my unwanted thoughts by sipping in the luxury of the veritable palace. Master paintings and portraits the size of movie screens line the white and red walls that funnel me down to my destination. Every turn and corner is marked by a white marble statue of some god or another. Most of the doors we pass are closed, but the ones that are open provide a glimpse into scenes of pure wealth—gold pianos, glittering crystal chandeliers, movie theaters and bowling alleys, they all scream out to the social climber in me like beacons of light.
This should all be mine already, I huff to myself. I was always destined to live like this, like a queen—sure, a cartel queen, but still a queen. Now, I’m just a hostage, a destitute captive to a twisted angel who preys on the poor and the weak.
Well, I may be poor, but I’m not weak; I’ll teach him that the hard way, if I have to.
I straighten my posture and tilt my chin up high, fighting off the fear. A huge set of double-doors are pushed open before me and I’m led into a vast open space the size of a ballroom.
Angel is nowhere to be found. Instead, an awfully similar looking man is sitting on the varnished counter of an extravagantly tall liquor cabinet. The shiny jewel encrusted piece is so big it almost looks like a small church. Bottles of spirits and booze of all kinds line the shelves like Christmas lights.
“Thanks, boys,” a wispy but confident voice hisses from the lips of the man standing under all the alcohol. “I’ll have her back to my brother in no time at all.”
Dante. My heart clenches and an icy chill wipes out all of the unwelcomed heat that Angel had forced into me earlier.
The guards turn their backs to us and march to the half-open Oaktree-sized doors, where they stand guard like the statues we passed in the halls. For some reason, I don’t think they’re here to protect me from Dante.
“I thought it might be you...” the words slither from the thinner brother’s slimy lips and into my ears. I resist the urge to swat them away. “Hmm, don’t you recognize me?” Dante tilts his head like an emaciated dog. He really is thinner than Angel in every single way—he’s got a scarecrow body, pencil-thin mustache, non-existent lips, receding hairline and everything. If Angel spent a year stranded on a desert island, then maybe the two brothers would look more like twins, but as it stands now, Dante’s the ghoul to Angel’s beast.
“Have we met before?” I ask, trying my best to be polite. Dante’s fingernails are long and sharp and there’s something about him that makes me think he’s slashed more than his fair share of women with them.
Angel’s clearly dangerous, too, but the older brute makes me so hot I just can’t help but spit fire. Dante’s reptilian coldness, on the other hand, risks freezing me into place. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my heart was going into hibernation right about now.
The younger Montoya brother feigns injury at my inability to recognize him; he draws his spindly fingers across his chest and takes a teasing step back, like he’s just been shot.
How charming...
“I overheard Juan talking about a Catalina Alzate...” his voice is almost as quiet as a whisper and so airy that I can’t quite tell whether or not there’s an open window nearby. “But I didn’t think there was any way it was actually you,” his snake eyes study me with uncomfortable interest. “What are the chances?” His laugh is like broken glass.
I don’t appreciate how he’s playing with me. At least Angel is big and furious, like a lion—I can almost accept that I’m a lion’s food, some sort of gazelle or honey-badger. But a meal for a snake? I’m not a fucking mouse!
Dante limps forward and his pale, yellow-tinged eyes send a chill down my spine.
Hell, what did this bastard do to deserve the short end of the Montoya gene pool stick? What evil act caused him to be so physically cursed?
I have a bad feeling he wants me to find out.
“So, has my brother bought you, then?” he asks, breaking the eerie silence between us.
I furrow my brows, tempted to spit in Dante’s oddly familiar face—it is familiar, after all, and not just because of his passing resemblance to Angel.
Bought!? He thinks I’m a whore!?
“No,” I mutter, hiding the venom in my voice. The last thing I want to do is instigate Dante enough to touch me. Those thin fingers of his look absolutely frigid.
Dante flinches backwards at my response, almost like he’s hurt by it. I don’t mind his reaction, because it serves to put more space between the two of us. “So, you’ve given yourself to him!?” he hisses, not holding back on his own venom. The accusation echoes through the vast empty room like a shockwave, crawling over my skin and rattling my bones.
A primal scream wants to escape my lips but I hold it back. Where do I know this nightmare from? Why is he so interested in me?
When I don’t immediately respond to Dante’s allegation, he lunges at me. I yelp and jump backwards, desperate to avoid his touch.
“Come back here, you whore!” he shouts after me as I make a beeline for the guarded doors.
My chest is suddenly on fire. Every nerve in my body is telling me I have to get out of here.
