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In truth, I don’t care if he calls memenina,senhora,ordona.Although it’s not surprising that he chose the one title that would diminish me. But what does bother me is that I can’t find the words, or the courage, to tell him to speak to the staff politely or leave. That’s what my parents would have done.
I glance at Isabel, trying to convey my apologies through my eyes—like a coward or a helpless girl might do. “Why don’t you get us some coffee?Por favor.”
She pulls her mouth into a tight, thin line as she turns toward the door.
“Nothing for me. I won’t be here long. Shut the door behind you,por favor,” Antonio instructs, drawing out the wordspor favorto mock me. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he never says please.
His behavior is appalling by Porto standards—even for an arrogant bastard.
Not only is it customary to accept food and beverages when paying a visit, it’s an insult to the host to turn down refreshments. And no man, withgoodintentions,wouldeversuggest being alone with a woman he’s not related to in some way. These are dated customs, but much about Porto is last century. No one knows this better than Antonio Huntsman, who has used the old ways to accumulate power.
Isabel is fuming, her forehead etched with lines that seem to have become a permanent feature since we first learned my father was terminally ill. Between the wrinkles and her graying hair, she looks so much older than forty-eight.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I’ll take care of the door.”
She hesitates, with a pointed look at Antonio and then at me.
I nod and flash her a small, reassuring smile. Isabel might be a nervous Nellie, but she’d protect me with her last breath.
As her footsteps disappear down the hall, I gauge him carefully. The son ofo diabo. He looks every bit the part.
There’s no way in hell I’m shutting that door.
Despite what my father believed, I find Antonio Huntsman terrifying—especially now that we’re alone. His bespoke suit, tailored to within a half-inch, might suggest a certain kind of refinement, but his dark, soulless eyes say something else entirely.
“It’s nice to see you again.” I can’t even force a smile.
His mouth twitches at the edges. “Is it?”
Without waiting for a reply,he saunters over to the south window and surveys the estate like it belongs to him. “I’ve never stood at this window,” he murmurs. “It’s a breathtaking vista.”
Enjoy it, because it’s the last time you’ll see it from this room.
“Do you still have that feisty stallion?” he asks, gazing into the distance.
The question takes me by surprise. My horse seems like an odd thing for him to remember.
“Zeus. Yes, but age has mellowed him. He’s not so feisty anymore.”
Antonio glances over his shoulder at me. “The first time I saw you on him, I thought I’d have to jump the fence and rescue you. But you had that horse wrapped around your finger. Either you were fearless, or you hid your fear well.”
“I wasn’t afraid.”I didn’t know fear then. I was sheltered and protected in every possible way. There was no reason to be fearful.“Most people think the key to handling an animal of that size is to hide your fear. But you can’t hide it. Animals smell fear. The key to controlling a spirited horse like Zeus is to have no fear.”
Antonio turns and faces me, with an intensity that’s unnerving. “That’s how you control men, too. I can’t remember the last time I was afraid, but I can smell fear from a mile away.”
The way he says it—his tone so matter-of-fact, but his words fraught with danger—sends a ripple up my spine.
In this moment, he reminds me of my father’s fiercest guards. The ones who have folded the brutality of the work seamlessly into their lives. The ones who would put a bullet in your head while asking about your family.
I slide my sweaty palms along my breeches, as discreetly as possible.Hopefully he can’t actually smell fear.
“What can I do for you,senhor?”
With a few long strides, he’s practically on top of me. So close I could touch the stubble on his jaw without fully extending my arm. His proximity is unsettling, but not enough to stop me from admiring his long, inky lashes, and the strong cords in his neck.
“You called me Antonio when you were a child. It seems silly to start calling mesenhornow,Daniela.”
He draws out each syllable in my name in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
