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“I’ve humored you, Lupe,” he growls, flexing one muscular hand in and out of a fist. When he takes a step, I jump, too stunned to stand. “I’ve played your little game and endured your haughty little attitude for long enough. But I refuse to allow you to insult me. Not here, on my own damn property. You spin a sweet little tale about needing my help, only to turn your nose up at me like I’m a piece of shit when you get your way. Oh, no, Lupe…” With three long strides, he gains on me, reaching out with his fingers extended. “I will—”
“Thank you,” I blurt before he can touch me. It feels important to say it, even if I loathe the pleading note in my voice. While I gaze at him from beneath my lashes, I don’t conceal my sincere gratitude. “For keeping Francisco safe. For making him comfortable. Thank you.”
He didn’t have to. Even I can admit that.
Jaguar stops short, cocking an eyebrow. I’ve confused him. So, I take advantage of his shock by turning the tables.
“Don’t separate us. Please. Let me stay here with Franco. I’ll…”
“Let me guess,” he says with a coarse bark of laughter. Just like that, he’s composed once again, all emotion contained. His hand continues toward me as he hooks his thumb around the neckline of my dress. He tugs on the fabric, coming dangerously close to a stiffening nipple that I can’t disguise. “You’ll do anything. I think you’re addicted to gambling, chica, and you have few bargaining chips left.”
He’s right, but the stakes are too high to back down now.
“I will,” I croak without dwelling on the potential consequences. I reach up, fingering the neckline of my nightgown inches from his position. Is sex what he wants? So be it. “Name your price, Jaguar. Just keep me with him.Me, not your men who boast about how Braulio is a dead man in front of him—”
I watch him like a hawk to see how he reacts. His jaw clenches with barely-concealed anger, and he pulls his hand away. Apparently, his men’s gossip hadn’t been sanctioned by him.
“You can return to your harem as you please,” I add in a rush, “but let me stay with him.”
“And for that, you’ll doanything.” He runs his thumb along my chin, tilting it for his inspection. “I can work with that. First, get dressed. As for your petty insinuation, no, I did not tell my men to mention anything regarding Braulio around the boy. They’ll pay for that.”
His voice is rife with rage—his gaze is murderous. I almost feel bad for the unknown goons I’ve gotten in trouble. Nonetheless, I stiffen at the latest challenge he’s presented me with. Get dressed. How? “There is no clothing for me in here,” I admit after a hard swallow. To be sure, I peek inside the barren closet one more time. There isn’t so much as a pair of shoes inside it.
“Of course, there isn’t.” He sounds so damn smug at having ripped the rug out from under me. “This isn’t your room. I had you put here until you woke up, but you will sleep somewhere else. Come.”
His curt nod beckons me forward, and I follow him, numb with fear. At the other end of the stairwell, he opens another door nearly parallel to Franco’s room. A sick, twisted part of me notes that it’s well beyond earshot of the boy. Could that be why he supposedly chose it for me?
As he opens the door, I brace myself to find a cage, or chains—or perhaps, Gatita growling with hunger and ready to devour me whole.
Instead…
This room has a massive bed draped in black sheets, and floor-to-ceiling windows providing a breathtaking view of the mountainous landscape beyond the property. All in all, it’s beautiful, and a world apart from his communal harem rooms.
Stunned, I follow him into another walk-in closet.
“Ladies first,” he grates near the threshold. As I slip in front of him, I feel the shape of his hand graze my ass, lingering along my thigh. I can barely silence a groan through clenched teeth. Damn him. Heat unfurls in my belly, only growing hotter as I realize that his bulk traps me like prison bars.
A horrible truth hits me there, surrounded by dark clothing smelling of masculine musk. The plain shirts and slacks hanging from most of the hangers are obviously his.
“This is your room,” I croak.
“Look again,” he commands.
On my second frantic perusal of the space, I make another chilling discovery—on the other side is a collection of lighter, delicate dresses and shirts. They’re more modest than what he dresses his harem in.
Confused, I croak out, “What is this?”
When I pivot to face him, I find Jaguar’s expression deceptively blank. Others might mistake his mood for calm, but I know better. He’s riled up, hungry for blood. Even his tone feels sharp enough to slice through flesh and bone.
“This isourroom,” he declares. “I thought you’d be happy. You don’t have to share with my harem women. Just me. I think I like you in my clothing better, but for now, you should dress in something suitable for Francisco, no?” After reaching for a hanger, he displays the outfit for my approval. “This.”
A red dress, flirty in style, with a modest neckline and flowy skirt. Accepting it, I allow him to show me into the attached bathroom.
It’s luxurious, of course, composed of gray marble and glistening metal fixtures. Sharing this space with him makes my stomach turn. It is a good thing, then, that I am gaining a greater understanding of Julian Domingas’ mind games. He doesn’t actually plan to stay here overnight.
He’s just testing me.
So why give in to the fear?
