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“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I’ll have Lara patch me up.”
Lara, our ancient housekeeper, was the best when it came to first aid. When I was a boy, I asked her why a housekeeper needed to know so much about doing rudimentary stitches, and she’d laughed so hard that she had a five-minute coughing fit. It was all the answer I ever needed: being a part of the Castillo family meant learning survival skills, no matter what you did as a day job.
“Let your new fiancée do it,” Omar suggested. “Let her see what it means to be a part of this family.”
“Do you imagine that will endear her to me?” I asked him. “If she has to bandage my wounds, will the blow of our impending marriage be less shocking?”
Omar shrugged. “Maybe she’s the maternal type, and she’ll want to take care of you.” He waggled his eyebrows at me in dramatic fashion.
I shoved at him. “Keep your fantasies to yourself,” I said, but the mirth leaked out of our exchange just as quickly as it had cropped up. Emma was not going to make this easy. She was already mouthy and disobedient. I’d seen as much from her. And despite knowing exactly how I’d like to use that pretty little mouth of hers, I didn’t relish the headache she was likely to be. “What the hell am I supposed to do with a wife?”
Omar shrugged. “Fuck her good, hope you get her pregnant, then send her to one of the smaller families for ‘safe keeping’.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then you can move on with your life.”
Most people assumed Omar was stupid because he was as big as a tank, and he had very little qualms about showing a man his insides, but I knew differently. Omar was sharp; he observed the world around him. If it weren’t for his loyalty and his lack of interest in leadership, I’d be worried about fighting my brother over who would replace my father when the time came.
He makes marriage sound so simple, I thought. “Will that be your solution? When the time comes?”
Omar offered me a savage smile. “You’re the pretty boy with all the family responsibilities, Angel. You’re the one who needs the heir. I can do what I please with whomever I please, so long as I keep you alive to take over.” He laughed at the look on my face.
Cabrón, I thought as I fell into step beside him. I didn’t know who the bigger ass was, him or me.
“Come on,” Omar said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Let’s go tell your fiancée the good news.”
CHAPTER3
Emma
Whatever the conversation was between Angel and his father, it went badly. When the door of my room — holding cell, prison, whatever — opened, and Angel stepped inside, I couldn’t stop the gasp that rose in my throat.
His face was an absolute mess. There were splits in his cheek and lip, and his jaw appeared to be swelling. “What happened?”
Omar came through the door holding a first aid kit. He stepped around Angel and shoved it into my hands. “Your fiancé is going to need some patching up,” he said.
The world around me froze, and I blinked once. Twice. I’d heard what he said, but my mind refused to understand it. “My what?”
Angel turned blazing eyes to his brother. “Get out, asshole.”
Omar smiled although it wasn’t a pleasant one. “See? Ripped the Band-Aid off for you.”
“Omar.” Angel breathed the word like a threat, and the other man disappeared back out into the hallway once more. We could hear his laughter through the door. “Ese puta madre,” Angel snarled before he shifted his attention back to me, and I could see the gash on his cheek was bleeding. “Can you do first aid?” he asked gruffly.
I looked at the kit in my hands. It was a nice one, and from the heft of it, fully stocked. “Yeah,” I said and motioned for him to sit in the chair that I had been handcuffed to. “Sit.” As he sat, Angel’s breathing shuddered, like the movement hurt him. It had to be his ribs, but I would need to see to make sure nothing was truly wrong. “Can you take your shirt off?”
Angel’s eyes snapped up to mine. “Why?”
“I’m pretty sure your ribs are broken, but I want to check the bruising to make sure it’s not more serious.”
The shock on his face was only a little bit insulting. He glared at me like I had just revealed something important. “And what does a courier know about emergency medicine?” he asked.
“I spent years taking care of my mother while she died of cancer. While I wasn’t entirely successful inthatendeavor, I can check your ribs,” I shot back. “Take it off.”
He was quiet, stoic, for a moment. Then: “Just help me with my cheek, all right?”
The last thing I wanted to do was start an argument, but he was obviously in pain. What would happen if he had a broken rib stabbing into one of his lungs, or internal bleeding or something? I touched his shoulder lightly. “I really think —”
He pushed my hand away, gritting his teeth at the movement. “I don’t give a fuck what you think,” he snapped, voice low and dangerous. “You can cut this shit out right now. If I say I’m fine, then I’m fine, all right?”
A tremor ran through me. Even as he got angry, his face had gone flat and cold. It was the exact same expression that he’d worn when he’d shot that man at the bar. “Okay,” I relented. “Just the cheek then.”
