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Chapter9
Catarina
“What do you mean I can’t leave the penthouse?” It’s the morning after I walked out of my father’s house in the middle of lunch. I stand in Declan’s state-of-the-art chefs’ kitchen with arms crossed, staring down my fiancé where he sits at the breakfast bar, looking better than any man has a right to after working out. Seriously. He should at least smell bad based on how sweaty his shirt is. But no. His musky aroma only adds to his sexiness. It’s annoying. “You didn’t mention anything about being locked up here when we talked yesterday.”
“There’s been a development,” Declan replies, rephrasing the words he’s told me twice since I walked in here to tell him I was leaving to grab coffee with Ashley. “It’s no longer safe for you to leave the penthouse.”
“But I already told Ashley I’d meet her.” We’d confirmed plans last night, and I’d been touched by how eager my best friend seemed to see me. I hope it’s a sign we can put the awkwardness from the engagement party behind us.
“That’s unfortunate.” He picks up his water bottle and takes several gulps before lowering the container and wiping the excess moisture from his lips. I expect him to say something else, but he just holds my gaze.
“Is this about Enrique Santiago’s death?” It’s the only thing I can think of.
“Yes.”
I blink, surprised. I didn’t expect him to be honest. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Danger is all but guaranteed anytime there’s a regime change in a criminal family,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “To avoid being caught in the crossfire, it’s best if members of our family lie low until the situation is resolved.”
Hearing him sayour familydoes funny things to my heart. I frown to hopefully hide the reaction.
“Areyougoing to be ‘lying low’?” I put air quotes around the phrase.
His lips twitch. “Unfortunately, I’m unable to do so. I have a family business to run.”
I throw my hands in the air. “And I have a life, Declan. I have friends. And work.”
“I already told you that you don’t need to work.”
“And I already told you Iwantto work.” I don’t like relying on my father for money, and I’m sure as hell not going to rely onDeclanfor money either. “You can’t lock me up. Not again.”
His amusement fades. “Trust me, Catarina, I take no pleasure in keeping you confined. But I won’t risk your safety just so you can go visit with your vapid friend who cares more about what man she can sleep with to enhance her social standing than she does your well-being.”
“You don’t even know her,” I snap back. It’s not the first time Declan has insulted Ashley, but unlike last time, this time his words are filled with more contempt.
“I know enough.” He pushes the stool back from the kitchen island and stands. “I’m sorry,macushla,but you’re not going out. You’re more than welcome to invite your friend here if you wish. I don’t mind.” He turns and exits the kitchen without another word.
The nerve!
“Do not walk away from me, Declan MacKenzie!” I stomp after him, blinded by fury, and follow him into the living room.
Hearing my shout, he stops walking and faces me. His lips are once again quirked with amusement.
I see red.
“I don’t know what makes you think after these months of knowing me that I would be okay with being told what to do.” Words fall from my lips, unchecked. Years of pent-up resentment towards my father are unleashed, and it’s directed at Declan who’s started to treat me with the same kid gloves even though he promised not to. “I’m yourfiancée,not your lackey. I won’t listen to these out-of-the-blue orders without at least some freaking context. If you want me to stay secluded in this apartment for my protection, you’re going to have to tell me why. And it needs to be specific. I’m tired of people treating me like a child, always giving me vague explanations and just expecting me to go along with what they say because they say it!”
To his credit, Declan barely blinks at my rant. His composure is impressive.
But I stumble back a step when he walks towards me. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. Nor does he stop.
Declan continues moving forward, and I find myself backpedaling until I hit the wall separating the living room from the kitchen. I debate continuing my retreat but immediately dismiss the idea. I’m tired of being pushed around. Instead, I lift my chin and glare at my annoyingly handsome fiancé.
He draws up short with less than a foot between us and says, “I’m sorry.”
My forehead furrows. “What?”
