I don’t have to attend too many of these events, but the ones I do are excruciatingly painful. My father drinks. I guess he and I have that in common tonight. My brother disappears into the flock of women looking to land a De Léon. Someone should tell them they’re out of luck.
Me? With the news of my impending engagement, I’m usually left to my own devices. I guess that’s a win. No man comes near me because they know I’ll be engaged to the Augustine heir, and no one in their right mind wants to fuck with the Augustine family.
But tonight is different. Tonight, it seems someone does want to fuck with them —because the man I just bumped into has a vise-grip on my arm.
“It was an accident, and I apologized. What more can I do? I tell you what, I’ll give you my address so you can send me your dry-cleaning bill,” I tell him, teetering on my heels, the room spinning a little. A consequence of the drinks and pills I’ve had tonight. In my defense, I needed them after what happened. Odin wasn’t home when our father went on his rampage. He can usually calm him down, not always, but often enough. Me not so much.
As much as it hurts, though, I’m glad it was me and not Odin to take it.
Odin’s empty flask is in my clutch, plus a couple of painkillers. It’s nothing too strong, but the combination is what’s amplifying everything.
The man who has hold of me looks me over—my face, my mouth, then the swell of my breasts. What is it with men and boobs?
“I’m not sure that apology was heartfelt. Did you think so, Leo?” he asks his friend, the grinning jackal flanking him.
“I’m thinking it could definitely be more heartfelt,” Leo Cummings says. The two walk me backward. I look to where I just saw Odin, but my view is blocked by the throngs of people. Although we’re in a public place, although there are hundreds of people here, I feel the aggression of these two, and it’s a little worrying.
I breathe deeply, remind myself I can handle men like this. I have before. I will again.
“Why don’t we go up to my place, and she can make things right,” Leo says suggestively, producing a key.
I open my mouth to respond, to tell him when hell freezes over, but before I can get a single word out, a hand lands on each of their shoulders. Hands I know. In fact, I’d know them even without the ring bearing the Augustine insignia of a heart pierced by two swords.
“Is there a problem here?” Santos Augustine’s voice sends a familiar chill along my spine, making me shudder. It’s been a full year since I’ve seen him—a full year, and even so, just the sound of his voice has my body reacting.
Leo and his friend part and turn to look at Santos. When I meet Santos’s eyes, they capture and hold mine. It reminds me of our first meeting, of how he’d looked at me then. It’s a strange sensation, like a cloak draped over my shoulders.
His eyes are a rare shade, dark and endless, like an evergreen forest in winter. He’s wearing a custom-made three-piece-suit. Black on black on black. No tuxedo for him. He doesn’t conform to any rules.
He’s an Augustine. He doesn’t have to.
I swallow hard because I remember other things too—like what he’d said to me the first night. What he’d had me repeat the last time we met.
The spanking he’d threatened me with.
That part sends a flush of heat spreading from my core outward, all the way up my neck to warm my cheeks. I struggle to hold his gaze, afraid he can read my mind
Another man joins us, coming to Santos Augustine’s side. It’s Caius Augustine. He’s two years older than Santos. I haven’t seen Caius since that night in my father’s study, but he hasn’t really changed. They still look so different, dark and light, but I know deep in my heart how dangerous both of the Augustine brothers are.
“Making friends, brother?” Caius asks, voice low and deep, as much a growl as his brother’s.
Santos’s eyes hold mine. He doesn’t answer Caius but when he shifts his gaze to the hand on my arm, I remember what happened to the last person who touched what belonged to Santos Augustine. I get the feeling the man holding onto me now feels the danger emanating from the Augustine brothers, because he drops his hand and steps backward, away from me.
Leo isn’t as smart though.
Santos turns to Leo. “No, not making friends,” he says.
Leo glances at his buddy, I guess for backup. He’s not going to get it.
“Get out of here,” Caius says casually to them.
They nod, but Santos blocks Leo’s path. “What did you say to her?” he asks. “Something about taking her to your place to make things right? What did you mean exactly?” He steps so close that Leo, who is a good head shorter, has to crane his neck to hold eye contact. Aggression is practically vibrating off Santos. I feel the waves of it, know the danger he poses. Is Leo Cummings so oblivious he doesn’t sense it? “How would she make things right exactly?” Santos finishes.
“Brother.” Caius closes a hand over Santos’s arm.
I know I need to defuse this now, before history repeats itself, although I wonder how many other women they’ve cornered like this. Maybe I should let them deal with the consequence that is Santos Augustine. They’re jerks. But the image of Jason Cole the day he returned to school after prom is still so vivid in my memory that I can’t.
“They didn’t mean anything. They were just being stupid,” I say to Santos—only to Santos. “And they were leaving.”
He turns his gaze to me, the green dangerously bright. “Were they? It didn’t look like that to me.”
“Santos,” Caius says cautiously to his brother. “We’re drawing attention.” I notice how much quieter the room has grown. How, even though the orchestra is still playing, conversation has died down.
Santos’s jaw tenses, and his eyes narrow. It takes him a full minute to draw in a slow, deep breath before smiling a smile that I can only describe as terrifying, more so than anything Leo Cummings and his friend could threaten me with. He steps backward, and Caius’s shoulders relax.
Santos takes out his wallet and looks at the man who’s wearing my wine. He pulls several hundred-dollar bills out and shoves them into the man’s chest. “That should cover the cost of a new shirt and then some,” he says.
The man closes his hand over the bills I think more out of instinct than anything else, and I have Santos’s full attention again when Caius puts an arm around each of the men and walks them away, leaving us alone.
My heart hammers against my chest. Santos’s eyes remain locked on mine and there’s a palpable shift in the air around us, the dangerous zapping of an electrical current that can’t be denied. I’ve never felt so drawn to any man as I do him. It’s as though there’s an invisible thread tying me to him, binding us. It’s impossible to ignore, and I know how dangerous this attraction is.
“You seem to find trouble, Little Kitty,” he says.
Little Kitty. “I think it finds me. I don’t like that nickname.”
“No?”
I shake my head, and we stand staring at one another. I swear the scar on my palm throbs, as if sensing he’s near.
“That’s too bad,” he says.
I’m the first to break eye contact. I’d like to say it’s because I see Odin across the room, but the truth is, he makes me nervous and I can’t hold his gaze.
Odin is standing beside my father, who is glaring at me or Santos or, most likely, both of us.
The music picks up pace as if the orchestra was just told to distract the crowd. The noise level rises again as people return to their conversations.
“I need a drink,” I say and attempt to walk past Santos, but I trip over nothing. He catches me and quickly positions me so that it looks like we’re about to join the dancers—one arm around my waist, the other holding my hand, my body against his.
The racing of my heart intensifies. I feel like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. My skin burns where he’s touching me and it takes all I have to look up at him.
“I think you’ve had more than you can handle,” he says as if he was giving me time to muster up the courage to look at him.
I snort, wanting to sound casual and unaffected although I’m pretty sure I’m not fooling him. “I don’t think you know what I can handle.”
“Not to mention the pills,” he adds. Before I can begin to wonder how he knows, he drops the façade of the dance and releases me as he takes my clutch and opens it.
“That’s mine,” I say, trying to take it back.
He holds it just out of reach. “Be still,” he commands, and I swallow as my body obeys. It fucking obeys.
But what am I going to do, run?
From inside my clutch, he lifts out my flask. He’s got his back to the room so no one but I will see. He lets go of that and takes out the small, now empty bottle where I’d kept the pills. No label.
“What were they?” he asks, focusing on my eyes. Is he checking my pupils? Is that why he’s been looking at me so intensely?
“Just painkillers. I had a headache.” It’s only half a lie.
“Headache? Hmm.” He puts the bottle back before closing the clutch and handing it to me. “Let’s go.” He wraps a possessive arm around my lower back, his big hand curling around my waist and turning me toward the curtained exit I’d been hoping to make my way out of earlier.
I move because I don’t have much choice, but being this close to him, touching him, it’s got my insides knotted up. We walk down the corridor and toward the front entrance, where a large reception desk stands. The ballroom is housed in the old mansion and behind it is a more modern building of about twenty luxury residences. People mill about, and I don’t miss the looks they give us as we cross to the elevators. We bypass the ones that lead to the apartments on all but the top floors, and I watch him take a key card out of his wallet and scan it.
The elevator doors slide open, and with just the slightest pressure at my lower back, he signals for me to enter. I do and stand as far away from him as possible, clutch tucked under my arm, arms crossed over my chest. He scans his card again and pushes the button for the top floor where the most luxurious residence is. There are two, and they take up the uppermost floors. I’ve never been to them, but they’re supposed to be stunning. I have no doubt they are.
Santos types out a text as we ride up, and I watch the back of his head.
Once the elevator doors slide open, he looks my way and gestures with a nod of his head for me to step out. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or not that he doesn’t touch me.
“Straight ahead,” he says.
I walk toward the double doors, where a man stands guard. He’s a soldier. Same as the ones who accompanied him to prom. I know it in my gut. This is no simple bodyguard.
Soldiers.
This family employs actual soldiers. It’s why he wants me, though. Because legitimate businessmen don’t have soldiers.
No, this isn’t about me. I need to keep that at the forefront of my mind. It’s why he wants a De Léon. If I had an older sister, he’d have taken her. The De Léon family is an established, permanent fixture of Avarice. My ancestors are a founding family, in fact. A union between us will legitimize the Augustine name. They may not quite be embraced by high society, but they’ll at least be tolerated once our families are joined.
The soldier nods in greeting. Santos’s hand hovers at my back. I’m not sure if it’s the painkillers, the combination with the alcohol or just proximity to him, but even though his hand isn’t quite touching me, I feel the heat of it on my skin.
“Go on,” Santos says once the soldier opens the door. I enter, my heart racing. It’s quiet up here, so completely still. I look around the large living room, open kitchen, and floor to ceiling windows. The views of the cliffs and the wild ocean are amazing, when you can stand to look at them.
The beacon of the lighthouse pans over the black waters of the Atlantic, and I’m momentarily transfixed. My heart races as I see the great white structure in my periphery. The lighthouse stands tall and menacing on the farthest point of the cliff.
The official name is Avarice Point but what the locals call it is much more accurate.
Suicide Rock.
I go to the windows, equally drawn and terrified, and set the tips of my fingers against the cool glass. A mist is moving in over the water. My gaze is dragged toward that lighthouse, but I catch myself in time, looking down instead—which is a mistake. Not for the height, although it’s quite a distance to fall, but because of the cliffs themselves. They terrify me, and I find myself stumbling backward, suddenly dizzy.
Santos is at my side in an instant. He steadies me. He must have crossed the room when I had my back to him. He’s a good head taller than me, more than that if I take off my heels. This close, I can see the few gray hairs in his permanent five-o’clock shadow and the specks of gold in his green eyes. I can smell the familiar scent of him, too, and it’s a strange, wrong comfort.
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly as if studying me. I wonder—not for the first time—if he can read my mind. More likely, he can read my face. He’s much more aware and pays a lot closer attention than most people.
“Steady?” he asks, drawing me out of my thoughts. It’s a good thing.
“Fine,” I say, purposefully sounding irritated as I remind myself what he is to me.
What I am to him.
He nods, closing off his face to me again. It’s when I realize he was letting me see him momentarily. He releases me and takes my clutch from my hand. Opening it, he pulls the flask out again.
My heels click as I move away from him to plop down on the edge of the sofa, tugging the slit of my dress closed when it slips open. I sit with my back to him as I try to force my vision to steady.
He must open the flask and smell or taste what’s left because he asks, “Whiskey?”
I shrug. “What are we doing up here?”
“Remind me how old you are,” he says, coming to stand in front of me. He’s close enough that the toes of our shoes are almost touching, and I need to crane my head to meet his eyes. I should stand up. He already has the upper hand in every way when it comes to us. But my limbs feel weighed down.
“You ask me that every time we meet,” I answer. “Math not your strong suit?”
“Eighteen. And you’re drunk on whiskey. Not to mention the painkillers, which I’m guessing aren’t aspirin.”
“I’m not drunk.” I don’t address the aspirin comment.
“No?”
“No.”
“Stand up.”
I close my eyes and shake my head as if I’m irritated.
“Do it. Or can’t you?”
I roll my eyes and manage to force myself up. It takes effort.
“You’re going to stop rolling your eyes at me. Now walk a straight line.”
“What are you, the police? I’m not driving. I just had a little whiskey.”
“Not a little if this was full. Was it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I’m tired,” I say, walking past him toward the door. “If you’re through interrogating me, I’d like to go home.”
I expect him to stop me but when he doesn’t, I pull the door open. I know why he didn’t bother telling me not to because the same soldier who just let us in blocks my path. He looks to Santos for a signal. He must give it because the man folds his arms and remains where he is. He’s built like a fucking tank. So, I close the door and turn back to Santos and wait, hoping the look on my face tells him how much I dislike this and him right now.
“Come,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake my head.
“Do you understand, Madelena, what it means to belong to me?”
“Do you hear how that sounds?”
“It means I take care of what’s mine.”
That is not the answer I am expecting, and I’m struck mute.
“Come,” he repeats, gesturing for me to take his hand.
I look at it. I see the scar in his palm, the one that matches mine. It reminds me of the first night I met him. I shift my gaze up to his. “Why? Do you have a knife on you somewhere?” I ask to turn things around. Because he and I cannot be, will not be. I may have no choice in a marriage, but I can choose my emotions. I can choose if I give him more than he takes.
And I’ve already decided that I won’t.
He lets out a short exhale. “I didn’t want to do that to you, but it had to be done.”
I raise my eyebrows at that. “Did it?”
“Come, Madelena. You need to sleep. That is all.”
My heart skips a beat then goes into double time to make up for it. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He chuckles. Literally, he chuckles. I’m not sure if I’m offended or embarrassed. Okay, the latter. He steps toward me. “Is that something you think about?” He brushes the hair back from my face, running a knuckle over my cheekbone, my jaw, while his gaze moves to my mouth.
I bite my lower lip so it won’t tremble beneath his gaze and I swear his eyes grow darker when I do. My heart thuds so hard against my ribs he must hear it.
His grin is wide when he returns his gaze to mine. “Is it, Little Kitty?”
“No.”
“Do you wonder what it will be like?” he asks, walking a slow circle around me. He’s so close I feel his breath with every word. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. “How long have you been imagining it?”
I make a move to pull away, to tell him to fuck off, but he catches me and, with a finger against my chest, traps me at the door.
“Since I told you I’d take you over my knee?” he asks.
I try to ignore the heat that burns my neck and cheeks. I press my thighs together as his finger glides toward my collar bone, traces it. God. This is not happening.
“Because I admit, I felt it too. Wanted it,” he continues. He’s playing with me. I know he is.
“Stop.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
I shake my head.
He laughs outright, and my shoulders curl in defensively when I should be shoving the arrogant asshole away because of all things, I feel hurt. Fucking hurt.
“I can read you like a book, Little Kitty.”
“You’re a fucking jerk.”
“Maybe. But I never said anything about sleeping together. I just said that you need to sleep. You have a dirty mind.” He taps the tip of my nose and makes a clicking sound with his tongue. He draws away from me, looking satisfied. I think he’s telling the truth about reading me like a book, and that’s terrifying—that, and the fact that he is so much more experienced than me.
“I don’t think I’m your type anyway. Don’t you like them tall and blond?” I retort.
The grin shortens, and one eyebrow rises—the one with the split in it, an old scar.
“You haven’t been googling me, have you?” He’s amused. So fucking amused.
It was a stupid thing to ask, because I have been doing just that. I’ve seen the women he is usually with, and they look nothing like me.
He leans in close again, brushing the hair from my ear, and I can feel his lips along the shell of it. I can’t help my ragged breath because what he’s doing is sending raw electricity through my veins. “You shouldn’t believe what you see on the internet, sweetheart,” he says seriously, the word sweetheart catching me off guard. “Truthfully, I prefer brunettes.” He draws back. I turn my head to look up at him. “And I find myself more and more interested in a certain little kitty with a rebellious streak.”
Is he making fun of me again? I can’t tell because unlike me, he’s unreadable.
He sets two fingers on the raging pulse on my neck and I know it’s to show me that he can read me. He knows just how hard my heart is beating, knows what his being so close is doing to me. Most importantly, he knows he holds all the power.
I steel myself, force myself to look him straight in the eye. To try to separate my body from my mind. Seeing him this close is different than looking at photos in the society columns. He’s sort of beautiful in this dark, cruel way. I already knew that part. But beneath that cruelty, there’s a sadness inside his eyes. That’s the part the camera doesn’t catch.
I blink, and before I can think, I’m touching the scar that divides his right eyebrow.
Santos grins and takes my hand, and he’s gentle as his finger traces the scar he put on my palm. It’s strange because there is nothing gentle about this man. I know this. He is dangerous.
“Come, Little Kitty. Time to put you to bed.”
Without a word and without me expecting it, he lifts me up and carries me down the hall. I hook an arm over his shoulder. It’s all I can do as my mind processes what is happening, what I should be doing, and what my reaction should be. But it’s a mistake because I find my grip tightening on the hard muscle of his shoulders, his bicep, feeling his strength beneath the barrier of clothes.
Santos Augustine is all man… and I like it.
He doesn’t say anything. I’m sure he’s humoring drunk me. He opens a bedroom door, sets me on the bed, and crouches to slip my shoes off. I watch his dark head and feel his big hands cup each foot. He remains where he is, crouched down, and looks up at me as he slides his hands along one calf, knee, thigh. I fist the bedsheets, and it takes all I have not to whimper as I hold his gaze.
His grin is back, darker this time, dirtier. My throat goes dry as his fingers hook around the elastic of the thigh high stockings, anticipating. His gaze never drops mine, never releases me. I can’t look away as he drags my stocking down over my leg and cups my heel as he slips it off.
My body is aflame, every nerve ending alive. I’ve never been so attracted to a man in my life. Never. Boys I found cute in high school are nothing next to Santos Augustine.
He straightens, shifts my position so I’m lying against the headboard, and when he reaches to do the same with the other stocking, I let myself close my eyes just for a minute, just one single moment, to feel this. Just feel this foreign sensation.
But when I open them again, I realize my mistake… because he’s not looking at my face anymore. He’s looking at my legs, at what he can see where the skirt has split open. And his face, fuck. His face has turned to stone, his mouth into a hard line, his eyes impossibly dark—so dark the green is all but obliterated.
With trembling hands, I reach for the two sides of my dress and pull them closed as he lifts his gaze to mine. A moment passes, silent and heavy, before he shifts his gaze to my hands, covers them with his, and draws the dress apart again.
“Stop. Don’t,” I say, desperate for him not to see, because how could I be so fucking stupid?
He doesn’t stop, though. He pushes my hands away, and there are too many bruises, too many still angry welts. His hands tighten, like he’s flexing a fist as he moves the dress farther over and sees more. More. So much more.
I can hear myself breathing ragged breaths, hear the panic in the rush of blood against my ears. The room spins around us as I try to focus on the top of his head, on the feel of calloused hands softly tracing something else. Something different than the fresh welts. Something older.
My throat closes up and I feel my eyes well.
When he looks at my face again, I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much, too overwhelming. He’s seen too fucking much.
I hate that nickname he’s given me. Little Kitty. Wounded, fragile little kitty. Broken little kitty. Little kitty who is alone and pathetic and helpless.
Fuck. Fuck him, I think, trying to steel myself, to swallow down all the emotions.
“Madelena,” he says, my name a command.
I raise my gaze to his because I have no choice.
“The cuts are old,” he says in a tone that seems barely controlled. “We will discuss those.”
We won’t. I can’t. He won’t understand. I barely understand.
“But there’s a more pressing matter,” he continues, and I’m relieved for exactly one split second. “The welts, they’re fresh. That’s why the painkillers.”
I swallow. I mean to nod even though he didn’t ask it as a question, but I’m not sure I can.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, voice ragged and low and unrecognizable.
I just stare at him, unable to answer, to do anything but stare at this man who is different than I expected him to be. Because what would he do to the man who did this? Who truly did hurt me? Who more than touched what is his?
I’ve seen what he’s capable of, and I have a feeling it’s the tip of the iceberg. If he gets his hands on the man who did this, what he did to Jason Cole will look gentle.
“Who did this to you, Madelena?” he asks again in that rough voice, the slightly unhinged one. But still, he’s controlled. He’s reining it in, whatever he’s feeling.
“It won’t happen again,” I say, not sure why because I can’t guarantee that. But there’s one more thing at play. He doesn’t understand that it could have been so much worse. It could have been Odin, not me. Odin, who still limps after so many years.
I hear him swallow, watch his Adam’s apple work. It’s easier than looking into his eyes.
“There are two men who had access to you. Your father and your brother.”
I flinch.
He stands, hands fists at his sides. “Which one of them did this?”
I look down at the bed, the pretty coverlet with the fleur-de-lis pattern. At my legs, at the chaos the belt left behind. Rage. This is the result of uncontrolled rage. When men lose control, it’s dangerous for the women in the room.
“Your brother was protective of you once. I remember that.”
I draw my knees up to sit on them, cover them with my dress. It’s too hard to look at him. But he takes my jaw with one giant hand and forces my face upward. I’m trembling all over, and I hug my arms around myself. He’s silent for a long, long time as that well of tears streams down my face.
“Who hurt what is mine?” he finally manages in a ragged, old voice. A broken voice. “Say it.”
“Please…” I shake my head.
“Say. It.”
It’s a command, a simple, straightforward command. He will not accept my silence. I jerk my head from his grasp. This man can play with me. He can taunt me with his touches, with his looks, but he can be my avenging angel, too. He has been that.
“If you don’t tell me, so help me, I will punish them both.”
“No!”
“Then say it. Tell me who hurt you.”
“Please, leave it. Please. You don’t understand. You don’t know—”
“Say. It.”
I press my hands to his chest to keep distance between us. He must see that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of him right now. Because he is also a man, and his control is hanging by a very thin thread.
He forces himself to step backward and scrubs his face with his hands, eyes still so dark when they meet mine again. That’s the physical manifestation of his rage. He turns to go to the door. He’s almost gone when I leap off the bed.
“My father!” I cry out. “Not Odin. He would never… Odin would never hurt me.” He’ll take my father’s punishments in my place. He has.
He stops, back stiffening. He doesn’t turn back to me. I watch his hands clench and unclench.
“The cuts?” he asks without looking at me. And thank God for that.
“That’s… Nothing.”
He glances back at me and I don’t know if he understands. I stand wringing my hands, sweat pooling under my arms as my body begins to tremble.
His eyebrows come together. His jaw is tight. But I can’t talk about the cuts … I’d rather take a hundred beatings than talk about that.
It takes him a full moment to move and when he does, I charge after him.
“Wait!”
“Val!” he calls out, and the hulk guarding the entrance to the apartment enters. “She stays in the bedroom. No one goes in. She does not come out.”
“Yes, sir,” Val says. I open my mouth, but Val turns his attention to me, standing between me and Santos, blocking my path.
“Wait! What are you going to do?” I call out. He keeps moving. “If you hurt him, he’ll hurt Odin!”
At that, he stops. He glances backward, his eyes slits.
“When I’m done with him, he won’t be able to hurt anyone.”
I feel my mouth drop open and before I can say another word, he’s gone. Santos is gone.
Val, the incredible fucking hulk, stalks toward me, and for all my bluster, I find myself backing away. I turn on my heel and scurry back into the bedroom where, before I’m two steps in, the door is closed and locked.
I’m left staring at it, wondering what the fuck just happened. Wondering what he will do to my father. How he will punish him. Because he will punish him. But will he stop at that?