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The woman notices me, rises slowly, hand resting protectively on her rounded belly.

I shake my head, telling her to sit back down. Her eyes glisten with tears.

I don’t like making women cry.

But I’m not here for this woman.

I’m here for mine.

Two of my men stay with her as the rest of us head toward the studio.

El Tigre jolts upright, eyes wild.

“What the fuck? Who the hell are you? Maya!” he shouts. I tilt my head.

He’s damn worried about that woman.

“You’re not seriously interested in her, are you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“In who? My wife’s pregnant. Por favor, don’t hurt mi esposa.”

He’s babbling, half in English, half in Spanish, trying to talk his way out of the storm he’s walking into.

The words spill from his mouth like a broken faucet, desperate and frantic.

And somehow, against every instinct screaming at me to throttle him, I feel a surge of relief.

Relief that Lucy is not what interests him—that she’s not hiding anything.

That she already said the words I need to hear.

She loves me.

But the relief doesn’t last.

Because the thought of some slick, overgrown pop star wasting breath on my wife—my wife—sets a fire in my gut that I don’t like.

Not one little bit.

It’s the kind of jealousy that claws, sharp and ugly, twisting in my chest like a fist tightening around my heart.

And I hate it.

I hate feeling like this.

But here I am—possessive, protective, unable to keep my hands off what’s mine, and utterly incapable of imagining anyone else even looking at her the way I do.

Lucy isn’t just a woman to me. She’s my world.

And that makes me dangerous.

Because when I feel this way—when that jealous rage bubbles up and burns my veins—I won’t stop until I’ve crushed every threat standing between me and her.

No matter the cost.

“I’m not here to hurt her,” I say, nodding at the pregnant woman. Maya. His wife. “But I want to know why you keep fucking with my wife when you have your own.”

“Your wife? Oh shit. You’re the man who married la Diablita?”