Page 44 of Bad Blood

“This hunger strike of yours isn’t hurting anyone but yourself,” I say, regrouping while shaking custard off the sole of my shoe. “We both know that you’re not going to starve yourself. Self-destruction isn’t in your DNA. So, you can eat what’s on your plate now, or eat it off the floor later and risk salmonella. Your choice.”

Her response is a middle finger.

Bad girl.

I glance across the room where the burner phone I gave her sits silently on the nightstand. “Does Daddy know his little girl is about to shit all over his legacy?” When she doesn’t answer, I chuckle again to myself and give the package tucked under my arm a light tap. “Aren’t you going to ask what’s in the box.”

“Nope.”

That fucking mouth of hers.“That’s foolish. What if it’s a plane ticket? Or a check for fifty-thousand, free and clear?”

She shoots me a withering look. “You aren’t that stupid and I’m not that gullible. Try again.”

“Well, look at that. Wecanagree on something.”

Her disgusted snort draws a smirk to my lips.

Winking, I toss the box at her feet. “Smart and beautiful. My bride is quite the catch.”

Beautiful.

Thalia freezes at the word, and I kick myself internally, drawing blood.

Giving the box a quick scan, she looks away again, disinterested “Go to hell.”

“Oh,mi amada.” My tone is thick with condescension as I lower to my haunches in front of her. “That wish was granted a long time ago. Let’s strive for a little originality, shall we?”

A moment of uncertainty glazes her brown eyes, and then it’s gone—quickly replaced by a deadly cocktail of fatigue and loathing. “What do you want, Santi? I’ve already agreed to marry you. Do you want it signed in blood?”

Yes. Just not yours.“Maybe later. For now, opening the box will suffice.”

“Fine.” She hisses the submission between clenched teeth. “If it will make you go away.”

Crossing her legs, she leans forward, tearing the gold ribbon off the box as if the keys to her freedom are buried in there somewhere. The top is ripped off just asdelicately, derision coiling her lips as paper is tossed over her shoulder like garbage…

And then she freezes.

“What the hell is this?”

“I believe in America it’s called a wedding dress.”

“Is this your idea of a joke?” she says, holding up the swathe of white satin.

My smirk fades. “I rarely joke, Thalia, and never about business.”

“Business,” she repeats, spitting out the word as if its taste of torture. “Well, take it back. I’m not selling my soul in some cheap knock-off gown.”

“Try a twenty-thousand-dollar gown.”

If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would’ve missed the way her shoulders jolted, as if the price tag itself delivered a hard punch to her chest.

“It’s not my size.”

“Check the tag. You’re a four, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her jaw drops. “How…?”

“I pay attention to detail. It’s a skill you should learn if you plan to survive a week in my world.”