Page 49 of Bad Blood

“What’s wrong, Carrera?” she purrs, batting those long eyelashes. “Don’t you like what you see?”

Like it? I could devour it. Even a package wrapped in a shitty attitude still shines. If the blood of my enemy didn’t flow through her veins, I’d happily wreck that pretty little cunt she keeps parading in front of my face. However, I’d rather chop off my own dick before I’d fuck a Santiago, despite my unspoken thoughts to the contrary.

“It definitely makes a statement.”

She pauses, clearly taken off guard. “Wait, you’re not mad?”

“Should I be?”

That proud jaw tightens as I step closer. “You’re toying with me, aren’t you?”

I catch the faint scent of jasmine as I lower my mouth to her ear. “Not yet,” I whisper, that charged electricity crackling between us again as I call her bluff. “I’m saving that for our wedding night.” Reveling in her breathy gasp, I bend my elbow, offering her my arm with a salacious grin. “Shall we,mi amada?”

“I’m not yourbeloved—or your wife,” she mutters, looping her arm around mine before sinking her bright yellow nails deep into my skin. “A least not for the next few minutes.”

I choose to ignore her final act of defiance. It’s not the first time a woman has tried to leave scars, and it won’t be the last.

She draws blood under my suit jacket as I walk us to the elevator. “Enjoythose few minutes, Thalia,” I warn. “Because after you say, ‘I do’, all of the minutes after belong to me.”

* * *

Fueling hope is like feeding a wishing well.

You can walk by the same one every day for years, blindly tossing in penny after penny—believing that eventually, one magical coin will make all your dreams come true.

Here’s the cold, hard truth—it won’t. Because a penny is just a dirty piece of copper, and a pool of water doesn’t give a fuck about your wishes.

Wishes can’t deliver dreams.

And hope doesn’t change fate.

Two hard lessons Thalia Santiago is learning today.

She hasn’t opened her mouth since we left the penthouse. Not that I expected much more than the blank stare currently painted across her face as we make our way down a narrow hallway toward Legado’s “chapel.”

Part me wonders if, despite her sharp tongue and acid words, there was a small part of her that believed fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to deliver back-to-back blows. That surely, she wouldn’t be forced to sell her soul to two evil men twice in one week; that if she stayed strong and justbelieved, at the last minute the family she holds in such high regard would ride in on their black horses and save the day.

But there are no horses here.

No saviors.

And only one Santiago.

Her.

A half a dozen guards in dark sunglasses stand motionless in front of the closed double doors. As Thalia and I round the corner, they nod in quiet respect, parting like the Red Sea.

As the chapel doors open, Thalia inhales sharply. It’s her first emotive concession since taking my arm.

“I’d ask if you’re having second thoughts,” I say, scanning the curious faces of the few trusted men I’ve allowed to be in attendance, “but I assume that’s rather rhetorical at this point.”

Thalia’s answer is to dig her nails even deeper into my arm.

I’m not offended. In fact, the less my intended speaks, the less chance there is of anything veering off course. I’ve afforded her tantrums. I’ve put up with her disrespect and destruction of my generosity. I’ve even tolerated her recent attempt at physical violence. However, this ceremony is one thing I won’t allow anyone to impede—especially the bride.

There’s a side of me Thalia has never seen.

And I promise her, she doesn’t want to.