Page 91 of Bad Blood

Finishing up my glass of water, I place the empty back in the sink and head for the door. I see us for what we are now—we’re a war within a war—fighting for ascendency on a slippery slope. I find myself conceding a little more with each hour I spend in his black tower. With each time he infuriates me, confuses me…touches me.

A few days ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a white dress without a Santiago special makeover.

A few days ago, I hated him with every breath in my body.

A few days ago, I hadn’t felt my whole axis shift when his tongue carved the promise of his own concession into my pussy.

And it’s all because of a brutal, demanding, passionate man who presides over a kingdom of bones.

I’m heading back to my bedroom when I hear a scuffling noise coming from his office.

Back-tracking fast, I open the door to find him sitting in his black leather chair, with his feet up on the desk, his head facing the ceiling, and a half-drunk tumbler of something brown and alcoholic in front of him.

For a man who prides himself on his appearance, he didn’t get the memo today. His gray tie is a coiling snake across his chest, the top two buttons of his crumpled white dress shirt are wide open, and both sleeves have been rolled up to the elbows.

He’s a silent statue until the door clicks shut behind me. The sound echoes like gunfire. He drops his head and pins me with his hard brown eyes, looking stupidly angry, and stupidly handsome, and very, very drunk.

“You’re up early.”

“Never went to bed.” Blowing out a sigh, he slides his tumbler across the table in my direction. “Care to join me? It’s your father’s favorite.”

He’s clumsy with his movements and the whole thing starts to topple. I hold my breath before it miraculously rights itself.

“I don’t like bourbon,” I confess, curling up in the chair opposite. “It reminds me of family parties invariably cut short when he went off to murder someone.”

He grunts and doesn’t comment. His hair is a disheveled, furious mess like the rest of him, and I’m aching to run my fingers through it.

“I was looking forward to my bottle ofAñejo, until some fucking liver liberator sneaked in here and swapped it out for water.”

I blush beet red. “Guess she was a, uh, liver-tarian?” I say, wincing slightly.

“Never knew you cared.” He gestures at the bourbon. “Thought I’d try drinking alongside the enemy for a change instead of trying to bury him.”

“How did your father know it was me who poured your bottle away?” I ask, curious all of a sudden.

His palms flex into fists as he slides them behind his head. “My father knows everything.”

“Sounds familiar,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.

“It’s not fun, is it,mi amada?” He drops his fists again. “Getting born into chaos and spending your whole life trying to make sense of it.”

“I think you’ve done okay,” I say, glancing around his office. “You built your own empire of sin.”

“You say it like it’s averybad thing.”

“Just because I don’t appreciate the process, doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the results. It couldn’t have been easy to step out of Valentin Carrera’s shadow.”

I’m still learning to step out of my own father’s.

“Cut the bullshit,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’ll only be happy when my head is on a spike.”

“Likewise,” I say, trying not to smile.

“I’d rather see it in my bed, attached to the rest of you.”

He’s only saying it because he’s drunk.

With a shaking hand, I pick up the bourbon and take a sip. He chuckles when I make a face and put it straight back down again.