Page 32

W hen my new father-in-law asks us to dinner, my gut screams no.

Hell, part of me wants to cage Lucy away from the world, keep her wrapped up like a secret too dangerous for anyone else to touch.

I know that’s selfish. Damn near ridiculous.

But maybe that’s just who I am.

Still, when Marat Volkov reaches out, I grit my teeth and swallow my pride.

Curiosity wins.

I wrote Lucy a quick note with the news, hoping she knows I’m doing this for her, more than for any formal obligation.

I want nothing more than to crawl back under the covers with her— the way she looked this morning, soft and warm and utterly mine, worn out from the way I claimed her.

But I’m a man with business to handle.

Not so busy that she’s not the priority, but busy enough to know that some things don’t wait.

I roll my shoulders, bracing myself for the night ahead.

I know if I let my emotions run wild, this won’t end well.

Onyx catches my eye in the rearview mirror. His face is stone— calm, unreadable, loyal.

He knows what I’m thinking. He’d do the same for his woman.

That’s why he’s not just my driver. He’s my shadow. My second.

“We’re here, Boss.”

I hum low and dark as he pulls up outside the warehouse that doubles as a recording studio for certain celebrities.

From the outside, it’s nothing special. A blank-faced industrial box in a sea of them.

Unmarked. Smart.

No crowds, no screaming fans— just silence.

But I’m not here to admire business acumen.

I’m here to remind a certain arrogant prick what happens when you fuck with mine.

My fury is a living thing inside me— hot, sharp, lethal.

But I’m not the type to storm in guns blazing.

No speeches. No grand announcements.

I walk in like I own the place— because as of seven minutes ago, I fucking do.

El Tigre? He’s gonna have to find a new studio.

And fast.

But first, I can’t help but notice the skeleton crew he’s got with him.

Not what I expected from some flashy reggaetón star.

“Excuse me, you can’t go in there—” a small man steps up, trying to stop me.

I don’t even glance his way.

Ahead, a set of double doors— black, no windows —and a big motherfucker planted right in front of them.

Bodyguard.

I walk straight up to him, locking eyes. He tries to hold the gaze, but my mismatched stare— a sharp, unsettling mix of ice and fire —shakes him like it has so many others before.

“Move,” I growl.

He opens his mouth, probably to argue. Maybe he thinks he can talk me down.

One look at me.

Another at Onyx, and the three other members of my security team fanned out behind him.

That’s enough.

Hands raised in surrender, he steps aside.

I enter the room where a woman sits, fingers flying over the recording equipment.

Inside the booth is Rico— El fucking Tigre himself —and his eyes are closed, pouring every ounce of soul into the mic.

The bastard’s got talent, I’ll give him that.

But talent isn’t going to save him from me.

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 ?”

I nod.

His eyes widen.

“Look, sir, that’s all my manager. I love my wife.”

I believe him.

“The flowers?”

“What flowers?”

“Did you send her flowers?”

“No, not me, hermano . My manager handles that. I like Lucy. Qué linda , sí? But I only have room in my heart for my wife and baby.”

He nods toward the woman, chest rising and falling fast, like he’s waiting for permission, waiting to see if I’m going to rip him apart or let him walk out of here with his pride intact.

I nod back.

And just like that, he’s off, moving toward the woman. His arms wrap around her, tight and possessive.

For a second, I watch, surprised by the tenderness.

I follow them into the small outer room.

“Sorry for the confusion,” I say, voice even but carrying all the weight of the situation.

What? I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong.

Then, just as I’m about to leave, I add, “Oh, by the way, I bought this building. You like it here?”

“The privacy is good,” he answers, nodding once.

“One more thing,” I say, spinning back to face him. “How come you don’t sing like that on any of your singles?”

“My manager,” he explains quickly. “He says once I top the charts, I can have creative control. The new single— the one he sent your wife —that’s the one he thinks will do it. But I mean no disrespect, I swear.”

I study him for a moment, then say, “I’ll be in touch.”

Then I turn and walk out.

Relief and rage are twisting in my gut like a goddamn storm.

El Tigre is in the clear, for now.

But the real bastard?

The one who’s been creeping around my wife’s life, invading her space, sending threats wrapped in flowers and creepy intentions?

I don’t know who the hell he is.

And I’m running out of patience.

But the hunt isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.