Page 16 of Gabriel (Legacy of Heathens #4)
Amara
T he city of Buenaventura smelled like sea salt and gasoline.
Neon signs blinked like tired eyes, casting reflections on rain-slicked cobblestones, while the distant wail of a siren cut through the murmur of motorbikes and the shouts of late-night vendors.
It was the kind of place that looked like it might kiss you or kill you, depending on the hour.
Gabriel’s Jeep rolled to a stop beneath a crooked streetlamp, its light stuttering like a dying pulse.
The buzz of electricity hummed above us, the only sound for a moment before the engine gave a low, resigned sigh and died.
The shadows around us lengthened, stretching over graffiti-tagged walls and rusted metal gates.
I wiped off a sheen of sweat and dust, clinging to me like a second skin. And the sins I was about to commit… They weren’t the kind you could scrub off with soap. It didn’t matter though, because I’d do anything for Jet, just as he would do anything for me.
I stepped out, boots crunching on broken glass, and Gabriel followed suit, the creak of the vehicle’s frame echoing in the thick air. He rounded the front bumper, slow and sure, like a man with no reason to hurry and too many reasons to watch his back.
He watched me. He always did. With eyes that missed nothing and gave even less.
“So how about that dinner?” I asked, voice low, steady. “Tomorrow night. I’ve got some time.”
His expression didn’t shift, but I saw the tension in the line of his shoulders. “Somehow I can’t help but feel suspicious, Amara.”
“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Santos.”
He barked a laugh, too sharp to be casual. It cracked across the street like a warning shot. “I’d have to be an idiot not to be at least cautious. You and your siblings… You’re a bit like landmines. Pretty until you step in the wrong place.”
“Call it a thank-you,” I said, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “For returning me in one piece.”
He stepped closer. The scent of his cologne drifted on the humid air—smoke and citrus, metal and something faintly sweet beneath it. Familiar now. Dangerous. But it wasn’t the holstered weapon under his jacket that made my pulse quicken.
“You’re up to something,” he stated.
I met his gaze, unflinching. “Scared?”
He reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face with a gentleness that didn’t match the calluses on his hands—or the blood I knew they’d shed. The touch was brief, a whisper of warmth against my temple, but it scorched.
My breath hitched, almost imperceptible. Almost.
His voice dropped. “You keep playing with fire, preciosa .”
I smirked. “You haven’t even seen me strike the match yet.”
For a moment, the night held its breath around us. The city pulsed. The shadows listened. And beneath it all, something coiled low in my gut—a hunger with a familiar edge. Damn it, I shouldn’t have resorted to abstinence these past few months.
“So, are you?” I challenged, ignoring the throbbing pulse between my legs.
“Scared? Not for me, no,” he said quietly. “But for the rest of the world? Yeah, I’m terrified.”
Thick silence settled between us.
He shook his head, eyes shadowed. “You should carefully consider how far you’re willing to go, Amara. Actions have consequences.”
I looked away, but the truth pulsed in the space between us: he was right to be suspicious.
Still, I pressed on, because Jet’s life was at stake.
“So,” I said, softer now, “is that a yes for dinner?”
“Fine. But I’m choosing. I don’t trust your taste in wine or food.”
I snorted. “You’re too picky.”
“Colombians appreciate food. It’s like lovemaking—slow, savoring, and?—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Why is it always about sex with you?”
“I never said a word about sex, and just for the record, you brought it up first when you mentioned kissing me.”
“I strictly meant kissing, not sex,” I lied shamelessly.
“Sure.” He rolled his eyes, but there was a playful glint in them. “Just admit it, Amara. Your mind is in the gutter, not mine.”
I snorted. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe you were describing food, not foreplay?”
He threw his head back and laughed—rich, unrestrained, the kind of sound that made the night feel warmer. I hated how much I liked it. Even with all the walls I’d carefully erected, something about that laugh was magnetic. I felt them quake, and it was enough to pull me back to my mission.
“Take my car,” he finally said. “I don’t want you roaming the streets alone at night.”
I nodded, not mentioning I was about to make a stop.
“Thanks,” I said, climbing behind the wheel with my backpack. I recited my number, although I suspected he already had it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nodded. “I’ll text you the address and time.”
“I’ll wait with bated breath. There better be some tamales on the menu.”
He laughed. “I’ll try and oblige.”
The engine growled to life beneath my hands. As I headed toward the harbor—toward my yacht, my sister, my escape—I fought the pull in my chest. The urge to turn back, to say something I’d regret.