Page 22 of Monstrosity

I look down at her—this brave, stubborn, incredible woman who's somehow become my everything—and I know I'm lost.

"Okay," I say quietly. "No more lies."

She smiles, and it's like sunrise after the longest night.

"Good. Now tell me everything."

CHAPTER THREE

Dasha

"Everything" is a big word, and Rio looks like it might kill him to honor it.

He glances toward the living room where the girls are engrossed in some animated movie about talking animals, their giggles drifting through the doorway.

Then he takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen, far enough away that we can talk without them overhearing.

"Wine?" he asks, already reaching for a bottle from the rack above the refrigerator.

"Definitely."

He pours two generous glasses of red, and I notice his hands are steady despite the tension radiating from every line of his body.

This is Rio in crisis mode—controlled, focused, dangerous.

It should scare me.

Instead, it makes me want to wrap my arms around him and tell him we'll figure this out together.

"The text you got," he starts, settling across from me at the kitchen table. "It's from them. The Culebra cartel."

"The ones who killed Flora." It's not a question.

I know this much, have pieced together enough over the years to understand that his wife's death wasn't random.

"Yeah." He takes a long drink of wine. "What you don't know is that two nights ago, I interrogated one of their lieutenants. Miguel Santos."

The name means nothing to me, but the way Rio says it—cold, final—tells me everything about how that interrogation ended.

"He told me things," Rio continues. "Things about their plans. About you."

My stomach drops. "What about me?"

"They've been watching you, Dasha. For months. Learning your routines, taking pictures, building a profile." His jaw clenches. "They know about us. About how I—" He stops, swallows hard. "About how you matter to me."

"Rio—"

"Santos said they've been watching multiple women connected to the club. Meghan, some others. But specifically you." He meets my eyes, and the raw fear there takes my breath away. "They have photos of you at your apartment, walking to your car, at the shop. They know where you live."

The wine tastes like ash in my mouth. "Why? I'm nobody to them."

"You're not nobody." His voice drops, intense and certain. "You're mine. And they know hurting you would destroy me."

The possessiveness in his tone should probably bother me.

Instead, it sends heat racing through my veins. "I'm yours?"

He goes still, seeming to realize what he's said. "I didn't mean?—"