What have you been up to, Angel Montoya?
I almost feel bad for him, before a shiver skates down my spine at the thought of what he must have been doing.
Angel hasn’t confirmed or denied what he does for a living yet, but I’m no idiot. To me, it’s clear as day—I know regular business men don’t hold meetings after midnight. He must have been up to some shady shit...
Still, my heart jumps a little from the way he looks at me, like I’m the sunrise.
“Your friend can wait,” he grumbles, tossing his keys to a nearby attendant. “Let’s grab breakfast first.”
Angel seems completely done with his motorcycle. He rips off his weathered denim jacket and hands it to another attendee, whispering in his ear. A few seconds later, his black range rover squeals up from the underground parking garage.
“Get in,” he says, opening the passenger door.
Without thinking, I oblige.
In the blink of an eye, we’re peeling out onto a golden street and racing towards who knows where.
“Is everything alright?” I gather the courage to ask, when the silence of our car ride has lasted a little longer than I’m comfortable with.
I glance over at the ruggedly handsome bad boy. It almost looks like he’s about to tell me something harsh, before he thinks better of it. “Everything’s fine,” he grumbles, not bothering to put on a fake smile to go with his lie.
I study his clothes for blood stains. His crisp white t-shirt hugs his muscles tightly, showing off every contour and mouth-watering feature of his powerful, athletic body, but there’s no sign of any damage.
His knuckles are a different story. I’d seen how bruised and swollen they were last night, but I didn’t mention anything. They’re still in that same weathered state, but no worse for wear than before. I feel a weird sense of relief wash over me at the thought that, if Angel got into trouble last night, he was the one dishing out the pain and not the one receiving it.
It’s a strange thought. I’ve never been a fan of violence, even though it practically forged me. My father made his bones with his fists and, from what I can remember, my mother was never shy about the brutality of it all—maybe because it paid so well. Bu she also didn’t live long enough to see the downside of that way of life. I wonder if she regretted any of it in her last moments?
Will I?
I study Angel with sadness in my heart. I wonder if he chose this life, or was it thrust upon him?
Now is no time to ask. He clearly just needs a break. I’m strangely honored that he would consider me to ‘relax’ with. Up until last night, we’d been at each other’s throats every time we’d crossed paths, but our conversation at dinner seemed to sooth our anger, even if we didn’t fix any of our problems.
Well, that’s not true. In a way, some of our problems were fixed. I was freed, and now I’m going to see Marcela; I’m sure Angel’s getting something even better out of our arrangement.
I sink back in my seat, tearing my gaze away from his delicious body. Last night, in the deepest pit of my sleep, I imagined that Angel’s initial intensions for me were far more nefarious than a fake marriage. My dirty nightmare had me tied up to that dungeon wall again, but this time, he didn’t let me down so easily.
I swear I could feel his bites, his lashes, his lust and his hardness. It all pierced deep into my soul and made me tremble like an earthquake.
And I fucking loved it.
I woke up in a damp sweat, pillow between my legs, heart beating like a jungle drum, longing for something that I had never actually experienced.
If it wasn’t so hot, it might have been terrifying. My goal in life has never exactly been to become a handsome brute’s willing sex slave.
...But if Angel ends up asking me to perform certain duties as his soon to be wife, I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist...
17
Angel
What a hellish night I had.
For the past few days, my men have been disappearing out of the blue. At first, it was only low-level muscle calling in sick; whatever, sometimes the flu goes around—even some of my staff got it, and my compound was practically empty when I arrived a few days ago. But then some higher-level guys went missing, too, and without the pretense of an illness.
That’s when I dropped everything and decided to investigate for myself.
I searched every home of every one of my missing guys. Nothing. Some dining rooms still had food on the table, unwashed dishes in the sink, unmade beds. I had to let loose my fair share of family dogs, who were still tied up in the backyard.