Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

“I don’t care about the party. I have no interest in what goes on there.” That wasn’t entirely true, but the only thing stronger than my curiosity was my desire to disassociate myself from this life. Then again, what trumped all of that—was Diego. “I don’t have much time here,” I said. “I only want to spend it with you.”

“I want that too, princesa, but not if it puts you at risk.” He glanced over my head, then pecked the bridge of my nose. “I’ll see if I can steal away for a kiss after the party, all right?”

“You expect me to sit home and wait on the small chance you’ll be able to meet me?”

“No, my angel straight from heaven. My Aphrodite incarnate. I don’t expect it, but I hope for it.” He took me in his arms and brushed his lips over my cheek, then the corner of my mouth. “Promise me you’ll stay home,” he said in my ear, “and in exchange, I’ll tell you a secret.”

I was getting exactly what I wanted—a clear divide between myself and this life. But I wasn’t getting what I needed—Diego. Maybe the party was wild, but it would also be safe. Security would be tight. If I found the right costume, nobody would even recognize me. “I’ll stay home,” I said. It wasn’t exactly a lie—the ballroom was on our property. “What’s the secret?”

“I wrote you something.”

“A poem?” I melted against his hard chest. “Let’s hear it.”

“Not so much a poem as a love letter. A tribute to my princess.” He half-smiled. “It’s in my pocket, but it’s not ready.”

I reached for it. “Give it to me.”

He laughed, catching my wrists and pulling me close. “If you put your hands in there, I can’t promise I’ll let them out.”

I blushed, at a loss for a response. We’d been best friends a long time, and we were still a little new at the intimate parts. I laced our hands together, admiring his long fingers and the tattoo on the inside of one—a sketch of roses he’d done with his family name and the date of his parents’ death.

And inked on his inner ring finger, small enough so nobody like my father would notice, were our initials in black ink. I brushed my lips over his knuckles.

“God, I’ve dreamed of your mouth on me since your last visit.” His voice dropped. “Tell me you’re still my girl, Talia.”

I knew what he was asking, and although I’d assured him many times that I’d kept my virginity intact at school, there was always an edge to his voice when he asked. I put my cheek to his. It was easier to talk about sex without looking at him. “I’m still your girl.”

“Good.” The word came out on a growl. “I worry about those fraternity sharks circling someone as sweet as you.”

“Sharks don’t eat sweets,” I said with a smile. “The sharks are here—out for blood. Americans are boys compared to you. I’ve no interest in them.” I put my arms around him and nuzzled his neck. “I only think of you.”

He sighed. “How have we lasted this long?”

Even though most of my friends, both here and in the States, had lost their virginity, it was easy to save myself knowing I’d only ever give myself to one man—my best friend. As scary as my father’s grief had been after Mamá’s death, I still wanted what they’d had—an all-consuming devotion to each other, even now. As far as I knew, Papá had never so much as been on a date with another woman. “Because it’s important to me,” I said. “I want to commit myself to you in every way once it’s time.”

He kissed my forehead. “It’s important to me too.”

I arched a brow at him. “Only because you’re afraid my father will find out we didn’t wait.”

He laughed lightly. “It’s true—I value my life. Luckily, even if we were tempted, the guards keep you in and me out.” He ran his fingers through the ends of my hair. “Our first time will be special, mi sol.”

I smiled quizzically. He hadn’t called me that before. “Your sun?”

“You’re always alight. That, and you hate the night.”

“Mmm. It rhymes. You are a poet.”

Diego knew me well, but then, he’d heard firsthand accounts of my night terrors until I’d left for boarding school. The shadows that tried to catch me, the lingering memories of a nine-year-old watching her mother take her last breath . . . and then there was his brother.

“Promise you’ll never come back here,” I said.

“I can’t.”

It was hard to believe Cristiano had once been the hero of my nightmares. Like the time, as a girl, I’d woken up screaming, and my mother had come running. She’d smoothed sweat-sticky hair off my face and asked me what I’d dreamed about.