Stealing Beauty (Stolen 1)

Hot tears streamed down my face. “You left me!” I flung at him, punctuating my shout with another blow to his chest. “You left me with him, and you didn’t come back. You never came back.”

I sucked in a deep breath, my next words coming out on a hiss. “And now, you have. You’ve come back to torture me. To punish me until I break for you, too. Well, I won’t. I don’t care what you do to me. I’ll never obey you. I’ll never pretend to love you.”

All the color drained from his face, and his pale eyes shined. His hands fell away from my waist, releasing me from his possessive grip.

I glared at him for several long seconds, breathing hard. My heart hammered in my chest, as though I’d just run a mile.

In contrast, Adrián barely appeared to breathe. The crimson rage that had colored his cheeks paled.

“I should have come back for you a long time ago,” he said hoarsely. “No matter what it took, I should have come back for you.”

He stepped away, dropping his gaze to the floor, as though he couldn’t bear to look at me, to touch me. A sharp curse dropped from his lips, and he ran his hand through his thick black hair.

“I’m sorry.” His words broke strangely.

My rage ebbed, leaving me wrung-out and exhausted. Numbness settled over me, blanketing my emotions and my thoughts.

I watched him blankly, but he didn’t watch me in return. Tension gripped his powerful frame, his jaw working, chewing on words that didn’t leave his lips.

He turned away abruptly and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I walked to the bed, sinking down onto the mattress as my tears began to fall. I curled up on my side, feeling cold and alone without Adrián’s steady heat beside me. I choked on a sob, hating that a traitorous part of me still craved the man who’d left me to be tormented and broken all those years ago.Chapter 14ValentinaI’m sorry. Adrián’s broken apology played through my mind again and again. I should have come back for you a long time ago. No matter what it took, I should have come back for you.

He’d shown nothing but hatred for me ever since he’d abducted me. Why bother apologizing now?

But that wasn’t true. While we were sailing through San Blas, he’d held me with aching tenderness. Even though he’d lashed me with his belt, he’d looked at me with something like the awe and devotion he’d once shown me when we were younger.

It was only when I’d rejected his kiss that he’d turned cold and cruel again.

He wasn’t being particularly cruel today. He didn’t hold my hand in his crushing grip or shoot venomous accusations my way. He didn’t look at me.

While Stefano’s private jet flew us back to L.A., he didn’t even sit beside me. Instead, he settled in beside Mateo and started strategizing their next moves when they got back to his territory.

I listened intently, doing my best to appear bored while I took in every detail of their conversation. I needed to know what I was walking into, the politics of my new prison. The only hope I had of escape was if I bided my time and looked for weak spots in Adrián’s security.

It seemed Adrián anticipated trouble from his associate, Caesar Hernández. My captor’s new bargain to support Stefano against his rival, Pedro Ronaldo, wouldn’t be well-received by Caesar.

This was a potential weak spot. If I could push Caesar to turn on Adrián, I might create enough chaos to facilitate my escape to Chicago and the safe haven of my brothers’ territory.

That would end in violence for Adrián. He might even be killed in the fallout.

A bloody image of the boy I loved, his glowing green eyes flat and lifeless, flickered across my mind. I shuddered and shook it off.

The man holding me captive wasn’t that boy.

I should have come back for you a long time ago. No matter what it took, I should have come back for you.

Why had he said that? Had he truly not realized I was married to Hugo against my will?

I shook off that thought, too.

It didn’t matter if he hadn’t known. That didn’t change the fact that I’d suffered in captivity for a decade while Adrián was free, building power and wealth thousands of miles away from me.

I didn’t speak a word to him all day, silently stewing and listening to his conversations with Mateo as we flew to LAX and then drove to his home in Rolling Hills. The journey passed without incident; no one tried to attack us or abduct me while we traveled. It seemed Stefano Duarte’s protection was a potent thing.

A wrought iron gate slid open to admit us, and our black Range Rover proceeded down a winding drive. A sprawling, single-story Spanish mansion appeared, the cream-colored stucco and red tiled roof illuminated by golden lights, making the massive house glow in the twilight. The grounds were hidden in shadow, but there weren’t any other visible neighboring homes. It seemed this estate was set over several acres, with greenery serving to further isolate the mansion for privacy. In the distance, the lights of the city glittered, curving around the darkened shoreline.