Violent Delights (White Monarch 1)

I flashed back to the barrel of his gun under my chin. Diego couldn’t stop his brother then—how could he take on the devil now? I crossed my arms. “I’m not leaving the dancefloor.”

White light reflected off the disco ball and flashed over the hard angles of his face. “Then you’ll have to come closer so I don’t miss a word you say.”

That was better than the alternative, so I closed the gap between us with a step. We were nearly toe to toe, but he still had to lean down to speak in a normal tone. “Of course I knew who you were at the party. I wouldn’t whisper my wishes to just any butterfly.”

I tried to force my muscles to relax. We were out in the open, and he was willing to talk. “Why me?” I asked.

“Perhaps to see if you’d cower. To test whether I’d scared that little girl well enough. The fact that you’re standing here tells me I didn’t.”

“I do cower. You can’t expect me not to in front of my mother’s murderer.”

He started to jut his chin but stopped. “I’m only dangerous to those who cross me or have a right to be afraid,” he said. “Do you?”

My instinct was to look up for Diego, but I schooled it. “Did my mother?”

His jaw ticked. “No.”

I dropped my eyes. I couldn’t think of her now. Even as I questioned what I knew, it felt like a betrayal to even be in the same room as Cristiano without attempting to burn it down. This was for a greater cause, though. The sooner I had what I needed, the sooner I could be free of this place and of him.

I looked up again. “Why are you here?” I asked.

“It’s my nightclub.”

Words escaped me. If Diego had known that, he’d neglected to clue me in. “That’s not what I meant. Why are you back?”

“To dance.” Cristiano took my hips and pulled me flush against him. With a slow roll of his body, I felt every bump and ridge of what had to be a gun. If it wasn’t . . .

“I warned you I was armed,” he said.

A flush crept its way up my neck. He held me still and moved his hips to the smooth, sultry beat of Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby.” My body undulated on its own as my hands slid up his chest. He squeezed my backside, moving me against him faster, harder, until we were so synced, he could’ve picked up one of my legs and slipped right inside me.

I gasped at the thought and shoved his chest. “Stop.”

He didn’t budge, but loosened his grip on me, giving me space. “No need for violence, Lourdes. All you had to do was ask.”

I inhaled a sharp breath. My second name had been my mother’s first choice, but she’d deferred to Papá’s love of Natalia. “Nobody calls me that.”

“I call you what I want—Lourdes. Or maybe Natasha. How do you like that?”

“Years away, and you’ve forgotten me completely. It’s Natalia.”

“Forgotten you? No. Not after the way you helped me escape.” His eyes drifted to my mouth, then along my neck and chest. “Natasha is what you’d be called in Russia.” He moved his hand to my upper back and pushed gently. “Let’s go. Our drinks are ready.”

“What? Where?”

“Come with me.” He guided me through the dancefloor, which was emptier than it’d been before his arrival.

It was slightly quieter at the bar, where he handed me a tall, chilled shot glass of clear liquid. I put my nose to the rim, but it was odorless. “Vodka?”

“Straight from the heart of Siberia. I brought it myself. Have you eaten?”

“I had dinner. Why?”

“Good.” He took a second shot from the bar, raised it, and said something in what sounded like Russian, followed by, “Salud.”

I followed his lead and tasted the cool liquid, holding it on my tongue a moment before swallowing. It was definitely smoother than the drugstore vodka my friends and I drank at school. “You’ve been to Russia?” I asked, hoping for a clue as to what he’d been doing during the years he’d disappeared.

“Da. That means yes. I’ve been many places, but like you, I’ve returned where I belong. I’ve come home.”

I tucked the information away for later. “This isn’t my home.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want this life.”

“Ah.” He clicked his tongue like a wink. “But it lives in you, Natalia, and its roots never stop growing.”

It was one of my greatest fears—that I’d seen and learned too much to ever lead a normal life. That no matter what, I’d always be the nine-year-old girl who could trip over the dead body of a loved one at any moment—and then be forced to get right back up and defend my life. “Like a cancer,” I said into my shot glass.