Violent Triumphs (White Monarch 3)

I took his empty glass, set it on the nightstand, and slipped my hand between us to touch him. My body thrilled when he stirred against my palm. Nothing could soothe me now except this. Except to be taken so hard, I could think of nothing else. “This is what you wanted,” I whispered to him. “It’s what I want.”

“I can’t,” he said, his voice strangled but determined. “Not like this. You’re in pain, and you’re angry.”

“But I’m willing.” I fluttered my lashes up at him. “I’m giving you this gift—”

“I won’t do it.”

Frustration zapped through me. “Then leave me alone!” I screamed as I shoved him. “Get out. ¡Vete ya!”

I turned away, fury eating me up inside. How could he turn me away when I needed him?

Did he feel differently now that he realized how badly I’d been played?

I was a traitor to my mother.

But so what? Cristiano had me where he wanted me. Why not take what he’d often proclaimed belonged to him?

When he spoke again, his voice was even calmer against my rage echoing through the room. “You said Diego loved you, but you’re wrong, Natalia. Love is I’d die for you, not would you die for me?” With his pause, his beautiful, unsettling words hung in the air. “Diego had a certain fondness for you, yes, but it wasn’t enough. He took your virginity from you after manipulating you into offering it, but I’m going to walk away from you now to show you the difference between his love and mine. To show you that true love means putting you first. Always.”

His words struck me at my core. Cristiano would do what Diego couldn’t—he’d give up what he wanted, what he’d fought for, what would make him more powerful. For me.

“Is that what you need?” I heard the hesitation in his voice. It wasn’t easy for him to do nothing when his whole life had been about action. “Space?”

Shamefully, I kept my back to him. I couldn’t look at his handsome, pained face and remember that I’d chosen the wrong brother back then—or I’d fall so deep into a black hole of regret, I wasn’t sure how I’d get out. “Yes.”

“I’ll be right downstairs if you need me.”

After a moment, the door closed with a soft click.

If you need me. Deafening silence remained in his wake.

Nineteen years ago, Cristiano had come to my dad for help. That had ended in a bullet in his parents’ heads as he and Diego had watched. What had happened in the eight years since? How had that changed them? Who would I have become if Diego hadn’t been there?

I’d let him soothe and kiss and touch, when he’d been the villain all along. And Cristiano had been the hero, showing me respect, even when I’d been a pawn.

I trusted him. But I could trust myself with him?

I’d accused him of his brother’s crimes time and time again. And even now, he’d taken every hit I’d had to give and come back for more. He hadn’t struck back or left me to fend for myself.

Pressure in my chest eased as everything I knew about Cristiano finally became clear. From a young age, he’d defended those who couldn’t defend themselves. He’d betrayed his family—an even greater sin in our world than bartering with human lives—and joined ours out of a sense of duty. And he’d been punished for it. Accused of a crime he hadn’t committed, driven away, and hunted by the true perpetrator.

Cristiano’s truth had fallen on deaf ears. And yet he trusted me to heal him.

I couldn’t believe in myself just then, but Cristiano understood that. It was the reason he’d walked away. And that was why I could believe in him.

I spun, raced through the door, and down the hall to find Cristiano descending the staircase. “Wait,” I said.

He turned back instantly, concern etched in the lines of his face. “What is it?”

I stared at him and saw someone else. I saw him. My protector as a child, and my protector now—against enemies who made themselves known and the far more dangerous kind. Those who didn’t.

Cristiano was my ally. He was aggrieved.

And he was my husband.

“I . . . I don’t need you to walk away to prove your love. I need—”

He strode back up the stairs. When he reached the landing, he opened his mouth to speak, but I was done talking. I gripped his cheeks, pulled down his face, and kissed him with everything I had. He yanked me against his body, one arm strong around my waist, and anchored me as he took a handful of my hair at the back of my head. How could I have ever thought him cold? He was everything warm now as his eager mouth, spicy with brandy, lured me in, our tongues lashing. Then he stopped. Drew back. Slowed the kiss with short pecks from his full lips. His fist in my hair eased, massaging my scalp, then cradling my head.