He finally stops and waits for me to reach his side. In a beat, he squats to collect the sunglasses lying on the tiles as if he’d whipped them off in a panic. “There are parts of her that still belong to you. You deserve to carry on with the important research––purely as a hobby. A pastime for your amusement. I don’t need to own your soul, beija flor.” El Fantasma angles into me and cups my cheek with cool leather. “Whatever you think this is . . .” His gaze drifts to my parted lips. “It’s your fantasy. Not mine. I’m the one thing stopping you from going home to your old life. I’m standing in the way of your freedom. Even if my instincts tell me to trust you, I can’t. I will always suspect the irresistible woman who collapsed at my boots. It’s as simple as that.” My belly knots as the coldness in his truth gusts a suffocating black frost into my lungs. “Taunting me won’t lessen this psychosis. It will only make it worse. If you think last night was a nightmare, then you’re dangerously innocent.”
I swallow hard when smooth lips threaten to unite with mine. His mouth hesitates. My insides throb, yet I refuse to give in. “Fine.” I tilt my head, trying to break free from his grip. “The absurd attraction to you was an aftereffect of the fever. Rest assured, I do not fantasize about the man who has stolen my soul. Whether or not you want to own it, you’ve taken it.”
A sharp smile forces me to catch a breath. “I’ve given you back your passion. You can study the flowers whenever you like. Wasn’t that the very reason for your trip to the Amazon?” Goose bumps scatter over my skin. “However, I can easily take it away again if you test me. Don’t think for one second I won’t.”
My palm flies to his chest, not to push him away but to steady myself from falling. And just like that, his expression flips to liquid lust.
I bite my lip, painfully mindful of how reckless it was to use him for support. “I promise to behave and work hard if you promise to leave me alone.” Straining my neck for space earns a throaty growl. That sonorous reverberation of his frustration charges me with an electrical current. I’m both the Antarctic and the Sahara Desert. Subzero and boiling point. And we both know heat melts ice. Drawing back my shoulders, I tilt back and glare at him, waiting for an answer. “Do you promise?” I repeat.
Leather contact wanes. His gaze drops to the puddle of pool water swamping my bare feet. I can’t tell if he’s about to snap or leave when his nostrils flare. Narrowed eyes flicker, and those tempting lips stay shut.
I look away, finding his strewn cap by the door. “When you jumped into the pool, did you think you were rescuing me?” I murmur, covering my breasts with my forearms.
His fingers graze my waist.
A wildfire rush of craving rockets to my core.
“Don’t question it. That was a knee-jerk reaction. Nothing more.” All contact ceases, and he takes two steps back.
Knock, knock.
His head whips around first, and then his body follows. Lightning reflexes screen his eyes before he flings open the door. A man cloaked in shadows waits on the doorstep with a tray of covered plates.
“Sir?” The employee bows in a submissive gesture, out of respect or dread. “Salvador asked me to deliver this food to the woman. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were here, sir.”
"It’s okay.” El Fantasma nods curtly. “Obrigado.” He takes the tray from his possession and kicks the door shut, sauntering to the table and dual chairs. Plates clink as he organizes the dishes and places cutlery. “Get dressed,” he orders without looking back at me.
I don’t hesitate, grabbing the folded nightdress set out on the bed. It offers a temporary layer of protection, a thin barrier from the darkest side of his mood. Sensing my light-footed approach, he pulls out a chair. “Sit.”
As I settle, he wanders into the bathroom and returns barefooted. Scarred hands clasp either end of a towel draped around his neck. The soggy T-shirt is discarded and messy hair roughly dried. I shiver as the black necklace pressed to his sternum evokes wicked memories I should forget. Thankfully, wet shorts still cling to his lower half, trapping possibilities. When his contoured torso angles around, I notice a ferocious black jaguar inked into the length of his back. The artistry spans his spine with a snarling wildcat head on his shoulder.
He sinks down in the opposite chair and waves his hand above an assortment of rustic sliced bread and glossy olives. “After you.”
“You’re joining me?” I force bravery into the question, praying this isn’t a game with cruel consequences.
His lungs expand, and then a slow sigh escapes him. “I’m hungry. It saves the kitchen staff from preparing more food. There’s enough here to feed a village. I’d rather not see it go to waste.”
A tangled revolt of emotions twists in my chest and suppresses my appetite. I’d rather burrow under the sheets alone than share supper with this semi-naked, complex man. The tremble in my hand doesn’t go unnoticed when I pinch a teardrop-shaped dough ball. Taking a small bite, my stomach churns with appreciation.
“It’s called coxinha. Shredded chicken in a savory dough. Deep fried in breadcrumbs,” he explains, puncturing one of his own with brilliant white teeth.
Is this a trap?
I continue to chew, taking elfin mouthfuls while he sits in silence. Breaking open a ball of pastry, he offers me one half. “Try this one.”
How he’s gone from threatening to hospitable terrifies me even more. Only a man so unhinged could intimidate a woman with fucking her to death and then break bread with her moments later. When I reach out to accept it, our fingers clash. He assesses the flurry of heat creeping up my neck like a stalker waiting for the right time to step out of the shadows. Pulling my hand away, I pop the pastry into my mouth and take my time to swap out the rush of sexual tingles with edible pleasure.
He straightens his spine into the chair and taps the table with damaged fingertips. My gaze searches for the dull sound, settling on flawed hands and wrists.
“What happened?” I dab my mouth, curious to know but cautious in case I’ve overstepped.
He stares at the melted skin, curling his fingers while a nightmare manifests in his pitch-black pupils. “They set me up,” he says with a thick rasp. “My fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. So I held my hands into flames and burned them off.”
My lashes hit my eyelids.
He mutilated his own hands.
18
Dante
With nightfall upon us, the animal chorus has settled while creatures get ready for a spell of darkness. The hum of insects fills the void of her unspoken stare—those eyes of onyx rush over my damaged flesh. Fingertips brush the exquisite length of her neck in contemplation. I’d give a million reais to step inside her mind again. To spear her truth and drag it out into the open.
She thinks they’re repulsive.
That I’m damnable.
Hideously spoiled.
I don't want pity, nor do I seek compassion.
These tortured hands are the element of my control. I have the ability to stalk, punish, kill, and burn my enemies to ashes with one tap.
They are a singular reminder of an agonizing personal vendetta.