Marco, my driver, took us through the country roads to the village. Vincente was in the passenger seat. Music played quietly from the radio, but the tension in the car was as thick as fog. Privacy glass separated me and Tanner from Vincente and Marco. They wouldn’t hear a thing unless I pressed the button and allowed them to. But I had nothing to say to Tanner that needed to be kept out of earshot of my guards, and by the way he sat far away, looking out of the window with a sour expression on his face, I could tell he had nothing to say either. If he wanted to act like what I’d seen last night hadn’t happened, I could play his game. What did it matter anyhow?
All I could think of was of the way I’d slapped his cheek by the pool. Pressed my lips to his to make him stop. To shut up the White Prince and his annoying superior attitude. I hadn’t expected him to kiss me back. It was only for a few seconds, but his mouth had taken control of mine.
I didn’t like it . . . I didn’t. I didn’t like the way he held me down. I was angered by him as much as he was by me.
The movement of his hand on his knee caught my attention. His hand was fisted, as was mine. I risked another quick glance at his face and found him watching me. I didn’t look away. I refused. I wouldn’t let him see that he had been on my mind. That this Nazi prince had in any way affected me. That last night, in the hallway, and at dinner, I had felt some kind of kinship with him as his father beat him, as he pushed him out of the business he was brought here to conduct. That I had seen that, like me, he was under the iron fist of his father—we the puppets dancing on paternal strings.
My heart beat faster and faster the longer he looked at me. Needing to say something, to break the stifling silence that had befallen the back of the stretch town car, I said, “You will not be offensive to these people.” Tanner’s eyes narrowed, the only tell that my order had pissed him off. Good. His very presence pissed me off on a daily basis. The fact that he was in my country reluctantly—the country that I loved—pissed me off. He felt we were below him. But he, with his superior attitude and narrow-mindedness, was what didn’t belong.
I shifted to face him, relaxing my hand, masking the fact my pulse was racing. “These people have it hard. You will not walk amongst them and shame them. Shame them for being proudly Mexican and devoted to my family. They are not from our world. They walk in the light, not in the dark. They do not know of the Ku Klux Klan, know people who will hate them before knowing them simply for being darker in skin.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck about them,” Tanner said, his voice unable to hide the tightness that was clearly blocking his throat.
“Get through this, Tanner Ayers, then you will soon leave this country you detest.”
Tanner looked forward, away from me, but his eyes locked straight ahead on something. Vincente. Vincente was watching us with suspicious eyes. Tanner glared at him. Vincente’s gaze moved to me. I smiled, trying my best to convince him that all was okay. When he put his attention back to the tree-lined roads, I relaxed.
“I have never disliked anyone in my life the way I dislike you,” I whispered so as not to draw attention. I looked out at the fields that had begun to peek though the thinning trees, just to avoid having to look at Tanner’s miserable face.
“The feeling’s mutual, princess,” Tanner spat. I gritted my teeth, practically vibrating with animosity. With frustration. At how a man so good looking could make himself so repulsive by the hate that poured from his blue eyes. I was brought up by the most ruthless cartel boss that had ever graced Mexican soil. I was fully aware that the luxury I was awarded came from money made from the blood of our adversaries. Of people with drug addictions. It was life. It was my life. Tanner Ayers had walked a similar path. Only his days consisted of hatred. Hatred for those who didn’t fit into his perfect WASP box. And he loved his ideology so much that he wore it on his skin for everyone to see. Symbols of hate and oppression. Racism and prejudice etched on his flesh in stark black lines.
What must it be to live with that level of hate in one’s heart? Was he even capable of love? Or was it as foreign to him as the country he now looked upon from the window?
He must have seen that my attention had drifted to him along with my wayward thoughts, because he glared at me. The brief flicker of sympathy I had just felt for him again melted away with that one look . . . but then, for a fraction of a second, his hatred fell, disappeared from his eyes, and his gaze moved to my lips. Tanner’s mouth parted and he exhaled a quick, frustrated breath.
My heart kicked into a sprint. My face heated as if I were suddenly before a blazing fire. But then Tanner ripped his gaze from me and turned to look back out of the window. I saw him breathing heavily and clenching his fists so tightly I thought he might snap his bandaged fingers.
My mind cleared the second the car stopped. A second car had followed behind. More guards. My father had many enemies, and any trip out of the heavily guarded hacienda was a risk. My father kept me safe, but sometimes that safety was an iron cage. The trips to the village were one of my only outlets.
Vincente got out of the car and opened my door. Tanner followed and walked around the car to stand beside me. I had never been more aware of his presence than I was right now. Since yesterday. Since he’d put his hands on me. And I’d put mine on him. I regretted kissing him. I regretted giving him any of my attention these past few weeks.
Guards gathered around me as we walked to the village. The minute we entered the small square, people came out of their houses. I nodded to the guards to start handing out the money we had brought. They did, and the people reached for my hand in thanks. I hugged the children I saw each week, listening to their stories of what they had been learning in school. Money went to the teachers, the parents, and the elderly.
I looked behind me, wondering where Tanner had gone. He was standing at the back of the crowd, watching. His arms were crossed over his wide chest, his tight white shirt stretched over the heavy muscles. He wore a scowl on his face, yet there was almost an echo of bewilderment in his expression too. People stared at the large American who was covered in ink. Some of the children even tried to speak to him. He ignored them. I had expected nothing less.
He was silent, hanging at the back, as we walked through the factory, then in the school. He didn’t say a thing the entire time. No slights or slurs. Tanner just watched with fierce intensity. I had no idea what he was thinking.
It bothered me that I seemed to care.
When we climbed into the back of the car and pulled away, I glanced over to him. He was watching the outside world go by. Dusk was falling, casting the rolling golden fields in a shroud of orange light. “My favorite time of the day,” I whispered. I saw him tense as I spoke. I didn’t care. I would speak when I wanted to. I was Adelita Quintana. And I had a voice. I was sick and tired of men telling me when I could and couldn’t speak. That my thoughts and opinions did not matter in this world. “You may feel that we Mexicans are nothing but the dirt on your so-called superior American shoes, but you are wrong. We are people of integrity, hard work, and family.” I pointed to the fields. “And even you, White Prince, cannot deny the beauty of this Mexican sunset.”
Tanner exhaled and slowly turned his head to me. I saw the hunger in his eyes the minute our gazes collided. I swallowed at the sudden thickness in my throat. I opened my mouth to say something—anything—else, when a deafening gunshot sounded outside. Suddenly, the car swerved and something crashed into us, feeling like a boulder smashing into a cliff and sounding like thunder deafening the sky. The metal of the car crunched and we were sent hurtling into the side of the road.