But for five or six years, I played the part of the most eligible bachelor in Corwick and courted aristocratic Corwickian ladies and European women who had their own titles—princesses, and duchesses, and marchionesses, and countesses, and other women of lower nobility but nonetheless respectable birth.
And respectable they were—publicly, that is. Privately, many of these women were very… accommodating. And that did little to ease the lingering pang in my heart from Isla kicking the ever-loving shit out of me, but if I had to marry one of these respectable, well-bred women, the least I would do for myself was choose one who could give a good blow-job.
By the time I was thirty years old, the top candidate for my potential wife was Lady Elena de Ribadeo, the twenty-five-year-old Marchioness of Mallorca, part of the Spanish Balearic Islands. I had sincere appreciation for her because she never had a tendency to fucking kid herself and believe that a potential marriage between us would be anything more than an arrangement, a job, and a lifelong series of expectations during which we lived together, and fucked, and produced heirs, and did our duty to God and country. She knew I didn’t love her, she didn’t love me, but we understood each other. That was not only acceptable, but also just fucking fine with both of us.
By April of that year, I had decided that I would extend a request for Elena’s hand in marriage to her parents over the summer, and eased myself toward that end by spending an extended weekend holiday with her in Ibiza. We stayed at a spectacular resort, our room overlooking the turquoise ocean and golden sand, all of which was so goddamn lovely that it nearly distracted me from the fact that I would be engaged soon, and not a single damn thing about it was going to be what I had wanted my entire life.
But that hadn’t been my choice, nor did it fucking matter now.
From our suite overlooking the ocean through wide open balcony doors, Elena ripped the foil and tossed it to the floor, placing the condom over the head of my cock, squeezing me tight as she unrolled it, sliding it down my shaft, and I offered her a low moan of appreciation. I pushed her to lie down on a chaise lounge, and she spread her thighs wide as I climbed over her, bracing my hands on either side of her head while I pressed the head of my cock against her hot, wet center. Her eyes were closed, and that was well enough. I didn’t like looking at her while fucking her any more than I liked looking at any of my previous candidates. But unlike all of them, Elena never took offense to it and only took what I was giving to her.
I drove into her over and over again while she lifted her hips to meet mine and licked her full lips.
“That’s so good,” she mewled, arching her back and squeezing her breasts. “God, it’s good. Go harder.”
I allowed her toy with her nipples for a few moments before grabbing both of her wrists and pinning them to the chaise above her head as I thrust into her deeper and with more intensity, all the while staring at the ocean. She whimpered as I hit her at just the right angle, and then she swore under her breath. I felt her start to tremor around my dick, which forced my eyelids shut, and it catapulted me back in time ten years to Isla and every moment like this that we shared.
Amor, her voice from long ago echoed in my head. Amor. Mi amado. Mi alma. Mi vida. Te amo.
“Fuck me, Malachi,” Elena murmured here in the present, pulling her wrists out of my grasp and grating her nails down the ridges of my abs. “Fuck me harder.”
And fuck her harder I did. I drove my cock even deeper and quicker, gritting my teeth as the chaise lounge creaked and shifted on the tile floor. Elena moaned loudly as she hit her climax, but despite that, I still managed to hear the chirp of my phone on the nightstand. The sound of our bodies slapping together and her continued cries of ecstasy filled the room, but I heard my phone chirp again, which was fine because it distracted me enough that I gave Elena a second full orgasm before my own climax hit me like a flaming brick to the face.
“Fuck…” The word drained from my throat on a ragged breath, while she whimpered in the aftershocks.
I lingered inside her for a few seconds as I caught my breath, and Elena dropped her head backward against the chaise.
She sighed contentedly. “You never fail to impress, Malachi, and I appreciate it as usual.”
I smirked as I pulled out and pressed a kiss to her mouth. “And you are most welcome.”
I climbed off of her, offering my hand so she could sit up before stepping aside to remove the condom.
“I’m going to take a bath,” she informed me, casual and easy and disconnected, just like everything about this relationship. “Would you like to eat in the restaurant or shall we order in?”
I raked my hand through my hair as I glanced at her, my eyes roaming over her curvy, naked form as she collected her robe from the floor, and she’d do just fine. She was well-bred, had impeccable social graces, and in private, she was low-key, drama-free, and always up for a romp in the sheets. What more could I possibly want in life?
Well, other than literally everything I had and then had stolen from me because Isla was a duplicitous cheater.
“Entirely up to you,” I replied, pulling on my boxer briefs and reclining in the bed.
She shook her long, honey blonde waves as she strode across the suite to the bathroom. “I’ll think on it.”
After she shut the door and started the bath, I picked up my phone to check the messages that had come in.
Unknown Number: Duque Malachi. Una amenaza está llegando a Isla Reyes.
Unknown Number: Si te preocupas por ella, la encontrarás.
My face flushed cold.
Years after studying Spanish because it was her native language, I was still decently fluent in it, and the message was clear.
A threat is coming to Isla Reyes. If you care about her, you will find her.
Who the fuck was this, and why the fuck were they contacting me?
Malachi Sterling: ¿Quién eres tú?
There was a long enough pause for my entire body to go rigid with completely nonsensical anxiety and righteous indignation.
Beyond who the fuck this person was and why they were contacting me about this, why the fuck should I care if there was a threat on that cheating whore’s head?
I didn’t know, but here I fucking was.
Actually, I did know.
I had spent the first twenty years of my life making the same vow over and over and over again.
I swear on my own life that I will keep you safe forever.
That vow was part of me, and it hadn’t gone away just because Isla stabbed me in both the back and the heart.
Unknown Number: Una pariente.
A relative.
Malachi Sterling: ¿De quien?
Unknown Number: Los primos de Ernesto.
My stomach sank like a fucking brick.
Malachi Sterling: ¿Los Dolorosos?
Unknown Number: Lo son, pero yo no soy parte de ellos.
Unknown Number: Soy dependiente de ellos.
Unknown Number: Y escuché de una amenaza en Isla.
Unknown Number: Te estoy contactando en secreto.
So, this person wasn’t part of the cartel that Ernesto had separated himself from, but was apparently “dependent” upon them. And whoever this person was, they were contacting me in secret. According to them at least.
Malachi Sterling: ¿Por qué debería creerte?
Why should I believe you?
A minute passed, and a picture came through. It was an elderly, weathered, yet feminine hand holding an aged photograph of a middle-aged woman holding a little boy on her lap. It was also positioned in front of a current calendar of the month of April, as though proving that it had just been taken.